Harshini

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the authorâ€™s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

TREASON KEEP. Copyright Â© 2001 by Jennifer Fallon. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBoundâ„¢.

ILLUSTRATIONS. Copyright Â© 2001 by Stephanie Pui-Mun Law.

EXCERPT FROM HARSHINI. Copyright Â© 2001 by Jennifer Fallon.

Jennifer Fallon asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Print edition first published in February 2001 by Voyager, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Pty Limited.

http://www.voyageronline.com.au

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Dace Mikel O’Brien,

the original God of Thieves,

and as always, Adele Robinson

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My life is many things, but boring isn’t one of them. Despite a

wedding, a birth, a book launch, two house moves, a new business and a

few other rather traumatic incidents that I would rather not relive, this

book was written in considerably less time than Medalon.

As always, there are the usual suspects who deserve my thanks for their

unswerving faith and their high tolerance levels in putting up with me

during the creation of this work. In particular, I would like to thank my

children, Amanda, TJ and David for their support and for filling my life

with so many distractions that I have, though sheer necessity, mastered

the art of focussing on writing to the exclusion of all else. They will

readily attest to this fact, although they may be surprised how often

I’ve heard them lament to each other “don’t bother asking her

anything, she’s writing”.

I would like to thank Stephanie Smith, Darian Causby and Midge McCall,

and all the other people at HarperCollins who I have never met but who

have contributed to this series, along with Lyn Tranter and Cathy Perkins

at Australian Literary Management and also Sarah Endacott. Stephanie

Pui-Mun Law has once again created an awesome cover and I remain one of

her most ardent fans.

With my dying breath, I will be thanking Harshini Bhoola for her

never-ending enthusiasm and her constant re-reading of the manuscripts,

and it still won’t repay her. Thanks also to my good friend Peter

Jackson for encouraging me to take a step into the unknown and my

favourite sycophants, Toni-Maree and John Elferink MLA for helping me

keep my feet on the ground while my head was in the clouds.

PART 1

POLITICS AND POWER GAMES

CHAPTER 1

It took a conscious effort of will for Brak to take the final step across

the threshold of Sanctuary.

The gates stood wide open, tall and impossibly white in the thin, chill

mountain air. Sanctuary’s tall spires reached elegantly for the

scudding clouds, shadowing the Gateway and offering him one last moment

of anonymity.

He had turned his back on this place more than two decades ago and,

despite the loneliness, the guilt, and the hunger for his own kind, he

still found it harder than he thought possible to return.

He was not unexpected. That would have been too much to hope for. As he

trekked through the mountains he had clung to the idle hope that the

demons would not betray his approach. It was the reason he had come on

foot — this journey of months could have been accomplished in hours had

he asked the demons for help.

As he contemplated that final, irrevocable step, a figure appeared on the

other side of the Gateway. Tall, white-robed and smiling, Jerandenan had

been the Gatekeeper for as long as Brak could remember — and that was

almost a millennium. The Harshini’s totally black eyes were moist, and

his whole being radiated the warmth of his welcome.

The Gatekeeper opened his arms wide. “Welcome home, Brakandaran.”

Still Brak hesitated. “You remember me then?”

Jerandenan laughed softly. “I remember every soul who has entered my

Gate, as well you know. And you, more than most, I would not forget.

Come, Brakandaran. Your family awaits you. The demons miss you, and . .

.” The Gatekeeper’s voice trailed off with a shrug, and he smiled

that infuriating, calm smile that was already beginning to annoy Brak.

And he had not even crossed Sanctuary’s threshold yet.

“And Korandellan wants to see me?” Brak guessed.

Jerandenan nodded. “Did you expect anything less from your King?”

Before Brak could answer, several grey missiles launched at him through

the tingling barrier of the Gateway. The demons jumped on him gleefully,

chattering to each other incomprehensibly, so delighted by his return

that they almost knocked him off his feet. He recognised a few of the

creatures as he tried to shake free of them, but there were youngsters in

the group he did not know. They knew him, though. His blood called to

them more clearly than any words were capable of.

Jerandenan smiled indulgently as the demons pushed and pulled Brak until

he was through the Gateway, ignoring both his protests and his greetings,

which he seemed to be handing out in equal measure.

“You can deny yourself, Brak, but you cannot deny the brethren. They

are as glad to see you as we all are.”

Brak frowned, and peeled a little demon from around his neck who was

hugging him so tightly he could barely breathe. No sooner had he removed

one, than another tried to take its place. He pushed it away sternly.

“Begone!”

The demons fell back at his sharp tone, looking mightily offended. He

immediately felt guilty for being so abrupt, a fact which the demons were

probably counting on. At the first sign of his resolve wavering they were

on him again, although this time they gave him room to breathe. Brak

turned to Jerandenan helplessly.

“And you wonder why I haven’t been back in more than twenty years.”

“You are as hungry for the demons as they are for you, Brakandaran,”

the Gatekeeper said with an indulgent smile. “Don’t deny them, or us,

the joy of your return.”

By the time Brak had disentangled himself from the demons a second time,

other white robed figures had appeared, attracted to the Gateway by the

unusual commotion. The Harshini rarely, if ever, left Sanctuary these

days — not since the Sisterhood had come to power two centuries ago —

and few had entered the magical Gateway in that time. The Keep was

outside of normal time and space, in a dimension uniquely its own. No one

but a Harshini, or those born within the walls of Sanctuary, could find

it when it was warded.

The curious arrived first, to see what all the fuss was about, wandering

towards the Gateway with a leisurely stride. Behind those came others,

some at a run. These Harshini were té Carn, his family, alerted by the

demons’ joy at the return of their lost cousin.

He almost fled at that point. Seeing the faces of his family made him

shrivel up a little inside. They had done nothing but try to make him

feel as if he belonged here; and he had repaid their kindness with blood

. . . this shame, this unbearable remorse, was the reason he had never

come home.

“Brakandaran!”

A fair-haired woman pushed through the crowd and ran to him, twisting the

knife of his guilt even harder into his soul.

“Samaranan.”

She stopped a few paces from him and examined him with a critical eye.

“You’re too thin.”

Brak was expecting almost anything but that. Trust Samaranan to say the

one thing guaranteed to ease his tension. He smiled at her blunt

criticism.

“I’ve been living on nothing but . . .” he stopped himself before

he could upset the Harshini with his carnivorous diet. “I’ve been

living off the land. It’s a long walk.”

“It was also an unnecessary one,” she scolded. “The demons would

have brought you home. All you had to do was ask.”

“I like walking.”

“Actually, I think you like suffering. But you got here. Finally.

Welcome home, brother.” She hugged him tightly, pushing demons out of

the way to reach him. He had almost forgotten how forgiving the Harshini

were — how incapable of anger or resentment. His elder half-sister did

not seem to care that he had not contacted her for two decades. Nor did

she seem to hold against him the crime that had driven him from this

place. “Come, you must pay your respects to Korandellan. He knew you

would come.”

Brak nodded, but did not bother to add that the King had left him little

choice in the matter. Samaranan took his hand and led him forward, the

demons skipping in his wake. The Harshini parted for them, some simply

smiling their welcome, others nodding to him with genuine pleasure at his

return. Some even reached out to touch his travel-stained clothes, to

assure themselves that he was real. Brak tried to return the warmth of

their welcome, but his guilt and his human blood, as always, made him

feel like an outsider.

Sanctuary was like no other place on this world, and at first glance,

seemed unchanged since Brak had last walked these halls. The Harshini

settlement sat within a valley; the Keep tunnelled into the hills, its

broad, open archways looking down to the valley floor. The air was sweet

and moist from the constant mist created by the rainbow-tinted cascade

that supplied the settlement with water and tumbled down toward the pool

on the western edge of the valley. Although autumn was beginning to turn

the mountains red, here in Sanctuary the temperature never varied a great

deal. The God of Storms was solicitous of Harshini comfort.

The long, tiled walkways echoed his booted footsteps as Samaranan led

Brak toward Korandellan’s apartments. Everywhere they went people

turned and waved to him, delighted to see him. It was as though he

brought them hope rather than pain, and the reaction puzzled him a

little. It was true that the Harshini were incapable of anger or

violence, but even that could not explain their obvious joy. Many of them

would have been glad to see the back of him, he thought. Then another

thought occurred to him as he realised what else seemed strange.

“Where are the children?”

“There are none, Brak.”

“Why?”

Samaranan slowed her pace and glanced at him. “It’s the wards on

Sanctuary. They remove us from the real world. We do not age, but neither

do we conceive.”

“But you don’t stay out of time constantly. Korandellan used to bring

Sanctuary back every spring to allow time to catch up.” As far as Brak

remembered, the settlement had reappeared every spring for the past two

centuries. Such a return was vital for their survival.

“We’ve been warded now for nearly twenty years, brother,” she told

him. “After you left, after the demon child was born, Xaphista

redoubled his efforts to find us. We could not risk exposing ourselves,

and Sanctuary would flare like a beacon to a Karien priest. Every time we

return to real time, Death is waiting to claim those who have cheated

him. There are no children to replace those who are lost.” She seemed

to understand his confusion. “In case you’re wondering, that’s why

everyone is so happy to see you. You will aid the demon child and she

will remove the threat of Xaphista. Then we will be free once more.”

“Remove the threat of Xaphista? You mean kill him.”

Samaranan frowned. “Please don’t say it like that, Brak.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

“You know what I mean. You’ve been back for little more than a

heartbeat. You could at least try to be sensitive.”

“Forgive me,” he snapped. “I’ll try very hard not to mention the

fact that Korandellan has brought me back to train Zegarnald’s pet

assassin.”

She stopped and glared at him, her black eyes as close to anger as they

were capable of getting. “Stop it! This is not easy for any of us.

There is no need for you to make it even harder.”

“You think this is easy for me?”

Samaranan’s eyes softened and she reached out to touch his face.

“I’m sorry, little brother. I forget sometimes what it must be like

for you.”

“Don’t apologise, Sam. I shouldn’t be heaping all my anger on you.

There’s a god or two I’d like to throttle, but it’s not your

fault.” Brak smiled wanly. “I promise I’ll try to be as Harshini as

I can while I’m here.”

Her relief was evident. “Thank you.”

They resumed their slow pace through the broad halls. Brak listened idly

as Samaranan filled him in on the family happenings, which, considering

how much time Sanctuary had spent removed from reality, was a fairly

short list. There were no new nieces or nephews or cousins to celebrate.

Only the demons, who could flit between dimensions at will, were able to

reproduce — but even their numbers were starting to dwindle in the face

of the Harshini’s prolonged withdrawal. The Harshini and the demons

were interdependent, and the creatures could not sustain an increase in

their numbers that the Harshini were unable to match. It occurred to Brak

that if something were not done soon, the Harshini would no longer be

simply hiding. Their current state of limbo would eventually prove fatal.

The knowledge was an added burden he did not want or need.

They reached Korandellan’s chambers eventually, and the tall,

delicately carved doors swung open at their approach. The King was

waiting for them, his smile benign, his arms outstretched in welcome. The

resemblance between him and the demon child took Brak by surprise.

Korandellan was tall and lean and impossibly beautiful, as all the

Harshini were. With the demons clustered behind Samaranan’s long

skirts, Brak fell to his knees and lowered his head, surprised at his

need for Korandellan’s benediction.

“You have no need to kneel before me, Brakandaran. It is I who should

bow to you. You have suffered much on our behalf.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he retorted without thinking.

“Brak!” Samaranan gasped. Even the demons seemed appalled by his

disrespect.

But the King laughed. “Oh, how I’ve missed you, Brakandaran! You are

like a breath of fresh air. Come, get off your knees and let us talk as

friends. Samaranan, tell your family to prepare a feast. Tonight we will

welcome your lost brother home.”

“There’s really no need . . .” Brak began as he climbed to his

feet. The King ignored his objections.

“Leave us now. Your brother and I have much to discuss.”

Samaranan bowed gracefully and backed out of the room. The demons

followed her, subdued in the presence of the King. The doors swung shut

silently as they departed. The King turned to Brak and his smile faded.

“What news have you of the outside world?”

“Nothing that is likely to bring you joy,” Brak warned. “The

Defenders were in Testra when I left. They were making plans to move

north, to protect their border from the Kariens.”

“Shananara tells me you went to Hythria.”

“I indulged in a bit of theatrics, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “The

Defenders needed help and I had to stop them killing the demon child. I

made a rather dramatic appearance in Krakandar and convinced Damin

Wolfblade to form an alliance with them.”

“The High Prince’s heir?” Korandellan shook his head with a faint

smile. “You never did listen to me when I told you about the dangers of

interfering with mortal politics. But . . . perhaps such an alliance

might eventually bring peace between Medalon and Hythria, so in this

case, I will forgive you.”

“You always forgive me, your Majesty. It’s your one fault.”

“I have more than one, I fear. And what news of the Kariens?”

“As soon as word reaches them about the death of their Envoy, they’ll

have the excuse they’ve been looking for to invade Medalon.”

“Then war is unavoidable?” The King looked pained even contemplating

such an idea.

“I’m afraid so.”

“And Fardohnya? What is Hablet doing? It is unlike him to let such

momentous events take shape without him trying to turn it to his

advantage.”

“I wish I knew,” Brak told him with a shrug. “A couple of years ago

he was making overtures toward Hythria. He sent one of his daughters to

meet with Lernen Wolfblade, but I don’t know that anything came of it.

It’s hard to tell with Hablet. He makes and breaks treaties as if they

were piecrusts. You should think about sending someone to his court, now

that the word is out that the Harshini still live.”

The King shook his head. “I risked much in letting Shananara aid you,

and I cannot sleep for fear of the danger Glenanaran and the few others

who have returned to the outside might be in. The High Arrion has

promised me that the Sorcerer’s Collective will protect our people in

Greenharbour, but we are not revered in the manner we once were. Our

seclusion appears to have left us unprepared for the human world. Her

assistance will come with a price, I suspect. Besides, Fardohnya is too

close to Karien. I would not put it past Hablet to see some advantage in

dealing with the Kariens, and I would not willingly give him a

hostage.” Korandellan walked to the balcony that overlooked the broad,

sun-kissed valley. He studied it for a long moment before he spoke again.

“A part of me rejoices to see you again, Brakandaran. Another part of

me fears what your appearance heralds.”

“And just exactly what does my appearance herald?”

Korandellan did not answer immediately. When he did, he completely

changed the subject. “The demon child lives.”

“Cheltaran healed her, then?” It was a relief to learn that his

journey had not been in vain.

“Yes . . . and no.”

The vague reply surprised Brak, and worried him. “What do you mean?”

“When the demons brought R’shiel here she was on the brink of death.

No, even more than that, Death had her by the hand and was leading her

away. Cheltaran healed her wounds, but Death does not like to be cheated,

particularly by the God of Healing. They are having something of a . . .

disagreement . . . over the demon child’s fate.”

“That sounds ominous. Where does that leave R’shiel?”

“She lives, but only just. Death holds one hand, Cheltaran the other.”

Brak sagged against the balcony. “But it’s been months!”

“I know. But now that you are here, we should be able to resolve the

conflict.”

“You want me to step into an argument between Death and a god? Thanks

for the vote of confidence, your Majesty, but I think you vastly overrate

my powers of persuasion.”

The King turned to him, his expression serious. “I overrate nothing,

Brakandaran. A compromise of sorts has been worked out to solve the

problem. Unfortunately, none of us is capable of carrying it out.”

“Compromise? What compromise?”

“A life for a life,” Korandellan told him heavily. “Death will

relinquish his claim on R’shiel, if another life is given in her

place.”

Brak closed his eyes for a moment as the weight of the task Korandellan

asked of him pressed on him like a falling building.

“You want me to choose?”

“I do not ask this of you lightly, Brakandaran, but I have no choice. I

cannot take a life, even indirectly. You are the only one who can make

the decision.”

“And to think I used to imagine my human blood would never be an asset

to the Harshini,” Brak remarked sourly. “Fine. I’ll go out and pick

some helpless, worthless human. That should satisfy Death.”

Korandellan’s golden skin paled at his callousness. “It is not that

simple. Death demands a soul of equal value.”

“Then I’ll make sure I pick an obnoxious brat. That should even

things up.”

“A soul of equal value, Brakandaran. Death drives a hard bargain. He

wants a soul whose loss will mean as much to the demon child as her loss

will mean to us.”

“Is there a time limit on this absurd bargain, or will the poor sod

drop dead the moment I name him?”

Korandellan shook his head in despair. “I cannot comprehend your

ability to make light of this, Brakandaran.”

“I’m not making light of anything. I might be capable of making such

a decision, Korandellan, but I certainly don’t find it easy. It’s an

eminently reasonable question.”

“And one I cannot answer. You will have to ask Death yourself. I’m

sure he will be reasonable.”

“Oh! You think so?”

“Please, Brakandaran! Do not think to approach Death with such an

attitude.”

As a race, the Harshini were a bridge between the gods and mortal man,

but it was Korandellan who carried the full weight of that bridge on his

shoulders. Brak appreciated his predicament, but found it hard to

sympathise, given the burden the King had just handed him.

“Don’t worry. Even I am not that stupid. Can I see R’shiel?”

“Of course.” The King smiled faintly and placed his hand on Brak’s

shoulder. “You did well to find her, Brak. I know the remorse that

fills you seems hard to live with, but ultimately, if she succeeds,

R’shiel will free the Harshini. Your actions will have saved your

people.”

“All but one,” Brak reminded him grimly.

R’shiel té Ortyn, the demon child who had caused Brak so much anguish

— even before she was born — lay not far from Korandellan’s

chambers. The room was large and airy, filled with flowers and scented

candles, as if the cheery atmosphere could somehow compensate for the

battle being waged over her life. Two Harshini sat with her, watching the

faint rise and fall of her chest, as if waiting for something to happen.

As Brak approached they bowed silently and withdrew, the expectant joy in

their black eyes at his coming making him feel unworthy.

She lay on the crisp white sheets wearing a simple robe of pale blue. Her

dark red hair had been braided with care and lay coiled on the pillow.

She appeared whole and unmarked. As unnaturally perfect as any Harshini.

She was breathing, but barely. Brak watched her for a time then turned to

Korandellan.

“You’ve not spoken to her yet?”

“She’s been unconscious since she arrived. Once the . . . decision is

made, Death will release her.”

Brak considered his next words carefully before he spoke. “Korandellan,

have you considered the possibility that it might be better if you let

Death have her?”

The King’s head snapped up in shock. “Of course not! Why would I do

that?”

“She may look Harshini, your Majesty, but this girl is not what she

seems. She was raised by the Sisterhood. She is spoilt, manipulative and

can be utterly ruthless when she’s in the mood. And those are her good

points.”

“If Xaphista prevails, the Harshini will be destroyed.”

“You’ve no guarantee that won’t happen, even if she lives. You

don’t know her like I do. Believe me, she’s not the stuff saviours

are made of.”

“You don’t like her?”

“I don’t trust her,” he corrected.

The King studied R’shiel for a moment and then looked at Brak. His

expression was troubled. “Be that as it may, I cannot let her die. We

will not survive long enough for another demon child to reach maturity,

even if such a child was born tomorrow. I have no choice.”

“Then the gods help us all,” Brak muttered to himself.

CHAPTER 2

Her Most Serene Highness, Princess Adrina of Fardohnya, took special care

with her appearance this morning. There wasn’t much she could do about

the black eye, but she could disguise the rest of her bruises. Her slaves

fussed over her nervously, as wary of her foul mood as they were of their

uncertain future. Their mistress had done many things in the past to

incur the wrath of the King, but last night’s escapade was spectacular,

even for Adrina.

“Has anybody seen Tristan?” she snapped, pushing away the young,

dark-haired slave who was trying to fix a diaphanous veil to her head

with jewelled pins and trembling fingers.

“No, your Highness,” Tamylan replied calmly, relieving the girl of

the task. With a firm hand she pinned on the veil. Adrina yelped

impatiently.

“Be careful! Where in the Seven Hells is he? I’ll be damned if I’ll

take the blame for this alone.”

“I believe Tristan was last seen beating a hasty retreat towards the

South Gate, your Highness,” the slave told her, barely able to conceal

her amusement. Adrina glared at her in the mirror. Tamylan had been her

constant companion since they were children. She had a bad habit of

forgetting her place. “I imagine your brother was seized by an

overwhelming desire to rejoin his regiment at Lander’s Crossing.”

“Coward,” Adrina muttered. “When I get my hands on him . . .” She

pushed Tamylan away, stood up and glanced at her reflection, satisfied

that she had done her best under the circumstances. Her skirt was green,

Hablet’s favourite colour, and the deep emerald shade brought out the

green in her kohl-darkened eyes, even with the unbecoming bruise. The

bodice was a shade or two lighter and edged with delicate pearls, exactly

matching the larger pearl that nested in her bare navel. She could do

little about her pounding head but she had gargled half a bottle of

cologne to rid herself of the sour aftertaste of mead. She smoothed down

the skirts nervously and turned to Tamylan. “How do I look?”

“As lovely as ever, your Highness,” the slave assured her. “I’m

sure the King will be so overcome by your radiant beauty that he’ll

completely overlook the fact that you ran his flagship into the main

wharf last night.”

“Tamylan, have I told you that you’re dangerously close to pushing me

too far?” She was no mood for Tamylan’s eternal good humour. She

wasn’t in the mood for much of anything. She just wanted to crawl back

into her bed and hide under the covers until her father forgot about her.

“Not for an hour, at least, your Highness.”

A knock at the door saved Tamylan from a tongue-lashing. Gretta, the

slave who had been so carefully trying to fix her hair, answered it

hastily. The young girl bowed low as Lecter Turon, the King’s

Chamberlain, entered, scurrying out of his way as he waddled into the

room.

The Chamberlain mopped his perpetually sweating bald head and bowed to

Adrina. “The King is waiting for you, your Highness,” the eunuch

announced in his gratingly high-pitched voice. “I have come to escort

you.”

“I know the way, Turon. I hardly need an obsequious little toad like

you to guide me.”

“Your Serene Highness, I speak the truth when I say that never have I

looked forward to a duty more.” He was positively beaming at the

prospect of her trying to explain her way out of this one.

Adrina decided not to dignify his jibe with a reply. She flounced past

him in a swirl of emerald skirts and marched into the hall, snapping her

head up haughtily. That was a mistake. The hangover she was trying to

ignore objected violently to the sudden movement and sent a wave of

blinding pain across her forehead. She strode ahead; not waiting for

Turon, deliberately taking long strides, knowing the tubby little eunuch

would have to run to catch up. It was petty, but he deserved it for

taking so much pleasure in her misfortune. Servants and slaves scurried

out of her path as she marched through the long black and white tiled

halls of the Summer Palace.

It took nearly twenty minutes to reach her father’s reception room, and

Turon panted heavily in her wake. There were a disconcerting number of

lords and ladies in attendance in the vast outer chamber, standing around

the tall, potted palms in jewelled clusters like beetles around scattered

honey drops. They stared at her as she strode past, their expressions

ranging from smug humour to simmering anger. Even the slaves wore

expressions of intense interest, as they manned the large fans that moved

the humid air around, but did little to cool the oppressive heat.

She did not wait for permission to enter, but marched straight up to the

delicately carved sandalwood doors of her father’s office. The guards

opened them as she approached. Turon was forced into an undignified run

to catch her so that he could enter the chamber first to announce her

arrival. Two steps ahead of the Chamberlain, she ordered the guards to

close the doors behind her, and was gratified to hear Turon’s indignant

yelp as the obliging guards slammed the doors in his face.

Hablet looked up as she entered and smiled. That was not a good sign. The

King was prone to violent outbursts when enraged, which usually

dissipated as quickly as they started. But he was beyond anger now and

into a quiet rage that manifested itself in a deceptively calm demeanour.

She had only ever seen him this angry once before. That time, her bastard

half-brothers Tristan and Gaffen had stolen the statue of Jelanna, the

Goddess of Fertility from the Goddess’ Temple and mounted it on the

roof of the most notorious brothel in Talabar. She had half-expected

Hablet to kill them when he learnt of their escapade. Her father was sly,

dishonest and opportunistic, but he was very devout. He was also

desperate for a legitimate son, certain that his baseborn sons’ jests

would make Jelanna strike him impotent as a punishment for their

disrespect. He need not have worried. Hablet had sired another half-dozen

or more children since then, although he still did not have the

legitimate son he craved. Maybe that was Jelanna’s revenge.

“Adrina,” Hablet said through his dangerous smile.

“Daddy . . .”

“Don’t you ‘daddy’ me, young lady.” This was worse than she

thought.

“I can explain . . .”

“You can explain, can you?” Hablet asked, picking up a sheath of

parchment from his gilded desk. The sunlight streamed in from the tall

open windows, catching the gilt and reflecting it painfully back in her

eyes. There were no chairs in the room other than the seat that the King

occupied, so she had no choice but to stand in front of him like an

errant slave. “Explain what exactly, my dear? How do you explain this

bill I have from Lord Hergelat for seven hundred gold lucats? It seems

you sank his yacht. Or this one?” he added, holding up another leaf

from the pile on the desk in front of him. “Lord Brendle claims you ran

his dhow aground, too. He wants twelve hundred lucats. And then of

course, Lady Pralton wants compensation because Lord Brendle’s dhow was

carrying a load of her vintage wine, which is now sitting at the bottom

of the harbour, making a lot of fish rather happy, I imagine. Not to

mention the twenty-eight injured slaves manning the oars of the Wave

Warrior when you rammed the dock. Captain Wendele estimates the damage to

the Wave Warrior to be between five and six thousand lucats.”

He threw the bills on the desk. “As for the dock, it will take the

engineers a week or more to work out what that will cost to repair,

assuming they can find a way to get the Wave Warrior off it, without

dismantling the whole damned structure! Would you care to hear what the

Merchant Guilds are claiming they’ll lose with the main wharf out of

commission?” Hablet’s voice had been growing steadily louder as he

spoke, until he was shouting at her. She cringed, although more from the

effect it had on her hangover, than for fear of him.

“But Daddy —”

“A party!” he yelled. “It’s the Feast of Kaelarn, Daddy, and we

want to have a party! I said you could have a damned party, Adrina. I

didn’t say you could ruin me!”

Now he was exaggerating. Even the staggering cost of her escapade would

not dent Hablet’s enormous wealth. “I haven’t ruined you, Father,

I—”

“As if I don’t have enough problems! I’ve got the damned Hythrun

allying with Medalon. I’m at an extremely delicate point in my

negotiations with the Karien Crown Prince . . .”

Now that’s a lie, Adrina thought impatiently. The Kariens wanted

Hablet’s cannon, and access to the Fardohnyan Gulf through the port at

Solanndy Bay, which her father controlled. They were prepared to put up

with quite a bit to get what they wanted. What Hablet really meant was

that he had just raised the price again.

With the unexpected alliance of Hythria and Medalon, and the certain

invasion of Medalon by the Kariens to avenge the death of their Envoy,

Hablet’s eyes had lit up with glee, thinking of the profit to be made.

The Karien army was vast and even with the aid of the Warlord of

Krakandar, the Defenders were sadly outnumbered. With the promise of the

new weapons from Fardohnya — Adrina doubted her father had any

intention of actually delivering them — Karien would be invincible.

That left Hablet with two almost unheard-of opportunities. Not only could

he demand vast amounts of timber from the Kariens to sustain his fleets,

but while Medalon was occupied with the Kariens, Hythria lay open — all

but undefended along its northern border.

Hablet cared nothing for Medalon, but the prospect of taking on the

Hythrun was very tempting. The origins of the feud between Fardohnya and

Hythria were lost in antiquity, but in recent years had much to do with

the fact that the vast majority of the Fardohnyan fleet was engaged in

acts of piracy, and the rich Hythrun traders were their favourite targets.

This latest, ill-advised deal with the Kariens was doomed to failure,

Adrina thought. No amount of tall timber, iron ore, gold, or anything

else the resource-rich Kariens could offer made it worth dealing with a

nation of mindless fanatics. The Hythrun might be arrogant and

belligerent, their High Prince might be a degenerate old pervert, but at

least they believed in the same gods.

“ . . . and now, thanks to your irresponsible recklessness, I have half

the nobles in Talabar asking for your head! What possessed you to think

you knew how to sail my flagship!”

Adrina realised with a start that she had not been listening to him.

“I didn’t think . . .”

“Well that’s pretty bloody obvious!” Hablet sagged back in his

chair, as if his tirade had exhausted him. He scratched at his beard and

glared at her. “Who else was involved in this fiasco?”

For a moment, Adrina nobly considered taking the entire blame for this

disaster upon her own shoulders. It had been her idea, after all. She

quickly decided against it. From his expression, she could tell that her

father probably knew everything and lying would simply make things worse.

“Tristan,” she admitted, albeit reluctantly, even though the

miserable coward deserved to be implicated for abandoning her.

“And . . .?” Hablet prompted impatiently.

“And Cassandra.”

“Ah, Cassandra,” Hablet repeated with a dangerous smile. “I was

wondering when we’d get around to her.”

“She wasn’t on the boat when it . . . when the accident occurred,”

Adrina pointed out cautiously. Cassie had been a reluctant accomplice to

the caper, and Adrina felt honour bound to defend her younger sister.

“I’m aware of that,” Hablet said evenly. “Do you know where she

was?”

“She came back to the Palace.” Adrina wondered if Cassie had actually

done what she promised, or had found further mischief out of sight of her

older siblings.

“Oh, Cassandra came back to the Palace, all right,” Hablet agreed.

“In fact, Cassandra was so drunk that she decided it would be a good

idea to find out what sort of lover her fiancé was. She sneaked into his

rooms and tried to seduce him like an alley whore and now the whole

damned Karien delegation is threatening to call off the deal. How could

you do this to me?”

The news did not surprise Adrina. Cassandra was a passionate young woman

who had been talking about nothing else but the visiting Karien Prince

all week.

“Cassie didn’t mean any harm . . .”

“I don’t care if she was on a mission from the gods!” Hablet

shouted. “The Kariens are mortified. They think I’m trying to foist a

whore on them. I offered them my most beautiful daughter as a bride and

now they think I’m trying to get rid of a wanton hussy. They’re ready

to set sail on the next tide.”

Adrina glared at her father impatiently. “Well, what did you expect,

Father? Cassie was never cut out to be the bride of a Karien Prince. She

doesn’t have any interest in politics; she’s far too self-indulgent.

You should have thought about that before you arranged the marriage.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“You know as well as I do that Cassie would have gotten herself into

serious trouble within months of marrying Craytn. She doesn’t think

beyond her next meal, most of the time. I can’t believe you were fool

enough to think such an arrangement would work in the first place.”

“Is that right?”

Deciding attack was the best form of defence, Adrina carried on

recklessly. “Of course, I’m right. Whoever you send north has to have

their wits about them. Cassie wouldn’t seal a treaty, she’d cause a

war.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Hablet said, his eyes narrowed.

“Because the only way to redeem this situation was to offer another

daughter as a bride and hope the Kariens would accept her.”

“Well, Lissie is probably the prettiest,” Adrina noted thoughtfully.

“But Herena has the better head on her shoulders, although she’s

still quite young . . .”

“So I offered them you.”

“You what?”

“As you so rightly pointed out, my petal, whoever I send to the Kariens

needs to have their wits about them. They are mightily offended at the

moment. The only way to appease them was to offer them the jewel in my

crown. My eldest legitimate daughter.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Would dare and have dared,” Hablet announced with an evil grin. “I

offered the Kariens a bride, and a bride they shall have. Fortunately,

Craytn has only met you once and he doesn’t speak Fardohnyan, so I can

still hope your reputation hasn’t preceded you. I can blame Tristan for

the fiasco at the wharf easily enough.” He chuckled softly. “Seems

they thought I should have offered them my eldest daughter in the first

place. It may even work out better than my original plan.”

“You can’t do this to me!”

“Care to wager on that?”

“I won’t do it!”

“Oh yes you will! You’ll marry the Karien Crown Prince and make him

as happy as a pig in a wallow.”

“I refuse!”

“Suit yourself,” her father said, his voice dangerously calm. “In

that case, I’ll be forced to deduct the cost of your little escapade

from your allowance. And while I’m at it, I’ll see that your

half-brother is demoted to a common foot soldier and I’ll transfer him

to watching the eastern passes, where he’ll more than likely be killed

fighting bandits in the Sunrise Mountains. Of course, should you agree to

marry Craytn, then I could probably force myself to assign him to the

regiment I’m sending north to King Jasnoff. That would get him out of

my sight while I recover from this disaster . . .”

“That’s blackmail!”

Hablet sighed happily. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Daddy . . .” she pleaded, hoping to appeal to his softer side.

Hablet was a scoundrel, but he loved his children, all thirty-seven of

them. He made no distinction normally, between his legitimate daughters

and the sons he had fathered on countless court’esa. “You don’t

want to send me away . . .”

“I can’t afford to keep you,” Hablet snapped. “If I didn’t love

you more than life itself, I’d have you whipped.”

“I’d rather be whipped than marry that pious idiot!” Realising

anger would get her nowhere she smiled sweetly. “I’m sorry, daddy. I

promise never to . . .”

“Promise! Hah!” Hablet scoffed. “You promised me you’d marry well

and you’ve rejected every suitor I’ve ever proposed.”

“Well, what did you expect? All you’ve ever offered me were simpering

boys or scabby old men!”

“That’s beside the point!” he retorted. Then he sighed heavily, as

if he could not understand where he went wrong. “Haven’t I given you

everything you ever wanted, Adrina? Haven’t I indulged your every

whim?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“There are no buts, this time,” Hablet announced decisively. “This

time you have gone too far and you can only redeem yourself by doing as I

wish. And I wish you to marry the Karien Prince.”

“But he’s a child . . .”

“He’s twenty-three,” Hablet pointed out, unconcerned. “And at

twenty-seven, you’re an old maid. Just be grateful you still have your

looks, otherwise I’d have no hope of pulling this off.”

“Daddy . . .” she tried, one more time.

“Don’t bother, Adrina. Your charms won’t work on me. You are going

to marry the Karien Prince and that is final. They’re leaving in a few

days so you’d better get packing.”

If appealing to his better nature wasn’t going to work, then she might

as well try appealing to the politician.

“I can’t marry him. It’s far too dangerous.”

“What nonsense! How could it be dangerous?”

“I might have a son. The Kariens might expect you to name him your

heir.”

“Bah! I’ve got plenty of sons. I don’t need any whelp of yours.”

“They’re bastards, father.”

“Then I’ll legitimise one of them!”

“Which one?”

“Whichever one I choose!” he snapped. “Stop trying to defy me!

You’re going to marry Cratyn and that’s final!”

Adrina scowled at her father. “I’ll find a way out of this, I swear.

I’m not going to spend my life bowing and scraping to that obnoxious

little Karien worm.”

“You do that. In the meantime, you have a trousseau to pack.”

Adrina turned on her heel and left the room in a rage. As she stepped

into the outer chamber, she passed Lecter Turon, and suddenly knew who

had planted the absurd idea that she should marry the Karien Prince in

her father’s head. The little toad would pay for that one day, she

decided.

As for the boy prince of Karien, he’d live to regret the day he ever

set foot in Fardohnya.

CHAPTER 3

“Her Most Serene Highness took the news well?” Lecter inquired

cautiously of the King as he slipped through the door.

Hablet glared at the eunuch. “Of course she didn’t take it well.

She’s livid.”

“In time she will adjust to the idea.”

“She’d better,” the King grumbled. He pushed himself to his feet

and walked to the window. The gardens below were a riot of colour and the

faint sounds of children’s laughter drifted up from the fountain in the

centre court. The sound soothed him. He wondered what it was about his

children that meant he only seemed to like them before they reached

puberty. Once they grew up, they were no fun at all. They learnt to

manipulate and grew greedy and caused him no end of trouble. But the

little ones — ah, now they were his true joy in life. He had adored

Adrina when she was ten. Now he was almost frightened of her.

“Might I suggest you place a guard on the princess? She could decide to

defy you.”

“She won’t defy me,” Hablet assured him. “It will occur to her

soon enough that she’ll be the Karien Queen one day. Adrina isn’t

stupid, Lecter. She’ll do what I want, but not because it pleases me.

She’ll do it because it pleases her.”

“I hope your trust in her is not misplaced, your Majesty.”

“Trust has nothing to do with it. She’s been dying to escape the

palace, and I’ve just given her a crown.”

“A crown she could turn on you one day?” Lecter suggested tentatively.

“Hah! Adrina? And that simpering, Karien Prince? I don’t think so!

Adrina might have it in her to commit such treachery, but Cratyn is as

spineless as a jellyfish. Did you see what they’ve agreed to? How much

timber they’re willing to part with, just to get access to Solanndy Bay

and the Gulf? They’re idiots!”

“You control the only access to their holiest shrine, your Majesty, not

to mention any chance they have of sea-going trade. You didn’t really

leave them much choice.”

“They want the secret of my cannon,” Hablet added. “They want that

even more than they want trade or access to that miserable Isle of Slarn.

What sort of god chooses a lump of rock like Slarn to make his home,

anyway?”

“The same sort of god who will demand your daughter convert to his

worship. Your grandchildren will be followers of Xaphista.”

“Adrina pointed out the same thing,” the King mused, walking back to

his desk. “Odd to hear you two in agreement on any point. Still,

Laryssa is due to whelp any day now. She’ll give me a son and it

won’t matter how many Karien bastards Adrina has.”

“Of course, your Majesty.” It was clear Lecter was as doubtful of the

possibility as everyone else was. But surely Jelanna would not deny him

again. Laryssa, the eighth woman he had taken to wife, had proved her

fertility. She’d already given him two healthy bastard sons. Hablet had

decided he would not marry any woman who could not produce sons and it

was perfectly reasonable to assume that she would not let him down this

time. The thought warmed him, almost making him forget his anger at

Adrina. A legitimate son. Nothing would make him happier.

It wasn’t that Hablet didn’t love his baseborn sons. On the contrary,

he adored them. But naming one his heir would cause problems. The throne

needed a clear line of succession, and the law was clear, although not

well known: either he sired a son himself, or the crown would go to

Hythria, thanks to an almost forgotten twelve hundred-year-old agreement

that Hablet had been trying to find a way around for thirty years. As he

would rather fall on a rusty blade than see that happen, the only

solution, if he did not have a legitimate son of his own, was to name one

of his bastards heir. But he could not do that until he had removed the

threat of any Hythrun heirs to his throne, a situation he planned to see

to personally once he was across the border into Hythria. Then, if

Laryssa failed to whelp a boy, he could legitimise one of his baseborn

sons, probably Tristan, and not just because he was the eldest. Tristan

was the brightest, the most personable, and the least likely to allow

Adrina to control him. Although, given last night’s disastrous

escapade, Hablet was beginning to wonder about that. Perhaps it wasn’t

a good idea to send him north with Adrina . . .

Hablet sighed. It was a moot point. Laryssa would give him a son. Adrina

would be off his hands, out of sight and out of mind in Karien. Let her

play Queen of the Realm in the north. He had their timber, their gold and

their iron. In return they were getting his most troublesome daughter and

a promise he had no intention of keeping.

All in all, Hablet decided, looking down at the pile of debts Adrina had

accumulated last night, it was a good bargain.

“So how are our Karien guests this morning?” he asked, pushing the

pile to one side of the gilded desk. “Have they calmed down?”

“The prince was somewhat mollified by your generous offer.”

“So he damned well should be!”

“I noted,” Lecter continued, mopping his brow, “that the Kariens

showed an unnatural interest in your offer to send a regiment with Adrina

as her personal guard.”

“I trust Adrina to keep them out of harm’s way. She was right about

one thing. I’d never have risked sending them with Cassandra.”

“If I may be so bold as to offer my opinion, your Majesty, one wonders

if it is a good idea to send any troops north at all.”

“What do you mean? If I don’t send her to Karien in a manner

befitting her station, they’ll know something is going on.”

“I agree, your Majesty, but I have received more than one report that

the Harshini have returned. There have been sightings in Greenharbour, at

the Sorcerer’s Collective, and even as far away as Testra, in

Medalon.”

“So? What has that got to do with us?”

“The Kariens are dedicated to the destruction of the Harshini, your

Majesty. Marrying your daughter to their Crown Prince, and sending her

north with your soldiers might be . . . misconstrued.”

“You mean I might offend the Harshini?” Hablet scratched his beard as

he sank down into his chair. “If the Harshini have returned, Lecter,

and I seriously doubt they have, then why are they not here? I am the

King of Fardohnya! If they were back the first thing they would do is

send an Emissary to my court. Instead, all you can offer me are unfounded

rumours about Harshini in Hythria. I have served the gods faithfully. Why

would they send their people to that degenerate in Greenharbour, when

they could come here?”

“High Prince Lernen has always supported the Sorcerer’s Collective

and the temples most generously.”

“Lernen doesn’t support anyone but himself,” Hablet scoffed. “If

the Harshini had returned, I would know about it. They are dead and gone,

Lecter, so we will just have to stumble on without them as we have done

for the past two hundred years.”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

Lecter mopped his brow again, looking rather uncomfortable. On days like

this he annoyed Hablet. His grovelling manner was intolerable at times,

but he had a sharp political mind and no scruples at all, that Hablet

could discern. It made him an excellent chamberlain, if a tiresome one.

“What else, Lecter? I can tell there’s something bothering you.”

“It’s a small matter, your Majesty. One that hardly needs your

attention.”

“Out with it, Lecter! I don’t have time for your games this morning.

Cratyn will be here at any moment.”

“There have been other rumours, Sire, particularly in Medalon. About

the demon child.”

“Lorandranek’s legendary half-human child? Those rumours have been

around ever since the Harshini disappeared. Surely you don’t believe

them?”

“I don’t believe anything, your Majesty, until I have proof. However,

I feel they might be worthy of investigation. I could send . . .”

“No,” Hablet declared bluntly. “I’ll not have you wasting time

and money chasing fairytales. The Harshini are extinct and there is no

fabled demon child. I would much rather you spent your time fruitfully.

Like finding out why the High Prince of Hythria sent his nephew to

Medalon to fight with the Defenders.”

“My sources tell me Lernen has little or no control over his nephew. I

doubt he sent him anywhere.”

“Then find out why young Wolfblade went north. I want a free path into

Hythria, Lecter. I don’t want a battalion of Defenders on my back, and

Wolfblade needs to die.”

“The Kariens will keep the Defenders off your back, Sire, and I am sure

they can be prevailed upon to dispose of the Hythrun Prince. Why else

would we support their coming war with Medalon?”

“I hope you’re right, Lecter, because I’ll be very put out if this

doesn’t work.”

Before Lecter could offer another obsequious reply, the doors opened and

the Karien Prince strode in, accompanied by his retinue. Hablet greeted

them expansively and ordered the guards to bring chairs for the new

arrivals.

Lecter bowed low, mopped his brow and backed out of the room, leaving the

King to his guests.

CHAPTER 4

Everyone’s eyes were on Adrina as she strode down the long hall. As if

to mock her, at the end of the hall, the princeling in question was

heading toward her, with his gaggle of priests in tow.

Except for the ball held in his honour the day of his arrival a week ago,

Adrina had not seen the young Prince, and counted herself lucky. He had

spent the entire ball blushing an interesting shade of pink every time he

caught sight of a Fardohnyan woman’s bare midriff. As every one of the

two hundred or so women present had been dressed in a similar fashion, he

was damned near apoplectic by the end of the evening. For a fleeting

moment, she debated doing something truly outrageous, right here in the

Hall, which would ensure the Kariens would reject her as a potential

bride. But she had caught the expectant look on Lecter Turon’s smug,

fat face as he slipped through the door to attend the King, and thought

better of it. He would keep.

She stopped and waited as the young prince approached. Tall, serious and

boring did not particularly appeal to Adrina, but he was civilised

enough, she supposed. He was a little taller than her, with unremarkable

brown hair, and eyes the colour of dried mud. At least he knew how to

chew with his mouth closed.

“Prince Cretin,” she said, offering him her hand. The older man on

Cratyn’s right looked a little put out that she had greeted his prince

as an equal, but Cratyn did not appear to notice. He was too busy staring

at the pearl in her navel. “My father has just informed me that we are

to be married.”

Cratyn dropped her hand, jerked his head up and met her eye. He looked at

her black eye curiously for a moment, but made no comment about it.

Instead, he nodded — rather miserably, she noted with interest.

“Karien welcomes Fardohnya’s favourite daughter, your Serene

Highness,” he said in his clipped Karien. “We look forward to a new

era of prosperity and friendship between our two great nations.”

Someone sniggered in the background at the idea. Adrina looked at Cratyn

curiously, wondering if he was really as naive as he sounded.

“I look forward to serving Fardohnya and Karien, your Highness,” she

replied graciously, in heavily accented Karien. Two could play this game,

and Adrina could mouth meaningless platitudes in any number of languages,

when the mood took her. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have

arrangements to make for my journey.”

Cratyn stepped aside for her, forcing the rest of his party to do the

same.

Adrina continued regally on through the hall. Until she came up with a

way to escape her father’s decree, she had no choice but to play along

with it.

At least the meeting with the young Karien Prince had not gone too badly.

She had made it clear to the Kariens that she held a rank equal to their

prince, and Cratyn had been rather overawed by her, she decided with

satisfaction. But he wasn’t very happy with the idea of an arranged

marriage. That much was obvious. It could simply be his distaste for a

foreign bride — or perhaps he was smarter than he looked, and had some

idea of how treacherous and unreliable her father was. She was almost

back to her rooms, and still trying to puzzle it out, when a rather

shamefaced Tristan caught up with her.

“The last I heard, you were running away like a cur with its tail

between its legs,” she snapped as he fell into step beside her.

Tristan was younger than Adrina by two days, and until an hour ago, she

had considered him her best friend. Tristan’s mother was a Hythrun

court’esa, one of Hablet’s favourites, who still lived in the palace

harem, even though she no longer took the King’s fancy. She had been a

beautiful woman in her youth and Tristan had inherited most of her charm,

as well as her fair hair and golden eyes. He turned all of that charm on

his half-sister now, to absolutely no effect.

“Would I desert you in your hour of need?”

“I didn’t happen to notice you helping me when I needed you, just

now.”

“I was busy,” he shrugged, with an apologetic smile.

“Do you know what he’s done?” There was no need to elaborate on who

he was.

“Married you off to the Karien Prince and ordered me north with the

regiment?”

She turned on him furiously. “You knew!”

“My orders were waiting for me at the South Gate. The ink wasn’t even

dry. You really pushed him too far this time, Adrina.”

“You were there, too! I only tried docking the damned boat because you

dared me . . .”

“It’s a ship, not a boat,” he corrected. “Anyway, this might be

fun.”

“Fun? I have to marry that snivelling, pious little cretin.”

“And one day that snivelling, pious little cretin will be the Karien

King. That’s more than you’ll ever get here, Adrina. You might be the

eldest legitimate child, but Hablet will turn atheist before he lets a

woman inherit the Fardohnyan crown. You’ve always known he’d sell you

to the highest bidder. At least, this way, you get to be a queen.”

Adrina listened to her brother thoughtfully, as she considered

possibilities that had not had time to register.

“And what about you?” she asked. “He’s banished you north as

well.”

Tristan shrugged. “I’ve got fourteen half-brothers, Adrina. When

Hablet tires of trying to get a legitimate son on one of his wives,

there’ll be a rather spirited competition for our father’s favour.

That’s a bloodbath I’ll be more than happy to miss.”

“This does present some interesting opportunities, doesn’t it?” she

agreed.

Tristan laughed. “You know, sometimes, you’re so like Hablet it’s

scary.”

Adrina stopped and looked up at him. “The regiment that’s going

north, what’s its function?”

“They’ll be the Princess’s Guard,” Tristan told her. “Under

your command, to use as you see fit.”

“And you are the Captain of the Guard?”

“Naturally,” he said with a smug grin.

“Is Father sending any cannon with you?”

Tristan’s grin vanished. He glanced up and down the hall before

answering in a low voice. “No, and I’m not certain the Kariens will

ever see any artillery.”

“But he’s promised them!”

“You know as well as I do how much Father’s promises are worth.

He’ll take their gold and their timber and happily send his daughter to

Karien as a bride to prove his good intentions, but he really doesn’t

want to hand the Kariens anything as dangerous as a cannon. He’s had

every man in Talabar who even thinks he knows how to make gunpowder taken

into custody.”

“He could be doing that just to drive up the price.”

“I suppose.”

“So the regiment going north are just light cavalry then?

Tristan nodded warily. “For the most part. What are you up to,

Adrina?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “Not yet, anyway. Can you get me that list?

Before we sail? And I want to know who Hablet arrested, too.”

“Why?”

She ignored the question. “And I want you to do something else for me.

Find out why Cratyn is so unhappy about this marriage.”

“He’s probably heard about you,” Tristan suggested.

Adrina frowned at him, but did not rise to the bait. “Maybe, but I’ve

got a feeling there’s more to it than that. I want to know what it

is.”

“As you command, your Serene Highness,” Tristan said with a mocking

bow.

“One other thing,” she added as she turned to walk away. “Do any of

the regiment speak Karien?”

“Most of them, as far I as know,” Tristan said.

“Then the first order you are to give them is to conceal that

knowledge,” Adrina told him. “The men are to act dumb. I want the

Kariens to think they don’t understand any orders but mine. Including

you. If I have to go through with this, I’ll do it on my terms.”

Tristan was as good as his word, and by early afternoon Adrina had the

names of every man in her regiment, and every man and woman rounded up by

Hablet prior to the arrival of the Karien Prince, to prevent the secret

of gunpowder falling into the wrong hands. She studied both lists

carefully. The names on the first list, for the most part, meant nothing

to her. She was not permitted to socialise with Tristan’s fellow

officers, although a few of the names she had heard spoken in court. The

second list was much more interesting. She studied it carefully,

delighted when one name appeared that she knew — by reputation at least.

Adrina spent the rest of the day driving her slaves mad as she made them

drag the entire contents of her wardrobe out, so that she could decide

what she should take with her on her journey north. By the end of the

afternoon, the floor of her chamber was littered with discarded outfits.

At that point, Adrina loudly announced that she simply had nothing to

wear, and certainly nothing suitable for a future queen. She threw a

rather impressive tantrum that had the entire palace scurrying out of her

way. Just on dusk, Hablet sent word that she could send for the tailor of

her choice and order whatever she liked.

The following morning Mhergon, the palace tailor, arrived, nervously

clutching a bundle of cloth swatches. Adrina refused to see him and

demanded to see Japinel instead. He was the only tailor in Talabar worthy

of such a task, she declared. Nobody else would do. She threw another

tantrum, just to make her point, and then sat back and waited.

She did not have to wait long. Less than an hour after Mhergon had fled

her chambers, Lecter Turon arrived. Adrina, draped over the chaise in her

morning room, graciously granted him an audience.

“Where is Japinel?”

“He is unavailable, your Highness. Your father, his Majesty the King

—”

“I know who my father is, Turon. Get to the point.”

“Mhergon is eminently qualified as a master tailor, your Highness.”

“Mhergon couldn’t make a sack out of homespun,” Adrina scoffed.

“My father said the tailor of my choice. I want Japinel.”

“Japinel dabbles, your Highness, in tailoring as he does in everything

else. The last I heard he was calling himself an alchemist. I cannot see

why —”

“You don’t have to, Turon. Get me Japinel or I will come to dinner

tonight naked. We’ll see what his Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of

Karien thinks of that!”

Lecter Turon waddled off in a foul mood, but Adrina knew she had won.

Just on sunset a very pale and confused-looking Japinel was ushered into

her chambers. He seemed stunned that the Princess Adrina had even heard

of him, let alone wanted him to design her trousseau. Adrina ordered her

slaves out and waited until they were alone, before she allowed him to

speak.

“Your Serene Highness!” Japinel cried as he prostrated himself at her

feet.

“Oh, do get up! I don’t have time for that!”

Japinel was a weedy little man with eyes set too close together. He

scrambled to his feet, managing to bow at least half a dozen times on the

way up.

“I am honoured, your Highness. I will design you a trousseau that the

gods will envy. I will create —”

“Shut up, fool! I wouldn’t wear something designed by you if my life

depended on it.”

“But your Highness! Chamberlain Turon said —”

“I have gowns enough to sink my father’s flagship,” she told him.

It was a poor analogy under the circumstances. “I want something else

from you, Japinel. If you do as I say, you’ll be rewarded as if you

really did create my trousseau. If you don’t, I’ll make sure you

never see the light of day again.”

Japinel might have been a scoundrel, but he wasn’t stupid. His eyes

narrowed greedily.

“What is it you want, your Highness?”

“I want to know how to make gunpowder,”

Japinel’s eyes widened. “But I’m a tailor, your Highness. What

would I know about such things?”

“My father is currently holding you in custody because you claimed you

did know.”

Japinel wrung his hands and shrugged helplessly. “A mistake, your

Highness. I had thought to try a different career . . . I boasted

unwisely . . .”

Adrina could have strangled the little worm. “Where are they holding

you and the others?”

“In the slave quarters, your Highness.”

“Then that’s where you will return. I will see you again tomorrow. I

suggest you get the formula from one of your cell mates. I leave Talabar

in three days, Japinel. If I don’t have what I want by then, I will

have you sent to the salt mines in Parkinoor and you won’t see Talabar

until your grandsons are old men.”

After he left, Adrina cursed for a full ten minutes. She was still

cursing when Tamylan arrived to help her dress for dinner.

CHAPTER 5

Captain Wain Loclon was forced to wait for almost an hour outside the

Lord Defender’s office before Garet Warner arrived. In that hour he had

rehearsed, over and over again, what he planned to say. It sounded

reasonable and logical and he was certain of success — right up until

the moment the commandant appeared.

The commandant glanced at him briefly as he opened the door, his

expression more put-upon than welcoming. Loclon followed him into the

office, taking a deep breath. Although of lesser rank than the Lord

Defender, Loclon wished it were Jenga, not Garet Warner, that he was

forced to confront. The Lord Defender was predictable, and much easier to

read than the enigmatic commander of Defender Intelligence.

“I see you’ve recovered,” Garet remarked as Loclon closed the door

behind them.

Garet lit the lantern on the Lord Defender’s desk and studied the

younger man in the flickering light for a moment, before seating himself

in the padded leather chair behind the heavy wooden desk.

“I was released from the infirmary this morning,” Loclon confirmed.

Garet nodded. “And you are ready to return to your duties?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Report to Commandant Arkin. He’ll find you something useful to

do. Sergeant Jocan will arrange for you to be accommodated in the

Officers’ Barracks, unless you prefer to make your own arrangements.”

“I have rooms near the main gate, sir. I was planning to return

there.”

“As you wish. Was there anything else?”

Loclon swallowed before answering. “Actually, I was hoping I could

request an assignment, sir.”

Garet looked up curiously. “Request away, Captain, although I’ve no

guarantee you’ll get what you ask for.”

“I want to be part of the detail assigned to hunting down Tarja

Tenragan.”

Garet Warner smiled briefly. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Captain, but there are no

details hunting Tarja down. The First Sister has pardoned him.”

“Sir?” Loclon thought he was hearing things. He had been out of touch

for the past few months as he recovered from the wounds inflicted on him

by R’shiel and Tarja, but he could not imagine any circumstance that

could have arisen in that time that would give the First Sister reason to

pardon her wayward son.

“You heard correctly, Captain. Tarja has been pardoned and restored to

the Defenders.”

“But after all that he’s done . . .”

“All of which has been forgiven. Was there anything else?”

“Sir, I cannot believe that the First Sister would simply pardon him!

What of the Defenders he killed? The heathen rebellion he led? What of

his desertion? And what of his sister?”

“R’shiel? She has also been the recipient of the First Sister’s

mercy.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Believe what you will, Captain. The fact is they have been pardoned.

While I can understand your distress, considering the circumstances,

there is nothing you or I can do about it.”

Loclon refused to accept Garet Warner’s calm assurances. “Sir, I

believe I have the right to insist that charges be pressed. After what

they did to me . . .”

“Ah, yes, I read your report. You allege R’shiel used heathen magic

on you.”

“I do not allege, sir, I know she did. It was she who gave me this.”

Loclon pulled down the collar of his high-necked red Defender’s jacket

to reveal a savage pink scar that ran from one side of his throat to the

other. It made an interesting counterpoint to the puckered scar that ran

from the corner of his left eye to his mouth. His misshapen nose was the

final touch on his ruined — but once handsome — face.

“Quite an impressive collection of scars,” Garet noted. “But hardly

proof that R’shiel is a heathen.”

“I know what I saw, sir,” he insisted. They can’t do this to me,

not now. Not when he was finally ready to seek revenge.

“Just exactly what were you doing when R’shiel revealed this

unexpected talent for wielding heathen magic, Captain? Your report was

rather vague on that point.”

Loclon hesitated as images filled his mind of R’shiel, naked to the

waist, her pale breasts stark in the jagged lightning, her eyes

glittering and totally black, filled with forbidden heathen power. He

could still taste her lips and the raindrops on her skin. He could still

feel the blade she had used to cut his throat. Hatred burned through his

veins like acid.

“She was attempting to escape, sir.”

“And succeeded, as I understand it,” Garet pointed out. “This

entire episode is something of a blemish on your record, Captain. I would

have thought you’d be anxious to let the matter drop.”

“She is dangerous, sir, and so is Tarja. They must be punished.”

Garet shook his head. “Unfortunately, the First Sister does not agree

with you. Report to Commandant Arkin for reassignment and let the matter

drop.”

“May I ask where they are now?” It took all he had to ask the

question calmly.

“Tarja is with the Lord Defender and the First Sister is on the

northern border. As for R’shiel, I assume she is with them, although I

cannot say for certain. I’m leaving for the northern border in the

morning. I’ll give Tarja your regards, shall I?”

Garet Warner was mocking him, but there was nothing he could do about it.

“Permission to accompany you, Commandant!”

“Denied. Arkin will be in charge until the Lord Defender or I return.

You are dismissed.”

“But sir —”

“I said you are dismissed, Captain.”

Loclon saluted sharply, rage burning in the depths of his blue eyes, the

scar on his face a livid reflection of his mood. He slammed the door

behind him, thinking that if Garet Warner thought that he would so easily

forget the pair who had tried to destroy him, then he was sadly mistaken.

Later that evening, after he had reclaimed his rooms in Mistress

Longeaves’ Boarding House, Loclon made his way through the torchlit

streets of the Citadel to the eastern side of the city. An earlier shower

of rain made the cobbles glisten and the footing treacherous as he neared

the seedier part of town. Passers-by became more rare, then stopped

completely, as he walked through the darkened warehouse district. Only

the sudden harsh bark of an alert watchdog and the scurrying feet of rats

disturbed the night. He had not been here in almost a year, but the route

was familiar enough that he walked with assurance; unafraid of anything

he might meet, as the streets narrowed into shadowed pockets of darkness.

The cutpurses of the Citadel would be plying their trade along Tavern

Street, where the pickings were more fruitful.

When he reached his destination, he knocked on the dilapidated door that

was squeezed into a laneway between two warehouses. When he received no

response to his summons, he pounded louder and was rewarded by a metallic

screech, as the spy-hole in the door was forced open. A pair of

suspicious dark eyes glared at him, taking in his red uniform with a

frown.

“What d’ya want?”

“I want to come in. Mistress Heaner knows me.”

“Yeah? What’s her cat’s name then?”

“Fluffy,” he replied, hoping the scabby creature had not died in the

past year. Mistress Heaner was fond of her cat and it amused her to use

his name as a password.

“Hang on.”

Loclon tapped his foot impatiently as the locks were drawn back. The door

opened just enough for him to squeeze through. He waited as the man

pushed the door shut and bolted it after them. The narrow alley was

littered with garbage, and Loclon covered his nose against the smell as

the hunched little man led him forward toward a square of light at the

end of the lane. When they reached it, the man stepped back to let Loclon

enter, then turned and disappeared into the darkness, presumably back to

his post by the door.

The main room was sumptuous and belied the paltriness of the exterior.

Cut crystal lanterns lit the soft draperies, and carpet thick enough to

hide in stretched the full length of the room. Comfortable sofas were

scattered through the room, each in its own private alcove, separated by

diaphanous curtains that revealed as much as they concealed. Mistress

Heaner’s House was exclusive; known only to a few and only those who

could afford the unique entertainments she provided. A captain’s pay

was not usually enough to allow one the funds to patronise Mistress

Heaner’s, but Loclon had just received several months’ backpay and he

intended to treat himself, this one night at least. Back in the days when

he had been the champion of the Arena, his winnings had assured him a

place here any time he wanted it.

“Captain.”

Mistress Heaner glided toward him with a smile. Her gown was simple,

black and plainly cut, although the material was expensive and the

emerald necklace that circled her wrinkled throat was worth more than he

could earn in a lifetime as an officer.

“Mistress,” Loclon replied, with a low bow. She insisted on courtesy.

One could do whatever they wished to the young men and women she

employed, but the slightest hint of bad manners would see one banned for

life.

“We’ve not had the pleasure of your company for some time, sir.”

“I’ve been away.”

“Then you must be looking for some . . . special . . .

entertainment?” she suggested, with an elegantly raised brow. “I’ve

several new girls that might interest you. Even a young man or two that

might tempt a jaded palate.”

“I’ve no interest in your fancy boys, Mistress. I want a woman. A

redhead.”

“Not an easy request, Captain.” Mistress Heaner appeared to think for

a moment, as if she did not know the physical characteristics of every

soul in her employ. “Red is an unusual colour. Is there anything else

that might tempt you?”

“No. She must be a redhead. And tall. Preferably slim.”

“Such specific requirements can be expensive, Captain.”

“How much?”

“Fifty rivets.”

Loclon almost baulked at that point. Fifty rivets would leave him almost

penniless until his next pay. It would mean eating in the barracks and

avoiding his landlady.

“Fifty rivets, then.”

Mistress Heaner watched carefully as he counted out the coins into her

arthritic hand.

“You may use the Blue Room,” she said, as her claw-like fingers

closed over the money. “I will send Peny to you.”

Loclon nodded and pushed his way past a flimsy curtain hanging over a

couch, where a middle-aged man was fondling the breast of a girl young

enough to be his granddaughter. He stepped into the hall and walked the

short distance to the Blue Room, named for the colour of its door. The

Red Room beside it was reserved for those whose tastes ran to multiple

partners and boasted a bed large enough for six. The Green Room further

down the hall, housed a bath the size of a large pool. The Yellow Room at

the end was the domain of those who got pleasure from their own pain, and

was better equipped than the cell where the Defenders carried out their

more “persuasive” interrogations. The Blue Room was reserved for less

exotic pleasures, and Loclon was not surprised to find it unchanged since

his last visit.

The room was lavishly furnished, with a carved four-poster, whose

woodwork glowed softly in the lamplight. White sheets peeked out from

under the blue quilt on the bed, and a pitcher of chilled wine with two

glasses waited on the side table. Satisfied with the room, Loclon turned

as the door opened and a woman stepped through. She was older than he

would have liked, thirty-five perhaps — or maybe the life she led had

aged her faster than normal. Her hair was carrot-red, obviously died, and

her body was too full under the thin shift she wore. Disappointed, Loclon

ignored her welcoming smile and turned to the wine pitcher. He poured

himself a good measure and swallowed it in a gulp.

“My name is Peny,” she said.

Loclon turned to her, his eyes cold. “No. Tonight your name is

R’shiel.”

The woman shrugged. “If you wish.”

“Come here.”

She complied willingly enough, and began to unlace her shift as she

approached.

“No. Leave it.”

“What would you like me to do, then?” she asked.

“Beg for mercy,” he replied and then he hit her. She cried out, but

nobody would come to her rescue. Fifty rivets bought silence along with

Mistress Heaner’s whores. He hit her again, in the face this time,

throwing her back against the carved bedpost. She cracked her head and

slumped on the expensive blue quilt, too stunned to protect herself from

his blows.

“Beg for mercy, R’shiel! ”

If she replied he didn’t notice. His rage consumed him as he took out

his frustration on the hapless court’esa. The desire to beat her into

submission left no room for any other thought.

CHAPTER 6

Damin Wolfblade was drunk. He knew he was drunk because the walls of the

tent were starting to spin, and he could no longer feel his toes. Tarja

Tenragan was even drunker. He had been at this longer, and was drinking

to drown his sorrows. Damin, on the other hand, was simply drinking to be

sociable.

“A toast,” he declared, as Tarja uncorked another bottle. The floor

of the tent was littered with empty flagons — an impressive testament

to the amount of alcohol they had consumed. “To . . . to your horse.

What’s his name?”

“Her name is Shadow,” Tarja corrected. He wasn’t even slurring his

words. Damin was impressed. The man must have a stomach lined with lead.

“To Shadow, then,” Damin declared, raising his cup. “May she carry

you safely into battle.”

“I’d be happier if she carried me safely out of it,” Tarja

remarked, taking a long swig from the newly uncorked flagon.

Damin laughed and downed the contents of his cup in a swallow. He held

out his cup and Tarja refilled it with a surprisingly steady hand.

“I’ll drink to that, too! May she see you safely home again.”

“You’ll drink to anything. I’m surprised you haven’t started

toasting the gods.”

“The night is young, my friend,” Damin laughed, relieved to see that

Tarja appeared to be coming out of the deep melancholy that had possessed

him all day. The Medalonian captain had good days and bad days. Today had

been particularly bad. “And when we run out of gods, we can always

start on my brothers and sisters.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather we stuck to the gods,” Tarja said, taking

another mouthful. “You’ve enough of them to keep us going for days.”

“True, true,” Damin agreed, silently cursing himself for bringing up

the topic of brothers and sisters. Tarja’s grief was centred on the

woman he once believed was his sister. Reminding him of that was the last

thing Damin wanted at this point. “To the gods, then!”

He downed his cup and glanced at Tarja in concern. The man had not

touched the flagon, but was staring at him thoughtfully.

“What?”

“Your gods. They’d know if she’s still alive, wouldn’t they?”

Damin shrugged uncomfortably. “I suppose.”

“How do we ask them?” Tarja demanded.

He shook his head. “It’s not so simple, my friend. The gods do not

speak directly to the likes of you and me. Perhaps, if Brak were here . .

.”

“Well, he’s not here!”

Brak had vanished only days after the Hythrun had ridden into Testra,

some five months ago. Nobody had seen or heard of him since.

“Hey, isn’t Dace a god? He spoke to us. Hell, he travelled with us.

Can’t we contact him?”

“If you have a reliable way of contacting the gods, then enlighten me,

Tarja. Dacendaran appears when the mood takes him, as does any other god.

I doubt if putting the mind of a non-believer at ease about whether the

demon child lives or dies is enough to warrant even the fleeting

attention of the God of Thieves.” He placed his cup on the small table

next to the guttering candle. “If R’shiel is still alive, she’ll be

back some day. If not, do your grieving and be done with it. Either way,

you can’t spend the rest of your life moping about the girl.”

“When I need sanctimonious advice from you, I’ll let you know. In the

meantime, mind your own damned business.”

“It is my business,” Damin replied, “when your misery affects the

decisions you make. Particularly when it concerns the safety of my

Raiders.”

“Your Raiders?” Damin could see the anger, the pain in the other

man’s eyes. “Your damned Raiders are nothing but a bunch of cutthroat

mercenaries. And I’ve done nothing to endanger anybody.”

“That’s for certain,” Damin retorted, deliberately goading him.

“You’ve done nothing at all but sit here on the border and lament

your great and tragic loss. Well, I have news for you, Captain. There’s

a Karien army heading this way and they don’t give a pinch of pig-shit

about your tender sensibilities. Dead or alive, R’shiel is gone, and

you can’t afford to sit here wallowing in self-pity.”

The punch came out of nowhere as Tarja threw himself across the table,

sending Damin backward off his stool. He rolled to the side as Tarja

lunged for him, tangling himself in the tent as their brawl spilled

outside. The candle fell from the overturned table and landed in a puddle

of spilled wine, where it quickly caught and began lapping at the canvas

tent walls. By the time they staggered to their feet in the clearing, the

blazing tent provided a ruddy backdrop to their fight.

They were both drunk, so the blows they traded lacked the strength or

accuracy of sobriety, but Damin was still surprised at the force behind

Tarja’s fist. Damin had time to wonder if it was guilt, even more than

grief, which was eating up Tarja, before the Medalonian charged him with

a wordless cry.

By now their altercation had drawn the attention of the other men

occupying the surrounding tents, who quickly formed a cheering circle of

red-coated Defenders, brown-shirted rebels, and leather-clad Hythrun

Raiders, cheering on their officers as they brawled liked a couple of

drunken sailors.

Damin didn’t know who was getting the better of the fight. Tarja was a

professional soldier, but he was operating on instinct as much as

anything. Damin knew his own battle-trained reflexes were the only thing

saving him from serious injury. His mind was too wine-muddled to think

anything through, other than trading hit and miss blows with his equally

inebriated adversary. He felt his bottom lip split as Tarja’s fist

connected with his face, snapping his head back, but he blocked the next

blow with his left arm and slammed his fist into Tarja’s gut. The other

man grunted in pain, but kept his feet and came at him again, a feral

grin on his face that looked all the more evil for being blood-streaked

and illuminated by the blazing firelight from the tent. He ducked another

blow and landed a glancing hit on Tarja’s jaw, as the breathtaking

shock of icy water brought the conflict to an abrupt halt.

Damin staggered backwards, shaking the water from his drenched fair hair,

as Tarja did the same, looking about for the source of the interruption.

Mahina Cortanen stood not two paces from them, empty bucket in hand, her

expression thunderous. Lord Jenga stood just behind her, and a pace or so

behind Jenga stood the suddenly quiet spectators, their faces ruddy in

the flickering light of the burning tent.

“Is this something you gentlemen need to discuss privately?” she

asked, with a voice that was colder than the water she had thrown on them.

Damin glanced at Tarja, whose grin was now rather more sheepish than

feral. Both of his eyes were beginning to blacken, and blood streamed

from his nose and the corner of his mouth. His normally immaculate

uniform was torn and muddied. Damin had no doubt that he looked just as

bad.

“We were discussing . . . the differences in Medalonian and Hythrun . .

. hand-to-hand combat, my Lady,” Damin explained, as he gasped for air,

with a quick grin in Tarja’s direction. “We had just moved . . . from

a theoretical discussion to a more . . . practical demonstration of the

techniques involved. A . . . most useful exercise, I must say.” With

the back of his tender hand, he wiped the blood from his mouth, and

smiled ingenuously at Mahina. The spectators, Defender, rebel and Hythrun

alike, nodded their agreement.

Mahina glared at him then turned on Tarja. “And what do you have to say

for yourself?”

Tarja hesitated for a moment, his chest heaving, before he straightened

up and smiled through his split lip at the former First Sister. “I’d

say . . . both techniques were useful, given . . . the right

circumstances, however —”

“Oh, spare me!” Mahina cried. “Perhaps now that you’ve finished

your discussion, you might attend me and the Lord Defender in the Keep? A

matter of some urgency has arisen that requires your attention,

gentlemen. If you can find the time, of course.”

Damin rubbed his tender jaw and glanced at Tarja, who seemed the better

for their fight, despite his physical condition. Damin made a mental note

to make certain that the next time Tarja felt the need to hit something,

he arranged for somebody else to be the target.

“I believe we can accommodate you, my Lady,” Damin said, as if

accepting a dinner invitation. “Shall we, Captain?”

“Certainly.” He looked around at the gathered spectators, suddenly

noticing them for the first time. “Did you men want something to do?”

Several Defenders had taken it upon themselves to douse the blazing tent.

The rest of the Defenders and rebels faded into the darkness with

impressive speed. One look in the direction of his Raiders was enough to

have the same effect on them. Looking idle was a thing to be avoided at

all costs; every soldier in the camp knew that. Lord Jenga stood behind

Mahina, a rare smile on his contour-map face as he watched the troops

vanish back into their tents. Mahina glanced over her shoulder at him. He

quickly wiped the smile off his face.

“Something amuses you, my Lord?”

“Youthful high spirits always amuse me, my Lady,” he replied evenly.

“Is that what you call it? I can think of a better description.” She

turned back to the two combatants with a frown. “Clean yourselves up,

then meet me in the Keep.” She turned on her heel, still clutching the

wooden bucket, and stormed off into the darkness.

“Has something happened?” Damin asked the Lord Defender. Mahina was

fairly even tempered as a rule. Anger seemed strange in a woman who

looked like somebody’s grandmother.

“We have a visitor from the Citadel,” Jenga told them.

“Who?” Tarja asked. The shock from Mahina’s bucket of water seemed

to have sobered him. Damin wished he could recover so quickly.

“Garet Warner.”

Damin turned to him, trying to think of an intelligent question. It was

quite depressing to be drunk under the table by a Medalonian. He had to

give at least give the impression that he could think straight. “Is he

on our side, this Garet Warner?”

Tarja shrugged. “That remains to be seen.”

Garet Warner proved to be a nondescript-looking man of average height,

who wore the red jacket of a Defender and the rank insignia of a

commandant. He had a balding head, a deceptively quiet voice and a

piercing mind. The Warlord studied him by the torchlight of the hastily

reconstructed great hall of Treason Keep. Damin was unsure where the name

had come from. It certainly wasn’t officially named that, and one

referred to the ruin as “Treason Keep” in the Lord Defender’s

hearing at their peril. It seemed fitting, though. The Defenders were

here to protect their nation from invasion, but they had broken any

number of oaths to get here.

The ruin was deserted when they arrived some months ago, and a much

sturdier and strategically more useful keep, closer to the northern

border, would soon replace it. In the interim, Treason Keep was the

closest thing to a permanent structure on the open, grassy plains of

northern Medalon.

The commandant’s expression gave away nothing as Tarja and Damin

entered the hall. Garet Warner stood in front of the huge fireplace, his

hands clasped behind his back as they walked toward him. Mahina sat in a

chair on his right; Jenga in another chair opposite the former First

Sister.

Tarja nodded warily to Garet when they reached the hearth. “Garet.”

“Tarja,” Garet acknowledged. “You’ve a knack for keeping your

head on your shoulders, I’ll grant you that.”

Tarja smiled faintly, which made Damin rest a little easier. There was

something about this visitor that marked him as dangerous, although Damin

wasn’t thinking clearly enough to define the feeling exactly. He hoped

this man was on their side. He would be a bad enemy.

“I can’t help being hard to kill. Commandant Warner, this is the

Warlord of Krakandar, Damin Wolfblade.”

“Our new and somewhat unexpected ally. My Lord.”

“Commandant,” Damin greeted him. “You come from the Citadel, I

hear. Do you have news?”

“Questions, more than news,” Garet replied, his glance taking in all

of them. “The Quorum is understandably suspicious about the First

Sister’s extended absence from the Citadel. The orders arriving at the

Citadel, under her seal, seem rather at odds with her . . . previous

decisions.”

“The First Sister has had a change of heart in recent months,” Tarja

said.

“Is she still alive?”

“Of course, she’s alive,” Jenga declared. “Do you think I would

be a party to murder?”

“I’m not here to give my opinion, my Lord,” Garet told him with a

shrug. “I am here to investigate the issues raised by the Quorum. And

there is plenty of reason to be suspicious. You left the Citadel with an

army to capture and execute an escaped convict. Six months later, here

you are, sitting on the northern border with that same escaped convict

pardoned and a member of your staff, a foreign warlord, as your ally,

preparing to fight a nation we very recently considered our friend. All

with the approval of the First Sister, who, it is widely acknowledged,

was in complete disagreement with you on all of those matters. The

remarkable thing about all this is that they haven’t sent someone to

investigate sooner.”

“There’s a perfectly logical explanation,” Damin offered helpfully.

“And I look forward to hearing it,” Garet told him. “It will be

fascinating, I’m sure. But first, I must insist on seeing Sister

Joyhinia.”

“You doubt my word, Garet?” Jenga asked.

“Not at all, my Lord. But I have my orders.”

“Very well,” Jenga agreed, with some reluctance. “You shall see

her. Perhaps once you have, things will make a little more sense.”

“I hope so, my Lord.”

“Sister Mahina? Would you be so kind as escort Commandant Warner to the

First Sister’s quarters?”

Mahina frowned. “I don’t like to disturb her this late at night.”

“It cannot be avoided, I fear. I doubt the commandant wants to wait

until morning.”

“Very well,” Mahina agreed. She stood up and pointed toward the

narrow staircase that led to the upper level. “If you will follow me,

Commandant.”

Damin and Tarja stood back to let them pass, watching the old woman and

the Defender until they vanished into the gloom. Once he was certain they

were out of earshot, Tarja turned to Jenga with concern.

“This could be awkward,” Tarja said, leaning on the long table for

support. The movement heartened Damin. Tarja was not nearly as sober as

he pretended.

“Awkward? This is bloody impossible! I have never been happy with this

subterfuge! Something like this was bound to happen, sooner or later.”

“Do you have a better alternative?”

“But to send orders to the Citadel? Under Joyhinia’s seal? Orders

that anybody in their right mind would know did not come from her?”

Damin found himself stepping between the two men, and between an argument

that had been unresolved for months. “With all due respect, my Lord,

the orders have come from Joyhinia. She has signed and sealed everyone of

them.”

“She has the mind of a child,” Jenga retorted. “You could place an

order for her own hanging in front of her and she’d sign it with a

giggle. I’m not as adept as you and Tarja at twisting the truth to

placate my honour, Lord Wolfblade. What we have done is tantamount to

treason.”

“Refusing to slaughter three hundred innocent men was treason,

Jenga,” Tarja pointed out. “Everything flowing from that action is

merely consequences. The treason is done and past. Our duty now is to

protect Medalon.”

“And the end justifies the means?” Jenga asked bitterly. “I wish I

had your ability to see the world so . . . conveniently.”

“I wish I had your ability to argue the same point endlessly,” Damin

added impatiently. “You Medalonians have a bad habit of not knowing

when it’s time to let a matter rest. What I want to know is who this

Garet Warner is, and why you’re all so afraid of him?”

Both Tarja and Jenga looked at him in surprise.

“Afraid of him?” Jenga asked.

“Afraid is not the right word, but it pays to be wary of him,” Tarja

said. “Garet Warner is the head of Defender Intelligence. And a loyal

officer.”

“Loyal to whom, exactly?”

“We’ll find that out soon enough,” Jenga predicted grimly.

Chapter 7

Consciousness was a long time coming to R’shiel, but it pulled at her

relentlessly, forcing her to acknowledge her existence. She did not want

to awaken. She was perfectly content where she was, lost in a warm

nothingness where no pain, no misery, no fear could intrude. The silence

was complete, the darkness total. Were it not for the annoying, insistent

voice calling her name, she could happily have stayed here forever. She

had no sense of time in this place, no way to judge how long she had been

here. All she knew was that she had no great desire to leave.

Yet the voice called to her and she was unable to resist it.

“Welcome back.”

She stared at the man who spoke for a long time before she remembered who

he was. His faded blue eyes were full of concern. And something else.

Suspicion, perhaps?

“Brak.”

“No, don’t try to sit up. You’ve been unconscious for quite a

while. It’ll take a little time to get your strength back.”

R’shiel let her head flop back onto the pillow, and contented herself

with simply moving her head to study her surroundings. The room was large

and lit by streaming sunlight; the air was heavy with the scent of

wildflowers.

“Where am I?”

“Sanctuary.”

She turned her head to look at him. “How did I get here? I don’t

remember anything. We were in Testra, I think . . .”

“Don’t worry, it’ll come back to you, and sooner than you want.

You’ve been very sick, R’shiel. Cheltaran himself had to heal you.”

“Who’s Cheltaran?”

“The God of Healing. You should feel honoured. He doesn’t often

interfere directly with anyone, human or Harshini.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, wondering why the knowledge did not

surprise or frighten her. They seemed to be emotions that for the moment

were out of reach.

“Tarja . . .?”

“He’s fine. He’s up north, on the border.”

Even that news failed to ignite much more than a small sense of relief in

her. She wondered if she should feel something more. Perhaps she was

simply too lethargic to care. Later, when she gained her strength, she

could worry about such things.

“What are you doing here?”

“This is my home, R’shiel. It’s your home too.”

“Is it?”

Brak smiled, as if her vagueness amused him. “Go back to sleep,

R’shiel. When you wake up the Harshini will attend you. They are a

gentle people, so mind your manners. And try not to scream when you see

their eyes. I didn’t bring you all this way so you could embarrass

me.”

R’shiel smiled vacantly. “I’ll be a good girl.”

He nodded and moved away from the bed.

“Brak.”

“What?”

“I owe you my life, don’t I?”

“In ways you can’t imagine,” he replied.

When R’shiel woke the next time, she felt much better. The weakness

that had gripped her was replaced with a sort of restless energy that did

not take well to being bedridden. Her Harshini attendants, who introduced

themselves as Boborderen and Janarerek, smiled at her constantly while

they firmly refused to let her out of bed. She found it too difficult to

pronounce their names, so she called them Bob and Jan, which made them

laugh delightedly. Her one attempt to defy them was met with even more

smiles, as they simply pushed her back down using magic. R’shiel felt

the now-familiar prickle against her skin and could not move a muscle.

The Harshini fussed over her and scolded her gently, but they were not to

be denied. She gave up and did as she was told.

Brak visited her again the following day, and brought with him a tall

Harshini with hair almost as red as her own. He wore a simple white robe,

the same as the other Harshini, but his bearing set him apart. He was

regal, in a manner that R’shiel had rarely before encountered, and too

perfectly handsome to be human — even if his black-on-black eyes had

not betrayed his true race.

Freed from the magical bondage of her attendants, who had finally

believed her when she agreed to behave, it was all R’shiel could do not

to bow in his presence.

“Your Majesty, may I present your cousin, R’shiel té Ortyn,” Brak

said with uncharacteristic formality.

So this was the Harshini King. “Your Majesty.”

“It fills my heart with joy to see you recovered, R’shiel,”

Korandellan said. He meant it, too. R’shiel had never met any group of

people so free of guile; so genuine in their concern for her well-being.

“But please, we are cousins. There is no need for such formality. You

may call me Korandellan.”

Mindful of her promise to watch her manners, she politely thanked the

King. Brak gave her a small nod, and she amused herself with the thought

that this was probably the first time in her life she had done something

he approved of.

“When you are fully recovered, I will be delighted to show you

Sanctuary,” Korandellan added. “And we must see to your education.

There is much for you to learn, young cousin. Shananara tells me you have

some minor control over your power, but you have missed a great deal

being raised among humans.”

“I’ll look forward to that,” R’shiel replied, a little surprised

to discover that she really was looking forward to it.

The King smiled at her — these people seemed to smile at everything —

then withdrew, leaving Brak and R’shiel alone. Once the door had closed

behind him, Brak turned to her.

“See, you can be civil when you try.”

“Why would I be rude to your king? He seems very . . . nice.”

“He is, so watch yourself. I brought you here to help you R’shiel,

but if I think for a moment that you might hurt these people, I’ll

throw you out of Sanctuary myself.”

“Why do you always assume the worst about me?”

He shrugged and sat down beside her on the bed. “I’ve seen what

you’re capable of. Remember the rebels?”

She remembered, but only just. “I suppose I was rather . . . difficult.

But it all seems so distant. I remember things sometimes that seem like

they happened to somebody else. Other times it’s as if I never even

existed until I woke up in this place.”

“Sanctuary is a magical place, R’shiel. You’re bound to feel

different here. The strangeness will pass.”

It was then that she noticed he was dressed in leather trousers and a

linen shirt — human attire rather than the Harshini robe he had worn

the last time she saw him. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes. Back out into the big bad world, I’m afraid. Between you and

Tarja, you managed to turn the whole damned world on its ear. I have to

find out what’s happening.”

The thought of Tarja left R’shiel with a warm glow of affection, but

little else. “Will you see Tarja?”

“No, I’m heading south. I want to see what the Fardohnyans are up

to.”

“Oh.”

He smiled at her expression. Even Brak smiled in this place. “Is there

anything you want?”

“Meat,” she said, without hesitation. “I would kill for a haunch of

venison this big, smothered in gravy.”

Brak’s smile faded. “Don’t use that word in Sanctuary, R’shiel.”

“What? Venison?”

“Kill. The Harshini cannot abide violence. Even the thought distresses

them. As for the meat, I’ll see what I can do, but don’t go asking

for it. The Harshini don’t eat meat and it upsets them to be reminded

that humans do. It will also upset them if they think you’re not happy.

Besides, it won’t hurt you to eat like a Harshini for a while.”

“They eat like rabbits,” she complained, but her smile took the sting

from her words.

“Then you’ll just have to learn to like rabbit food.”

Another thought occurred to her then. “So if they can’t kill

anything, where does all the leather come from?”

“It’s a gift.”

“From whom?”

“The animals who inhabit the mountains. When they die, they allow the

Harshini to take their skins.”

“How do the Harshini know that?” she scoffed.

“They are Harshini, R’shiel. They communicate with animals just as

easily as they do with humans. In fact they prefer it, I think. Animals

haven’t invented war yet.”

“You know, I almost like you here, Brak. Why did you ever leave?”

But he refused to answer her and something about his eyes warned her not

to inquire too closely.

CHAPTER 8

“How long has she been like this?” Garet asked.

They had settled in around the fire in the crumbling great hall, Garet in

the chair that had been occupied by Mahina the previous evening. Tarja

sat on the edge of the hearth near Jenga, who had taken the only other

chair.

“Since Testra,” Jenga told him, staring into the flames, not meeting

the eye of the other officer.

Damin stood leaning against the mantle, stoking the inadequate fire with

an iron poker. Fuel was a major problem on this treeless plain, and a

sizeable number of their force had been occupied gathering enough wood to

see them through the coming winter. Were it not for the vast number of

horses here, many of the camp’s fires would be sorry affairs indeed. It

was a small extravagance to burn the wood, but Damin was grateful to be

spared the sting of burning dung in the Hall.

“How did it happen?”

“I’m not certain.”

Damin laughed softly at the Lord Defender’s discomfort. “Dacendaran,

the God of Thieves, stole her intellect, Commandant. The Lord Defender

has some difficulty dealing with the concept.”

“A difficulty I share, my Lord. We do not believe in your gods.”

“Believe in them or not,” Damin shrugged. “It’s the truth. Ask

Tarja.”

Garet turned his gaze on the younger man. “Tarja?”

“Somebody told me once that he believed in the gods, he just didn’t

know if they were worthy of adoration. That sums it up fairly well, I

think. The gods exist, Garet, and they took a hand in our conflict, as

Joyhinia’s condition proves.”

“And you’ve been issuing orders in her name ever since?” It was

impossible to tell what the man was thinking. He was a master in the art

of inscrutability, Damin decided. He would have made a brilliant

Fardohnyan merchant.

“Once the Karien Envoy was murdered on Medalon soil, the threat of a

Karien invasion moved from a theory to a certainty,” Tarja explained.

“Had Jenga returned to the Citadel with Joyhinia, the Quorum would

still be in session, arguing about what to do next. At least this way

preparations could be made.”

“Did you kill him?” he asked.

“No, but I led the raid. I suppose I’m responsible.”

Garet shook his head wearily and turned his attention back to Jenga.

“I’ve known you a long time, Jenga. I’m trying to imagine what

finally pushed you into this. By any definition, this is treason.”

The Lord Defender nodded heavily. “We discussed this once, you and I. I

asked you what you would do if faced with an order you found morally

reprehensible. I recall you said you would refuse it, and the

consequences be damned. I find myself in that position now.”

Garet leaned back in his seat and studied the three men before him.

“Knowing Joyhinia, I find that easy enough to believe, but how long do

you think you can get away with this? The First Sister’s absence from

the Citadel is causing a great deal of unrest. And the orders she’s

sending are too strange to be accepted without question. You’ve

pardoned Tarja. You’ve ordered an end to the Purge and freed half the

prisoners in the Grimfield. You’ve ordered troops north. You’re

spending money like the treasury is a bottomless pit and you’ve signed

a treaty with a Hythrun Warlord. Joyhinia would never be a willing party

to any of these actions.”

“The next Gathering is only months away,” Tarja pointed out.

“Joyhinia will send a letter to the Quorum announcing her retirement

and nominating Mahina in her place. With her vote, and the votes of

Jacomina and Louhina, who will automatically vote for anything Joyhinia

suggests, we should be safe.”

Garet shook his head. “It will never work, Tarja.”

“It has to work,” he insisted. “The alternative is a civil war, and

that would leave us wide open to a Karien invasion.”

“We’re not trying to bring down the Sisterhood, Garet,” Jenga

added, a little defensively. “Merely bring some sanity to it.”

“Sanity? That’s a strange word coming from men who think they can

fool the world into believing that Joyhinia Tenragan is alive and well,

when in fact she’s a babbling idiot.”

Damin listened to the discussion with interest. He was a Warlord and

therefore absolute ruler of his province. He never had to justify

anything he did to anybody, and it fascinated him, watching the

Medalonians trying to convince themselves and each other that their

actions were either honourable or necessary, or both.

“The fact is, my friends, you can argue the rights and wrongs of this

until you’re old men,” he interjected. “What I’d really like to

know is what you are planning to do about it, Commandant?”

Garet Warner looked up at him. “I have two choices that I can see. I

can go along with this farce, or I can return to the Citadel and tell the

Quorum what’s really going on up here.”

“No, you have one choice, Commandant. You can go along with this farce,

or I’ll kill you.”

“Damin!”

“Be realistic, Tarja. If you let him go, he’ll be back here in a

month with a full force of Defenders, and you’ll have the very civil

war you’re trying so hard to avoid. Killing one Defender now may save

you from having to kill a damn sight more of them later on. I’ll do it,

if it bothers you.”

Garet stared at the Warlord for a moment. “A pragmatist, I see. Not a

quality I expected to find in a heathen who believes in the Primal

gods.”

“Then you sorely underestimate me, Commandant,” Damin warned.

“I fear I’ve sorely underestimated a lot of things in my life, but I

manage to get by.” He turned back to Tarja, giving no indication that

Damin’s threat bothered him. “The Quorum will not accept Joyhinia’s

resignation without seeing her. How, in the name of the Founders, do you

expect to pull this off?”

“I have no idea, Garet,” Tarja admitted. “But we have to.

Somehow.”

“Who else knows of her true condition?”

“The three of us,” Jenga told him. “Draco, of course. Mahina and

Affiana know for certain. The Defenders and the heathens who were in

Testra when it happened don’t fully comprehend the full extent of her .

. . condition, and we’ve kept up the illusion that she is in command,

so far.”

“Who is this Affiana?”

“A friend,” Tarja said. “She takes care of Joyhinia most of the

time.”

“I see,” Garet said. He steepled his fingers under his chin and

stared into the fire for a long moment. Damin wondered what he was

thinking, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. Garet Warner would

not leave this room alive if Damin doubted him for a moment. “Let’s

put aside the issue of Joyhinia, for the moment. What of the rumours that

the Harshini have returned? You’ve made no mention of them.”

“They, at least, are true. We’ve seen a few of them,” Tarja told

him. “But not for months. I’ve no idea what they’re planning, or

where they are. Believe me, if I could find them, I would have.”

“To what purpose?” Garet asked. “You’ve acquired enough strange

allies as it is,” he added, looking pointedly at Damin.

“They have R’shiel,” Tarja explained, his voice remarkably

unemotional under the circumstances. “The Harshini believe she is the

demon child.”

Even Garet Warner could not hide his surprise at the news. “R’shiel?

The demon child? Why in the name of the Founders would they think that?”

“They don’t think she’s the demon child, Commandant, they know she

is. If she is still alive, the Harshini have her and I imagine they

won’t let her go until she has performed the task for which she was

created.”

“What task?”

“They want her to destroy Xaphista,” Tarja said.

“The Karien god?” Garet shook his head in disbelief. “If this is

some sort of joke, then you have me, Tarja. I’m afraid I —”

“My Lords?” the urgent voice rang out from the shadows near the door.

“I seek Lord Wolfblade.”

“Come in, Almodavar,” Damin called, recognising the voice of his

captain. “What is it?”

“You’d better come see, my Lord,” Almodavar said in Hythrun, as he

materialised out of the shadows. “The western patrol is bringing in two

spies they captured.”

There had been a number of forays across the border by the

half-a-thousand knights camped north of the border for most of the

summer, although rarely did a knight sully his hands with anything so

demeaning as reconnaissance. It was always some hapless page or squire,

attempting to breach the border. It was an ambitious undertaking,

particularly for city-bred youths who thought Xaphista’s blessing was

all the protection they needed on their journey. It had taken Damin quite

some time to accept that the forays were genuine, not merely a feint to

disguise a more effective attack. He had trouble believing that anybody

could be that stupid.

“Can’t you deal with it, Captain?” he asked in Hythrun. It was an

advantage, sometimes, speaking a language his allies did not understand.

Tarja was attempting to learn Hythrun, be he could not follow such a

rapid exchange yet.

“They have news, my Lord.”

Damin frowned and turned to the Defenders. “I’d better see to

this,” he told them. “I’ll be back in a while.” He followed

Almodavar out of the Hall and into the night, to the curious stares of

his companions.

The two spies proved to be boys, frightened and defiant. Both had mousy

brown hair and freckled skin, and they were enough alike to be brothers.

The older of the two wore a sullen expression and the evidence of a

beating. The younger was more defiant, angry and belligerent. He wore a

pendant with the five-pointed star and lightning bolt of Xaphista, and

leapt to his feet when Damin entered the tent. The older brother did not

rise from the floor. Perhaps he could not. Almodavar was not renowned for

his tender interrogation techniques.

“Hythrun dog!” the younger boy cried, spitting on the ground in front

of Damin. Almodavar stepped forward and slapped the boy down with the

back of his gauntleted hand. The lad fell backwards, landing on his

backside.

“That’s Lord Hythrun Dog, to you boy,” Damin told him, placing his

hands on his hips and glaring at the youth. The boy cowered under his

gaze.

“They are Jaymes and Mikel of Kirkland,” Almodavar told him. “From

Lord Laetho’s duchy in Northern Karien.”

Duke Laetho’s banner had been identified months ago. He was a rich man

with a large retinue, but rumour had it he was more bluster than bravery,

a fact borne out by the presence of these two boys. Who but a fool would

send children to do his reconnaissance for him?

“Almodavar says you have interesting news, boy. Tell me now, and I

might let you live.”

“We would give our lives for the Overlord,” the older brother snarled

from the floor. “Tell him nothing, Mikel.”

“No, I’ll tell him, Jaymes. I want to see the Hythrun quivering in

their boots when they learn what is coming.”

“Then out with it, boy,” Damin said. “It would be most unfortunate

if I have you put to death for the glory of the Overlord before you get

the chance to see me quivering, won’t it?”

“Your day of reckoning is coming. Even now, the Karien knights advance

on you.”

“They’ve been doing that for months. I’m scared witless at the mere

thought.”

“You should be,” Mikel spat. “When our Fardohnyan allies join with

us to overrun this pitiful nation of atheists, we will descend on Hythria

and you will be knee-deep in pagan blood.”

Damin glanced at Almodavar questioningly before turning his attention

back to the boy. “Fardohnyan allies?”

“Prince Cratyn is to marry Princess Cassandra of Fardohnya,” Mikel

announced triumphantly. “You cannot defeat the might of two such great

nations.”

“You’re lying. You’re a frightened child making up wild stories.

Kill them, Almodavar — just don’t leave the corpses where I can smell

them.” He turned his back on the youths and pushed back the flap of the

tent.

“I do not lie!” the boy yelled after him. “Our father is the Duke

Laetho’s Third Steward in Yarnarrow, and he was there when the King

received the offer from King Hablet.”

That had the ring of truth to it, Damin decided, although he did not stop

or turn back. Once they were clear of the tent, he turned to his captain,

his face reflecting concern and firelight in almost equal measure.

“You think he speaks the truth?”

“Aye, he’s too scared to think up a convincing lie.”

“This changes the rules of engagement somewhat,” he said

thoughtfully. “Perhaps our visitor from the Citadel can shed some light

on the news. He’s supposed to be in Intelligence, after all.”

“And the boys? Did you really want me to kill them?”

“Of course not. They’re children. Put them to work some place they

can’t cause any trouble. I believe the Kariens think hard work is good

for the soul.”

The captain smiled wickedly. “And deny them a chance to die as martyrs

for the Overlord? You’re a cruel man, my Lord.”

CHAPTER 9

Adrina’s departure from Talabar was an occasion of some note, and

Hablet was determined to see his daughter off in style. The hastily

repaired wharf was lined with soldiers in their white dress uniforms, a

band played merry tunes to keep the spectators entertained, and even

Bhren, the God of Storms, was smiling on Fardohnya this day. The weather

was perfect — a flawless sky, a calm sea. The sprawling city of Talabar

glowed pink in the warm sunlight; the flat-roofed houses closest to the

docks were lined with curious Fardohnyans come to see the last of their

princess.

Hablet stepped down from his litter and looked around with satisfaction,

waving to his people and accepting their cheers with a wave of his

bear-like arms. He had just about everything he wanted from this treaty

and was feeling unusually magnanimous. He had secured enough of the tall,

straight Karien lumber to build the ships he wanted, enough gold to pay

for their construction and, in a few months, with the Kariens and the

Defenders embroiled in a war in the north, he would have a clear run

across the southern plains of Medalon into Hythria. Best of all, he would

finally destroy Lernen Wolfblade, the Hythrun High Prince — and his

heirs — for an insult over thirty years old that very few people even

remembered.

Hablet never forgot an insult.

He had conceded surprisingly little to the Kariens in return. True, he

had agreed to allow Karien ships unhindered access to Solanndy Bay, where

the Ironbrook River met the ocean, but they would pay dearly for the

privilege. He had granted the Kariens sovereignty over the Isle of Slarn

too, but that measly lump of rock perched in the Gulf was hardly a prime

piece of real estate and it had no value to anyone but the Kariens. Of

course, the casual observer would never have guessed how little the

island meant to him. But he had the Kariens believing it was as dear to

him as one of his limbs, and had made them pay accordingly.

As for the secret of gunpowder, he had promised that, too, but had wisely

proposed sending an expert in the science to Karien to suggest an

appropriate location for a mill, before divulging the formula. When

Hablet finally got around to sending someone, it was a foregone

conclusion that the search for such a location would take years. A lot

could happen in that time.

But the unexpected bonus was that he had finally found a way to get rid

of Adrina.

He loved his eldest child, it was true. In fact he had often lamented the

twist of fate that had seen her born a girl. She would have made a fine

son. Unfortunately, that fiery spirit, that biting wit, that piercing

intelligence, was positively dangerous in a woman. Adrina was, to put it

bluntly, a troublesome, spoilt little bitch. Hablet was quite certain he

would find it much easier to dote on his daughter from a distance.

His previous efforts to find Adrina a husband had all failed miserably.

The last potential suitor, Lord Dundrake, had even suggested that he

would rather face a century of Hythrun Raiders, alone and unarmed, than

spend one night with Her Most Serene Highness. He claimed he would have a

better chance of survival. Adrina had despised the man on sight,

declaring she would never marry a man who couldn’t tell the difference

between a dinner fork and his fingers. Dundrake was a little rough around

the edges, certainly. Hablet had hoped his provincial charm would entice

her. It had proved an idle hope. Adrina was attracted to power, and there

was no way that Hablet would allow her to wed a powerful man. She needed

a husband who would hold her back. There were other men who would have

married her gladly, and she them — not for love, but the power they

brought each other. Hablet had refused all such offers out of hand.

The Karien Prince had turned out to be the perfect solution. He was a

meek boy, so constrained by the edicts of his religion that Adrina would

never be able to cajole him into anything. He was so inhibited by his

religious distaste of all matters sexual, that even her legendary powers

of seduction would be wasted. He believed in his God and little else.

Poor Adrina. She would be the Karien Queen one day; she had agreed to go

north for no other reason than the power it might eventually bring her.

She was going to be very disappointed.

The band finished their tune and struck up a dour Karien number,

heralding the arrival of Prince Cratyn and his party. The brightly

painted Karien brigantine was tied up at the end of the wharf, awaiting

her prince. Hablet frowned at the ship and decided he probably had no one

but himself to blame for its hideous design. Fardohnyan ship builders

were the best in the world, but their secrets were guarded more closely

than his treasury. The Kariens built poor copies that were vastly

inferior to their Fardohnyan originals. The irony was, Fardohnya had

little in the way of timber for shipbuilding. It all had to be imported

from Karien. What the Kariens did not have, besides generations of

skilled craftsman, was the Fardohnyan secret of hardening and

waterproofing the timber.

The King turned his attention back to the ceremony, smiling expansively

at the young prince. For a moment, as Hablet studied his solemn face, he

felt sorry for the boy. He was stuck with Adrina for life. The sorry fool

was not even able to take a lover to console him. Ah well, that was the

price one paid for being a Karien Prince. Cratyn bowed politely to the

King and began a rather long-winded speech, thanking the King for his

generosity, his kindness, his hospitality, and so on — in the Karien

language, as the prince did not speak Fardohnyan. Hablet only half

listened to the young man, thinking that he looked a little inbred. They

were always marrying their cousins up north. The Karien Royal Family

would benefit from a bit of fresh blood.

“Her Most Serene Highness, Princess Adrina!”

The fanfare that accompanied Adrina’s arrival was not on the program

that Hablet had approved. He smiled at her audacity, and she was handed

down from her open litter by a handsome young slave wearing nothing but a

white loin cloth and a great deal of oil on his well-formed muscles. She

was planning to make her departure memorable, it seemed.

A number of white-robed young girls hurried to assemble in front of the

princess and proceeded to scatter petals on the ground before her, so

that her feet would not have to touch the grubby docks. Hablet considered

that the ultimate irony, considering a week ago she thought she could

sail a damned warship. He glanced at Cratyn’s disapproving frown and

forcibly swallowed his laughter. The boy was only just beginning to

discover what he was marrying.

Adrina trod the flower-strewn path regally until she reached her father

and curtsied gracefully. She was a beautiful woman, and in her prime.

Although she was not particularly tall, and lacked Cassandra’s delicate

perfection, she had outgrown her sister’s awkwardness of youth and had

blossomed into a stunning creature. Her eyes were her best feature:

emerald green and wide set. Her body was voluptuous and well-toned,

rather than the slender gawkiness of a teenager. Cratyn would be a lucky

young man if he had the sense to appreciate what he was getting. Provided

Adrina kept her mouth shut.

Lecter Turon waddled forward and presented Hablet with a slender blade

wrapped in a jewelled sheath. He took the dagger and held it out to

Adrina.

“This is the Bride’s Blade your mother carried.”

“I hope it brings me better luck,” Adrina replied, accepting the

gift. Adrina’s mother was not a topic discussed at court.

“It breaks my heart to lose you, my petal,” he declared, almost, but

not quite believing it.

Adrina’s eyes glittered dangerously. “It’s not too late to change

your mind, Father.”

He knew that look. She had learnt it at his knee.

“Oh yes it is, my petal.”

“Then you will just have to live with the consequences, won’t you?”

Hablet smiled. Only Adrina would dare threaten him. He swept her up into

a bear hug and the crowd cheered at this obvious display of affection

between the King and the princess.

“If you cross me, I’ll personally see to it that you spend the rest

of your life suffering in the coldest, most miserable place I can

imagine,” he whispered affectionately as he held her.

“Think up a better threat, Daddy,” she whispered back. “You’ve

already done that.”

He let her go and held her at arm’s length for a moment. She met his

gaze evenly. Her mother had been like that. Fearless and ambitious. It

was such a pity her ambition had run away with her. Had she learnt to

control it, she might not have lost her head . . . But Adrina was

everything her mother was and more. He felt overcome with love for his

child. Hopefully, the feeling would soon pass.

He took her hand and ceremoniously placed it in Cratyn’s hand. The

crowd went wild. Hablet suspected it had more to do with the idea of

Adrina finally getting married than any affection for the Karien groom.

“May the gods bless this great union!” Hablet boomed. “May

Fardohnya and Karien, from this day forward, live in peace!”

The crowd cheered, although most of them knew Hablet’s declaration had

little to do with his own feelings. By law, no Fardohnyan could declare

war on the house of a family united by marriage. That law included the

King. The Kariens knew about it too, which was no doubt why they had put

aside their prejudice and accepted a foreign bride. A Fardohnyan queen

was a small price to pay for the guarantee that Hablet was unable to make

war on them.

Cratyn squirmed a little as he stood there holding Adrina’s hand. His

daughter smiled and waved to the people. They liked the princess. She was

an astute politician and had made a point of being generous to those

lesser creatures outside the palace. She was a tyrant around anyone else,

but the people remembered her small kindnesses and were probably

genuinely sorry to see her go.

The guard snapped to attention as the Karien Prince and Adrina walked

down the dock towards the ship. Hablet watched them leaving with some

relief. As they boarded the gangway, he waved his hand to the Captain of

the Guard. Tristan dismissed his men and came to stand before his father.

“You can come back next winter,” he told the young man brusquely.

“I should have forgiven you by then.”

Tristan grinned. “You are too kind, Sire.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, boy. You’re lucky I didn’t send

you to the eastern passes.”

“To be honest, Father, I would have preferred that you did. I’d

rather fight Hythrun bandits than play toy soldiers in Karien.”

“I need you to look after Adrina.”

“Adrina doesn’t need looking after.”

“Well, keep an eye on her, then. And don’t get mixed up in her

schemes. I want you back in year, boy. I expect you to stay out of

trouble.” He hugged his eldest bastard with genuine affection.

“I’ll have a legitimate son by then.”

Tristan shook his head wryly. “Father, don’t you worry sometimes that

one of us might want the throne for himself?”

“There’s none of you strong enough to challenge me, Tristan.”

“But if you were to die before you name your heir . . .”

Hablet laughed. “Then you’ll have Adrina to contend with, my boy, and

I’m damned certain none of you are strong enough to challenge her.”

CHAPTER 10

“Knights. About five hundred of them.”

Damin handed Tarja the small hollow tube he was using to examine the

golden plain below. It had taken them most of the morning to climb up to

this vantage on the side of the mountain that overlooked the border.

Although rocky, the ledge was comfortably wide and he, Garet and Damin

were stretched out on their bellies as they watched the tents of the

enemy below, occasionally brushing away curious insects come to

investigate the intruders.

Tarja put the tube to his eye and was enthralled to see the distant

figures of the knights, their white circular tents and impressive

entourage, grow larger through the lens. Damin called it a looking glass.

The knights camped on the Karien side of the border did not bother Tarja

nearly so much as the infantry Jasnoff could throw against them. The

knights were impressive, but they would be a minority in the final

battle. More worrisome were the countless foot soldiers that the Kariens

could muster. They had yet to arrive at the front. The knights below were

as much an intimidating show of force as a serious vanguard of any

incursion over the border. With a sigh, he moved the looking glass around

to examine the fortifications on their side of the border.

The Defenders only hope to keep the conflict manageable was to force the

Kariens to attack down a path chosen by the Medalonians. Trenches filled

with sharpened stakes scored the plain like sword cuts in the red earth.

The ground was pockmarked with holes dug to hamper the movement of the

heavy Karien destriers. Mangonels, protected by earth mounds, stood

silently out of Karien bow range, waiting for the coming battle like

giant insects. But they had a vast front to cover and their defences

looked woefully inadequate from this height.

“I thought there’d be more of them,” Garet remarked as he took the

looking glass from Tarja to study the Kariens.

“Ah, now that’s the problem with a feudal government,” Damin

remarked sagely. “You have to waste an awful lot of time getting your

army together. You have to call in favours, bribe people, marry off your

children, and convince your Dukes that there’s a profit in your war.

Monumental waste of time and money, if you ask me. Standing armies are

much more efficient.” The fair-haired Hythrun frowned at Garet’s

surprised expression. It was obvious that Damin neither liked nor trusted

Garet Warner. “I’m not a complete barbarian, you know, Commandant.

Even Warlords need an education. What were you expecting my tactical

assessment to be? Me Warlord. Me kill Kariens.”

Garet smiled thinly. “Not exactly.”

Damin grinned suddenly and pushed himself backward along the ledge. He

sat against the cliff, leaning comfortably in the shade, with his long

legs stretched out in front. He crossed his booted feet at the ankles as

he took a long swig from his waterskin.

“You underestimate me again, Commandant,” he said, offering Tarja the

waterskin as Garet turned to face him. “But, for your information, I

was educated by the finest tutors in Hythria. And I’m right. The

Kariens don’t keep a standing army, for all that they can field a huge

one, once they finally get organised. It’s a fatal flaw. Jasnoff’s

vassals owe him sixty days each a year, which means that by the time they

get here, it will almost be time to go home again, but they’re stuck

here while the Church supports the war. Even fighting for the glory of

the Overlord starts to pale when it’s costing you money and there’s

no plunder in sight.” He swatted idly at an annoying insect. “You

Medalonians have the right idea. Toss the nobility, promote on merit and

keep a standing army.”

“Toss the nobility? If Hythria adopted that policy, you’d be out of a

job.”

Tarja wondered if he should warn Garet about the inadvisability of

getting into a discussion about the merits of various systems of

government with this man.

“Worse, Commandant, I’d be the first in line to be beheaded. My uncle

is the High Prince of Hythria. I’m his heir, unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” Tarja asked.

“Taking the Hythrun throne isn’t going to be easy, and keeping it

will be even harder. The other Warlords think I’m a bit . . .

precocious. There may come a time when I call on Medalon for assistance.

Assuming the Kariens and their Fardohnyan allies don’t come pouring

over your border to wipe us all out.”

Tarja had wondered what the price of Damin’s assistance would be.

“I’m sure Medalon will remember your aid when the time comes.”

“You’re very free with your promises, Tarja,” Garet remarked.

“You’re not the Lord Defender yet.”

Tarja glanced at the commandant, but did not answer him.

“Well, for the time being, I think we’re safe enough,” Damin said.

“Jasnoff can order his knights to the border with little ceremony, but

we’ve time yet before the bulk of his army arrives. Although if they

don’t get here soon, winter will be on us.”

“That would be too much to hope for,” Tarja remarked. “The Kariens

must know how hard a winter campaign will be.”

“Lord Setenton is Jasnoff’s Commander-in-Chief,” Damin agreed.

“He’s too experienced to try campaigning in the snow.”

“You need to train your men to deal with armoured knights, too,”

Garet added. “A man encased in armour can be hard to kill, and neither

the Defenders nor the Hythrun have much experience fighting them.”

“But he’s easy enough to disable. Just knock him of his horse and

jump up and down on him for a while. That’ll knock the fight out him.”

Tarja smiled. “I’ll let you inform the troops of that sage piece of

tactical advice.”

Damin shrugged. “It sounds silly, but it works. Have you any idea how

hard it is to get up wearing a suit of armour? Hell, they can’t even

mount their horses without a block and tackle rig. Knock them on their

backs and thrust your sword through the eye slit. Works like a treat. But

the knights aren’t our problem. The true problem lies with Hablet and

the Fardohnyans if he puts his artillery at Jasnoff’s disposal.”

“Cannon, you mean?”

Damin nodded. “I’ve never seen one myself, but I’ve spoken to a few

who have. The only thing in our favour is that Hablet guards the secret

of what makes them work as if it’s more precious to him than all his

children put together. I suspect he’ll find it a lot easier to give

away his daughter than his precious cannon.”

“I’d heard rumours of an alliance,” Garet added, taking the

waterskin from Tarja. “But nothing substantial. I’ve also heard

rumours that the reason Hablet guards the secret so closely is because

his cannon are notoriously unreliable, inaccurate, and just as likely to

kill the cannoneers as they are the enemy. Hablet’s weapon is his

enemies’ fear of the cannon, not the cannon themselves.”

“Even if that’s true, I don’t want to face cannon fire with swords

and arrows.”

“Even without cannon, if there is an alliance, Fardohnya could attack

from the south,” Garet pointed out. “We can’t afford to split our

forces.”

He said our forces, not your forces. Tarja wondered if the slip was

accidental, or if it meant Garet had finally chosen which side he was on.

“We’ll need time,” Tarja agreed with a frown. “Until we gain

control of the Citadel, the Defenders we can put in the field are barely

half the number we need.”

Damin nodded in agreement. “I can spare another three centuries of

Raiders, but any more than that and Krakandar Province will begin to look

a little bit too inviting to my neighbours. I can always send to

Elasapine, if worst comes to worst. Narvell would send me five centuries

of his Raiders if I asked him nicely. I imagine that many Hythrun troops

garrisoned in Bordertown would make Hablet think twice about sailing up

the Glass River.”

“Narvell?” Tarja asked.

“Narvell Hawksword, the Warlord of Elasapine,” Damin explained.

“He’s my half-brother. My mother’s second husband was his father.”

“How many husbands has your mother had?” Tarja asked.

“Five, the last time I counted,” Garet remarked, obviously surprising

Damin with his knowledge. He looked at the Warlord and shrugged. “I run

the Defender Intelligence Corps, my Lord. I’m supposed to know these

things.”

“Then you should know she might have married again, by now. She had her

eye on a very rich Greenharbour gem merchant when I saw her last.”

Tarja shook his head in amazement. It was rare for Sisters of the Blade

to marry or have more than one or two children. Only the farmers of

Medalon, for whom children were a convenient source of cheap labour,

tended towards large families.

“But even with a thousand Hythrun raiders, we still need the Defenders

in full force,” Tarja pointed out with a frown, getting back to the

problem at hand. “At the moment, we’ve got your seven hundred Raiders

and about six thousand Defenders here, and that’s less than half.”

“How many longbowmen do you have?”

“Five hundred. The rest are still at the Citadel. Why?”

“I’ve been watching them train. I doubt if I could draw one of those

damned bows.”

“We train them from boyhood,” Tarja told him. “They’re selected

from the cadets and they grow up with their bows. As they get stronger,

the bows get longer, until they can draw a full-sized weapon. They’re

very good, I’ll grant you, but they’re irreplaceable. You can’t

just hand the bow along to the next man in line when a longbowman falls.

And even with the others still at the Citadel, they number less than

fifteen hundred.”

“We can use them to our advantage. Assuming Hablet doesn’t arm the

Kariens with cannon, your longbows out-range any weapon they can bring to

bear against you. Kariens consider the bow and arrow a peasant weapon.

They have archers, but nothing of the calibre of your longbows. If we

concentrate on protecting them, you could cut down any advance like a

farmer mowing hay with a scythe.”

“And your mounted archers?” Garet asked.

“We’re hit-and-run specialists,” Damin shrugged. “Any man of mine

can fire three arrows into a target the size of an apple at a gallop in

under a minute, but our bows are short-range weapons. There are too many

Kariens for that sort of tactic.”

“What about the rebels?”

Tarja shrugged. “Another thousand at the most. Most of them have never

held a weapon. Jasnoff can field an army of over a hundred thousand with

the Church supporting him. With the Fardohnyans as allies . . . I’m not

sure I can count that high. I suppose they could pray for us.”

“Never underestimate the power of prayer,” Damin warned. “If

Zegarnald, the God of War, takes our side, we should do well. And we’ve

yet to hear from the Harshini.”

Tarja did not argue the point. He had no faith in Damin’s gods.

“I thought the Harshini were incapable of killing?” Garet asked

“There’s plenty of ways to frustrate the enemy without killing him.”

“I suppose,” Tarja agreed, a little doubtfully. “Maybe they could

bring their demons and scare the Kariens to death.”

“If the Kariens bring their priests with them, we will need the

protection of the Harshini and their magic,” Damin warned. “When Lord

Brakandaran returns, we will know more.”

Tarja frowned at the mention of Brak. “He’s been gone more than five

months. What makes you think he’s planning to return at all?”

“He’ll be back,” Damin assured him.

“I wish I shared your confidence.”

The fact was he wanted to see the Harshini rebel very badly — and not

simply because he needed to know what help the Harshini could offer in

the coming battle. Brak would know if R’shiel lived. Months had passed

since she had vanished, quite literally, but he had seen enough wounds in

his time to know that hers was fatal. Yet the Harshini were magical

creatures and R’shiel was half-Harshini. A small spark of hope still

burned in him that she had somehow survived Joyhinia’s sword thrust,

but as the days, weeks and then months passed with no word from her, his

hope was fading.

“Is something wrong?”

Tarja shook his head. “I was just thinking of someone, that’s all.”

“The demon child.”

“I wasn’t thinking of her in those terms,” Tarja said wryly. “But

I was thinking of R’shiel, yes.”

“Her fate is in the hands of the gods, my friend,” Damin reminded

him. “There is nothing you can do about her. On the other hand, there

is something we can do about those damned knights.”

“What did you have in mind?” Garet asked, a little suspiciously.

“They’re looking a bit too comfortable for my liking. I think we

should wake them up.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

Damin laughed. “It means putting aside your damnable Defender’s

honour for a time and learning to be sneaky.” He climbed to his feet

and dusted off his trousers. “We need to do something about their

supply lines, for one thing. What about it, Commandant? Are you with

us?”

Tarja glanced at Garet curiously, knowing there was much more to

Damin’s simple question than whether or not he wanted to attack the

Karien camp. The older man studied them both in silence for a moment.

“I’ll not be a party to anything thing that reeks of stupidity,” he

warned, climbing to his feet and handing the looking glass back to Damin.

“That also includes your ludicrous scheme for replacing Joyhinia,

Tarja. Come up with something workable, and I’ll back you to the hilt.

But what you are planning is insane. And I plan to die in my bed a very

old man.”

“That’s the most uncommitted excuse for an agreement I’ve ever

heard.”

“Be satisfied with it. It’s the best you’re likely to get until you

show me something devised by brains, not wishful thinking.”

Damin glanced at the two of them and shook his head. “Let’s just push

him off the cliff and be done with it, Tarja,” he suggested.

“I hear you have a reputation as a cunning warrior, Lord Wolfblade. I

can’t for the life of me imagine how you came about it.” He pushed

past Damin on the ledge and began to climb down to the narrow trail where

their horses were tethered below.

“If this man was not your friend, Tarja . . .” Damin began.

“He’s just testing you. We need him.”

“No, you need him. I’d just as soon see him dead. And I warn you,

every moment I spend in his company, the idea becomes more attractive.”

Damin slammed the delicate looking glass back into its leather case and

began to follow the path that Garet had taken.

Tarja shook his head. The last thing they needed was Damin Wolfblade

threatening to kill Garet Warner. With Garet’s assistance, it would be

far easier to fool the Quorum into believing all was well with the First

Sister and his help was essential if they were to eventually replace her.

And if the Kariens really had allied with Fardohnya, their only hope of

preventing a southern incursion was Damin’s Hythrun Raiders.

Not for the first time since Joyhinia had won the First Sister’s

mantle, Tarja wished he had let her hang him. He would never have become

involved in the rebellion. He would never have led the raid to rescue

R’shiel that resulted in the death of the Karien Envoy, and they would

not be facing an invasion. But what hurt most, when he let himself think

on it, was R’shiel. If not for him, she would be alive and probably in

blissful ignorance of what she really was.

But then again, maybe nothing would be different, even if he had died.

The Harshini had known all along what R’shiel was and had sent Brak to

find her. Garet and he had identified the Karien threat long before any

of these other events took shape. Whichever way he looked at it, he was

caught in circumstances that seemed to be constantly spiralling out of

control. He remembered thinking, more than a year ago, when he was riding

toward capture in Testra at the hands of Lord Draco, the man who turned

out to be his father, that life was no longer certain.

He was starting to wryly think of those times as the good old days.

The ride back to the Defender’s camp was tense. Damin was angry and

Garet silent. Tarja wished he could think of something to say that would

bring some sanity to the situation. He had always liked and respected

Garet Warner, yet he had found a rare friendship with Damin Wolfblade —

ironically, a man he had spent four years on the southern border trying

to kill.

It was late afternoon when Treason Keep appeared on the horizon. Although

the engineers had done their best, it was unlikely the Keep would ever be

useful as anything but a temporary headquarters. Tarja wondered what had

happened to Bereth and her orphans. There was no sign of them at the

Keep. Had they survived? Or had Bereth found a safer place for her brood?

Tarja wished he had the time to discover their fate.

The tents of their army covered a vast area surrounding the old ruin. The

Hythrun were camped on the western side of the plain, and as they neared

the sea of tents, Damin reined in his mount and studied the camp

thoughtfully. Tarja stopped beside him. Garet rode on, not interested in

the view.

The Defender’s tents were laid out in precise lines, each housing four

men, with spears and pikes stacked in neat piles between them. Their camp

was as neat and orderly as Defender discipline demanded. The much smaller

Hythrun camp looked like a motley collection of warriors out on a hunting

expedition. No two tents were alike, and they had been erected anywhere

the Raiders felt like making camp. A pall of smoke hung over the camp

from the cook fires and the huge open-air forge built against the

southern wall of the Keep. Even from this distance, Tarja could faintly

hear the rhythmic ringing of the smiths’ hammers as they pounded the

metal into shape. The need for additional swords, pikes and arrowheads

was urgent. Jenga had decided that making them on site was preferable to

shipping them from the Citadel, although the lack of fuel for the hungry

fires almost outweighed the advantages of being able to make and repair

their weapons at the front.

North of the camp lay the training grounds, marked by a vast expanse of

scuffed ground and lines of tall hay bales, to which rough outlines of

man-shapes had been secured to give the trainees something to aim at.

Mounted, red-coated sentries patrolled the camp perimeter in pairs. The

Hythrun sentries were out of sight, hidden by the long grass.

To the south was the sprawling tent city that housed the rebels, the camp

followers and anyone else in Medalon who thought there was a quick

fortune to be made in a war. Jenga had given up trying to make them leave.

“The Fardohnyans have me worried,” Damin admitted eventually, once

Garet was out of their hearing. “Karien knights are fools. They expect

everyone to play by the same rules as they do, and are therefore

predictable.”

“And the Fardohnyans?” Tarja had never fought them. In his experience

they preferred trade to conflict. But an enemy that caused the Hythrun

Warlord concern was an enemy to fear.

“Hablet keeps a huge standing army. His troops are well trained and

they think on the run,” Damin warned. “They won’t play by the same

rules as the Kariens. It’s one of the reasons Hythria has avoided an

open conflict with Fardohnya. And then there’s Hablet’s cannon . .

.”

“What do you suggest?”

Damin shrugged. “I think we need help.”

“Point me at it,” Tarja said wearily.

Damin glanced at him and then laughed. “I think it’s time I spoke to

my god. I am, after all, His most worthy subject. Zegarnald owes me a

favour or two.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know how to contact the gods?”

“I believe I said I didn’t know how to contact the God of Thieves.

The God of War is a different matter entirely. He speaks to me often.”

“What does he say?” Tarja asked curiously.

“Ah, now that is between me and my god. You return to the Keep and try

to keep things under control. I will see what I can do about some divine

assistance.”

“Damin!” Tarja called uselessly, as the Warlord spurred his

magnificent stallion forward. Damin ignored him and galloped toward the

camp.

Tarja watched him go, wondering about the wisdom of allying himself with

someone who thought the fickle Primal gods could help them against the

might of the Karien army, allied with the almost uncountable Fardohnyans.

Garet was right, he thought heavily as he spurred Shadow on towards the

camp. He was trying to win a war with wishful thinking.

CHAPTER 11

The Isle of Slarn was a miserable, bitter place; shrouded in mist and

surrounded by a treacherous reef that made even the most seasoned sailor

nervous. Adrina watched the island growing larger through the mist,

shivering in the chilly spray that splashed over the bow in the grey,

overcast morning.

“It’s a great honour,” Cratyn told her solemnly, “to be allowed

to visit Slarn.”

“You think so?” she asked, gripping the rail tightly. “I’ll try

to remember that as I’m being dashed against the reef, just before I

drown.”

Cratyn looked at her unsmilingly. He had solemn eyes in a not-unpleasant

face, but he had no sense of humour that Adrina had been able to detect

thus far.

“The Overlord will protect us and see us safe into the harbour.”

“That makes me feel so much better.”

“I am pleased to see that you are beginning to appreciate the power of

the Overlord,” he noted, as if her comment had been a profession of

faith rather than a snide dig at his boring old god. “When we reach

Slarn, the priests will appoint a Confessor to aid your conversion to the

true faith.”

“You’re assuming I plan to convert, then?” she asked, bracing

herself against the violent lurching of the hideously painted ship. The

captain was screaming orders to his crew, fighting to be heard over the

crashing waves and the creaking boat.

Cratyn looked astonished. “As the wife of the Crown Prince, you must

set an example of faith and virtue for all the women of Karien.”

“Me? An example of virtue? I fear I am not worthy of that honour, your

Highness.”

Completely oblivious to her meaning, Cratyn nodded. “Your humility does

you credit, Princess. I am sure the Overlord will look most kindly on

your character.”

Just so long as he doesn’t look too closely, she told herself. Still,

the trip from Fardohnya so far had been bearable. She had only had to

socialise with her Karien fiancé and his priests during meals. The rest

of the journey she had been left to her own devices in her small but

sumptuous cabin, which was quite appallingly decorated by someone who had

either been very devout or blind drunk when he chose the colours. Every

flat surface was emblazoned with the five-pointed star and lightning bolt

of Xaphista.

Tristan and the rest of his regiment were not invited to Slarn. Their

small fleet of Fardohnyan ships was sailing straight onto Karien.

“Your ladies-in-waiting will also join us when we reach Slarn,”

Cratyn added carefully. “I will then make arrangements to return your

slaves to Fardohnya.”

Adrina turned to face Cratyn determinedly. “My slaves aren’t going

anywhere, your Highness. They will stay with me.”

Cratyn took a deep breath before he replied, as if he had known what her

reaction to such a suggestion would be. It explained his sudden desire

for her company this morning. She wondered how long it had taken to work

himself up to delivering the news.

“The Overlord says that man can have only one master, and that is God.

We do not condone or tolerate slavery in Karien, your Highness. Your

slaves must be sent home.”

“I don’t give a damn what the Overlord says. My slaves are staying

with me.” She tossed her head imperiously. Pretentious little upstart!

“Did my father know you were planning to deprive me of my slaves the

moment we left Fardohnya?”

“He suggested that it would be wise not to broach the subject until we

reached Slarn.” Cratyn agreed. “But he assured us you would

understand the necessity —”

“Well, he was wrong!” she declared. “I do not understand.”

“I realise you are quite attached to them, your Highness, but as the

Crown Princess of Karien, you cannot be seen to be supporting such a

barbarous custom.”

“Barbarous!” she cried. “My slaves live in more luxury than most of

your damned knights. They are cared for, looked after, and secure. How

dare you call my treatment of them barbarous!”

Cratyn looked rather taken aback by her outburst. “Your Highness, I did

not mean to insult you. I’m sure you take great care of your slaves,

but they are not free.”

“Free to do what, exactly? Free to work like drudges for a pittance?

For lordlings who think tossing their underlings a coin liberates them

from any further responsibility for those less fortunate than themselves?

It is harder to be a master than a slave, your Highness. A master must

see to the welfare of his slaves. A master must ensure that everyone in

his charge is taken care of. How many of your noble lords own the same

level of responsibility?”

Cratyn sighed, unaccustomed to defending his position, particularly to a

woman. In truth, Adrina was not surprised by the order to send her slaves

home. She was far better versed in Karien customs than Cratyn knew, and

had been expecting something like this for days. But she was enjoying

watching him squirm.

“Your Highness, you must see that keeping your slaves is impossible . .

.”

“I see no such thing,” she announced petulantly. “Isn’t it enough

that I will never see my home again? Now you want to take away the only

familiar faces I know. How can you be so cruel? Does your Overlord preach

thoughtlessness along with virtue and piety?”

That left him speechless for a moment. Cratyn had not expected her to use

his God to support her argument. “I . . . of course not . . . perhaps a

compromise might be reached?”

Adrina smiled sweetly as he gave her the opening she was fishing for.

“You mean I can keep some of them? Maybe just one or two?”

“You would have to emancipate them,” Cratyn warned her. “But as

free servants, I’m certain the priests would not object to their

presence.”

“Oh, thank you, your Highness,” she gushed, with vast insincerity.

Taking his bare hand in hers, she turned it over and kissed it, in the

Fardohnyan tradition, letting her tongue trail lightly along the

sword-callused palm. Cratyn snatched his hand away at the intimacy. He

actually blushed.

“Perhaps we should go below now, your Highness,” he suggested.

Adrina had to bite her lip to prevent herself laughing aloud. She

realised, with mild surprise, that this young man was probably a virgin.

The Overlord preached abstinence from sex except in marriage — and then

only for the purposes of procreation. Cratyn was so annoyingly devout, he

probably felt the need for penance if he had an impure thought. Adrina

decided the wedding night was going to be quite an event, with Cratyn

trying to pretend he knew what he was doing, and her trying to pretend

she didn’t.

“Perhaps we should,” she agreed, with a smile that had nothing to do

with the conversation and a great deal to do with her vision of her

upcoming nuptials.

The Monastery of Slarn was as depressing and dark as the rest of the

island. What little Adrina saw of the place in the carriage ride from the

wharf was bare and rocky and windswept. The island sat in the middle of

the Fardohnyan Gulf, but its fame stemmed more from its occupants than

its strategic value. Slarn was home to the priests of Xaphista and a

colony of Malik’s Curse sufferers. For some reason, the priests were

immune to the wasting disease, and anyone diagnosed, regardless of

nationality, was packed off to Slarn as soon as their condition was

identified. Cratyn had assured her that the sufferers were kept well away

from the monastery, but she wondered just how safe this place was. Her

half-brother Gaffen’s mother had contracted the disease when he was a

small boy, and Adrina still remembered standing outside the palace

watching everything burn as she was taken away, screaming and crying to

be allowed to say goodbye to her son. Everything Emalia had touched was

destroyed with fire, lest it infect anyone else in the palace. Was Emalia

still here, Adrina wondered, or had the disease taken her by now?

She glanced at Cratyn and frowned. He was seated across from her in the

unadorned, but serviceable, carriage that had met them at the wharf. His

head was bowed and he seemed to be muttering something. Praying, no

doubt, she thought impatiently. Slarn was holy ground, after all.

“I hope they have a fire going when we get there,” she remarked, as

much to disturb his concentration as to make conversation. “Is it much

colder than this in Yarnarrow?”

Cratyn looked up, and silently finished his prayer before answering.

“Much colder, your Highness. We are snowbound for part of the year.”

Adrina clapped her hands in delight. “I’ve never seen snow.”

“You’ll see plenty in Yarnarrow.”

“Then I’ll have to rely on you to keep me warm, won’t I?” Baiting

Cratyn was proving to be a most distracting pastime.

To her delight, he blushed again. “I’ll . . . do my best to see you

are . . . comfortable, your Highness.”

The carriage finally clattered to a halt before the forbidding façade of

the monastery. The door opened and a hand reached in to help her down.

There was a gaggle of tonsured priests waiting for them, in addition to a

dozen or more Church knights and five women, all but one of them younger

than Adrina. She looked about with interest as Cratyn disembarked beside

her.

The older woman in the group stepped forward and smiled with the ease of

a professional diplomat.

“Welcome to Karien, your Highness,” she said with a deep curtsy.

“Princess, may I present the Lady Madren,” Cratyn announced, sounding

surer now that he was on familiar ground among his own people. “Lady

Madren, this is Her Serene Highness, Adrina of Fardohnya.”

The woman glanced at Cratyn questioningly. “Adrina? We were expecting

the Princess Cassandra.”

“Princess Cassandra proved unsuitable,” Cratyn informed the woman

uncomfortably, although he managed not to blush this time. “Adrina is

the eldest daughter of King Hablet, and as such, is an eminently

qualified consort.”

“Of course, your Highness.” Adrina could tell she was burning with

curiosity over the sudden change in brides. She wondered if Cratyn would

admit to the real reason, or if it would prove too embarrassing for him.

“You are most welcome, Princess.”

“Thank you, my Lady.”

“Please allow me to introduce your ladies-in-waiting.”

Adrina was tempted to ask if it could wait until they were inside. The

wind was bitingly cold, and the idea of standing out here on the bleak

steps of the monastery while she was introduced to everybody was

distinctly unappealing.

“This is Lady Grace, Lady Pacifica, Lady Hope and Lady Chastity,”

Madren announced as the young women in question stepped forward. Adrina

glanced at the pale young women for a moment in astonishment.

“Are those really their names?”

Madren stiffened at the insult. “In Karien, it is the custom to name

one’s daughters after the virtue they hope the child will emulate, your

Highness.”

“Poor Chastity,” Adrina murmured, then she smiled apologetically at

the older woman. “I’m sorry, I should not have been surprised. We

have a similar custom in Fardohnya. My own name means ‘she whose beauty

will tempt men to insane acts of bravery for the chance to spend the

night with her’.”

Adrina’s name meant no such thing, but it was too tempting an

opportunity to pass up. The looks on the Kariens’ faces alone made the

lie worthwhile. Cratyn looked as if he wished the ground would open and

swallow him whole, and the ladies Grace, Pacifica, Hope and Chastity were

on the verge of swooning.

“What virtue does ‘Madren’ represent?”

“I was named for my mother’s home province, your Highness,” Madren

replied haughtily. “The naming after virtues is a relatively new

custom.”

“Well, with luck, it will prove a passing fad,” Adrina announced

airily. “Shall we continue the introductions inside? I’ve no wish to

keep you all out here in this wind on my account.”

She smiled sweetly at Cratyn and Madren as she swept up her cloak. There

was little they could do but follow her inside.

Everything on Slarn was damp and the monastery was no exception. The

black stone walls wept moisture and the rushes scattered on the stone

floor of the main hall squelched faintly underfoot. There was no

noticeable difference between the temperature inside or out. Two huge

pits, evenly spaced in the floor of the lofty hall, hosted blazing fires

that did little to warm the cavernous room. Adrina looked about with a

frown. Xaphista must be one of those gods who thinks suffering and misery

is good for you, she thought, rather depressed at the prospect of

spending the rest of her life among his worshippers. She hoped the castle

at Yarnarrow was better appointed than this miserable place.

An acolyte stepped forward to take her wrap, but she waved him away. It

was too cold to shed the warmth of her cloak, and underneath she wore a

Fardohnyan costume ill-suited to the bitter cold. She had been planning

to make an issue of that too, knowing her mode of dress would appall the

straight-laced Kariens. Now she was not so certain. The concealing, drab

woollen dresses of her ladies-in-waiting looked decidedly warmer than her

gloriously provocative gown.

The introductions continued once they were inside. Adrina smiled and

nodded as Madren introduced her to an endless stream of priests and

knights. Without exception, they greeted her solemnly; their eyes wide as

they studied the exotic Fardohnyan bride Cratyn had brought home. Each

priest ceremoniously laid his elaborate star-and-lightning-bolt-tipped

staff on her shoulder, to satisfy himself that she was not an evil spirit

— or worse, a Harshini, in the guise of a mortal. As for her future

husband, he was nowhere to be found. He had vanished in the company of a

young sandy-haired knight almost as soon as they crossed the threshold of

the monastery.

“And this, your Highness, is Vonulus,” Madren announced, as the last

of the supplicants stepped forward. “He will be your Confessor and will

instruct you in the doctrine of the Overlord, as well as advising you on

pastoral matters.”

Vonulus laid his staff on her shoulder gently, then bowed, his tonsured

head shining in the damp morning light. Adrina studied him with interest.

He was a little older than she, with intelligent brown eyes, and a serene

expression that came from an inner peace Adrina doubted she would be able

to disrupt easily.

“Your Serene Highness,” Vonulus said in fluent Fardohnyan. “I am

honoured to serve you.”

First mistake, Adrina thought. He should not have let me know he spoke

Fardohnyan. “Vonulus. I look forward to receiving your wisdom.”

“I claim no wisdom, your Highness. I am a simple man, but moderately

well read.”

“Finding anyone who can read at all in Karien is a surprise,” she

remarked, watching for his reaction. The Kariens she had met so far were

a universally dour and humourless lot. And they were insulted by the

slightest hint of criticism. But not Vonulus. He met her eye

unblinkingly, accepting her unspoken challenge.

“Your Highness, I hope you receive many surprises in your new home.”

“I’m sure I will, sir.”

“My first official duty will be to prepare you to accept the Karien

wedding vows,” he told her. “The ceremony will take place in

Xaphista’s Temple, as soon as we reach Yarnarrow. Lady Madren will

advise you on matters of dress and protocol. I will, if the Overlord

wills it, assist you to steer an easy course through the many intricacies

of our religion.”

“Tell me, Vonulus,” she asked. “Hypothetically speaking, what would

happen if I chose not to embrace your god?”

Madren hissed, shocked at the mere suggestion. Vonulus was less easily

roused. “You will be the Crown Princess of Karien, your Highness. To

worship another god would be considered treason. I imagine Fardohnya

treats traitors much the same as we do.”

She patted Madren’s hand comfortingly. “I was simply asking out of

curiosity, my Lady. Never fear.”

“Of course, your Highness,” Madren agreed. “I knew that.”

“And will you be joining us for lunch, Vonulus? It is a pleasure to

hear my native tongue spoken so fluently.”

“I would be honoured, your Highness.”

“Perhaps you would be more comfortable dressed in something more . . .

appropriate?” Madren suggested, waving the silent ladies-in-waiting to

her. “I shall have your ladies escort you to the chamber put aside for

you.”

Hoping that the chamber would be warmer than the draughty, cavernous

hall, Adrina acquiesced graciously to the suggestion. Surrounded by the

Ladies Grace, Hope, Pacifica and Chastity, she walked the length of the

hall to the entrance where, not surprisingly, the five-pointed star and

lightning bolt was carved into the large wooden doors. They opened as she

approached to reveal Cratyn and a young knight entering the hall. The men

stopped as they neared them. Cratyn’s eyes flickered over Adrina then

fixed on the Lady Chastity, who walked on her right. The look he gave the

young woman was filled with remorse. Adrina glanced at Chastity, startled

to see her soft brown eyes misted with unshed tears and unmistakable

longing.

“Prince Cretin, I thought you were lost,” she said brightly. Was the

pale and insipid Chastity the reason Cratyn was so unhappy about being

forced to take a Fardohnyan bride?

“It’s Cratyn, your Highness,” Lady Pacifica corrected her, rather

crossly.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Adrina asked innocently.

“Cretin.” It was an unfortunate, if rather delightful, result of her

accent, that she mispronounced his name. It was also quite deliberate.

Adrina spoke Karien fluently. Much more fluently than her somewhat

contrived accent led her hosts to believe. Her first court’esa had been

a linguist of some note and he had taught Adrina to speak a number of

languages fluently. Another thing better kept from the Kariens. She had

not thought of the court’esa in years — a slender, gentle young man

with dark eyes and long, graceful limbs.

“It’s nothing to worry about, my Lady,” Cratyn assured Pacifica,

not wishing to make an issue of it. “Your Highness, this is my cousin,

Drendyn, Earl of Tiler’s Pass. Drendyn, this is Her Serene Highness,

Princess Adrina of Fardohnya.”

The young Earl bowed inelegantly, smiling like a child confronted with a

new and exotic toy. Adrina took an instant liking to him. He was the

first Karien she had met who did not feel the need to mope about as if

they were perpetually in mourning.

“Welcome to Karien!” he gushed. “I do hope you’ll be happy here.

After the wedding, you should come to Tiler’s Pass. We have the best

wines in Karien and the hunting is just marvellous. You do hunt, don’t

you?”

“Every chance I can get. I shall look forward to your hospitality, my

Lord.”

“This way, your Highness,” Pacifica interrupted stiffly, with a frown

at the Earl. She did not seem to like the idea of Adrina getting too

friendly with him.

“If you will excuse me, my Lord, Prince Cretin.” She curtsied

gracefully and followed her ladies-in waiting into the hall.

As the door closed behind them she stopped and called the women to her.

They all turned to face her expectantly. Pacifica was tall and plain,

with protruding pale eyes and pockmarked skin. Hope was a pleasant

looking girl with rich brown hair and a vacant expression. Grace was a

plump brunette with a button nose and a receding chin. Chastity was pale

and fair and by far the beauty of the group. “Ladies, I’d like to

make sure we understand each other.”

“Your Highness?” Pacifica asked, still a little put out, she thought,

by Drendyn’s enthusiastic welcome.

“As my ladies-in-waiting, your actions reflect on me. If I ever see

you, Pacifica, acting like a jealous fishwife again, or you Chastity,

lusting after my fiancé, I shall have you both whipped. Is that clear?”

Pacifica turned a brilliant shade of red. Chastity burst into tears.

Grace and Hope simply stood there, dumbstruck. Adrina marched on ahead,

not waiting for them to catch up. That way, they couldn’t see her

laughing.

CHAPTER 12

The Harshini were the strangest creatures R’shiel had ever encountered.

All she had been taught to believe about them, since her earliest

childhood, was proving to be wrong. They were not evil or wicked or even

particularly threatening. They were a gentle, happy people who seemed to

want nothing more than the same happiness for all living things.

For R’shiel, raised in an atmosphere of political intrigue and

ambition, she found it hard to believe that the Harshini could be so

innocent. She questioned them constantly, looking for the crack in their

serene complacency, but found none. In fact, she suspected there were

even some of the Harshini who deliberately avoided her, for fear of being

asked questions they simply didn’t understand. They had no ambition

beyond that which the gods had created them for. They were the guardians

of the gods’ power. That was all they needed to know.

The demons were a different matter, however, and R’shiel found herself

enjoying their company much more than the placid Harshini. Lord Dranymire

was a bit of a bore, but she supposed that came from being older than

time itself. The other demons, the younger ones, were much more

interesting.

Korandellan had tried to explain the bond between the Harshini and the

demons in some depth, but R’shiel understood so little about the gods

that she had trouble grasping the concept. She could feel the bond,

though, like an invisible cord that tied her to the demons. She only

needed to think of them, and they were there, eager to show her

Sanctuary, or have her tell them something of the outside world. Their

hunger for new things was insatiable, particularly in the younger demons,

although “young” was a relative term among the demonkind.

“Young”, when compared to Lord Dranymire, the prime demon in the

brethren bonded to the té Ortyn family, might be anything less than a

thousand years.

“We are all one,” Korandellan explained patiently. “The gods, the

Harshini and the demons. We are all made of the same stuff.”

“Then why aren’t the Harshini gods?” she asked.

“We are a part of the gods.”

“And the demons?”

“They are also a part of the gods.”

“So gods created the Harshini and the demons, right?”

“That is correct.”

“Why?”

“Because they feared that without some way of limiting their power,

they would destroy each other.”

“So the gods gave you their power? That’s a pretty dumb thing to do.

What happens if they want to use it?”

Korandellan sighed. “They did not give us their power, R’shiel, they

share it. The power you feel is the same source of power that the gods

draw on.”

“Then that makes you gods, too, doesn’t it?”

“Think of it as a rope made up of many strands,” the King said,

trying to put his explanation into words she could grasp. “Each of the

Primal gods has divinity over a different aspect of life. Each god draws

on their own strand. Depending on what is happening in the world, the

strands grow thicker and stronger, or weaker and thinner.”

R’shiel thought on that for a moment. “You mean if everyone started

stealing, then Dacendaran’s strand would grow and the others would

diminish, because he’s the God of Thieves?”

Korandellan nodded happily. “Yes! Now you are beginning to

understand!”

“Don’t count on it,” she warned.

“The Harshini use the gods’ power, R’shiel; they use it

constantly.”

“So they drain off the excess?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“But how can that work? You can’t abide violence, so you would only

draw on the power of some of the gods, wouldn’t you?”

“That is what the demons are for,” he replied. “To maintain the

balance.”

She nodded as it finally began to make sense. The demons were childlike

and innocent and took thousands of years to reach maturity. They embodied

all the violence, mischief and destructive capabilities of the power the

Harshini could not draw on, but their childlike innocence and their blood

bond to the gentle Harshini prevented them from causing harm.

“And only the té Ortyn family can draw on all the power at once,

can’t they? That’s what makes me so dangerous?”

The King smiled, as he usually did when she asked such blunt questions.

Then again, he would probably smile if someone chopped his leg off. No

wonder Brak spent so much time out in the human world. Eternal happiness

could be rather wearing at times.

“Your human blood allows you to circumvent our instincts against

violence, yes,” he agreed.

“Is that why they call me the demon child? Because I’m human, with

the same ability for causing violence as a demon?”

This time the King laughed out loud. “I never really thought of it like

that, R’shiel. The name ‘demon child’ is a human one, but now that

you mention it, yes, I suppose that’s exactly what you are.”

It made sense now. She wasn’t sure she actually believed it, but it did

make sense.

“So tell me about Xaphista? How did he get to be a god?”

For the first time since she met him, Korandellan’s smile faded.

“Xaphista learnt too much, too quickly, I fear. The family he was

bonded to were travellers. They roamed the world seeking knowledge, and

in time too much human blood became mingled with the Harshini line. The

restraint on violence broke down and Xaphista learnt that if he could

gather followers to believe in him, his power would grow to rival the

Primal gods.”

“And how am I supposed to destroy him?”

“I have no idea, child. I cannot contemplate destruction. That is a

human quality. You must find the answer within yourself.”

Find the answer within yourself.

R’shiel didn’t even try. She liked the Harshini — it was impossible

to dislike them — but she had no desire to become embroiled in some

divine conflict. She accepted that there were gods. She had even met a

few of them since coming here, but they did not impress her, and she

certainly felt no desire to worship them. If the gods didn’t like one

of their underlings getting above his station, then they should have

thought about that before creating the problem in the first place.

She did not share her opinion with Korandellan. He was willing to answer

any question she asked and teach her anything she wanted to know, but his

aversion to violence made the subject of Xaphista an awkward one. That

suited R’shiel just fine — she had no desire to discuss the matter

anyway.

Time was a fluid quantity in Sanctuary, so R’shiel had no way of

gauging how long she had been here. It seemed as if everyday she learnt

something new, but if each day was a new one, or simply the same day

repeated over and over, she could not tell. She regained her strength and

then grew even stronger, exploring the vast network of halls that made up

the Harshini settlement.

There were rooms here that were so like the Citadel she sometimes had to

remind herself where she was. The artwork that was so determinedly

concealed in the Citadel was exposed here, in all its glory. Although the

walls were generally white, there wasn’t a flat surface in the place

that was not adorned with some type of artwork, large or small. It seemed

every Harshini was an artist of some description. There were delicately

painted friezes lining the halls and crystal statues in every corner.

There were galleries full of paintings depicting everything from broad

sweeping landscapes to tiny, exquisitely detailed paintings of insects

and birds. The Harshini studied life and then captured its essence in

their art.

Curiously, the one thing she expected did not happen here. The walls did

not glow with the coming of each new day and fade with the onset of

night. The Brightening and Dimming that characterised the Citadel was

missing. The Harshini used candles and lanterns like any normal human,

although admittedly they could light them with a thought and extinguish

them just as easily.

The valley floor, which looked so wild and untended from the balconies,

proved to be a complex series of connecting gardens and the source for

much of the Harshini food in the settlement. At least it should have

been, Korandellan had explained, with a slight frown. The abundant

gardens were trapped in time, as was the whole settlement. The vines

never wilted, the flowers never faded. Bees buzzed between the bushes,

crickets chirruped happily, worms wiggled their way through the fertile

soil — but a picked berry was gone forever. Like the Harshini, and

every animal in Sanctuary, they could not reproduce. The issue of food

was becoming critical, so much so, that Korandellan had allowed a number

of Harshini to leave the settlement. Some of them went openly, like

Glenanaran, who had returned to Hythria to teach at the Sorcerers’

Collective. Others went out into the human world, disguised and cautious,

to barter or trade for some badly needed supplies. Although he never said

it aloud, R’shiel guessed it was fear of Xaphista and the Karien

priests that kept them hidden.

They were performers, too, R’shiel discovered soon after she was

allowed the freedom of Sanctuary. In the amphitheatre in the hollow

centre of the gardens, against the permanent rainbow that hovered over

the tinkling cascade, they held concerts in the twilight as the sun

settled behind the mountains. The first time R’shiel had heard the

Harshini sing she had cried. Nothing had prepared her for the beauty of

their voices or their skill with instruments she had never seen in the

human world.

Sometimes the concerts were impromptu affairs, where members of the

audience would step forward, either alone or in groups, to perform for

their friends. Other times the concerts were as well organised as any

Founder’s Day Parade, and then the massed choir of the Harshini would

transport R’shiel to a place she had never even glimpsed before. “The

Song of Gimlorie”, the Harshini called it. The gift of the God of

Music. A prayer in its own right, it had the power to devour one’s

soul. The cadence of the song, the subtle harmonies, and the pure,

crystalline voices of the Harshini, combined to create images in the mind

that could be as euphoric as they were dangerous. The demons would appear

in the amphitheatre whenever they sang for Gimlorie, their eyes wide,

their bodies uncharacteristically still as they listened to the music

with rapt expressions. R’shiel understood their fascination with the

music and lamented its loss to the human world.

It was following the last concert she attended that R’shiel came to an

important decision. Tarja was a pleasant, fading memory. Joyhinia and

Loclon were so far buried in the back of her mind that she barely even

acknowledged their existence. Xaphista was the gods’ problem, not hers.

There was supposed to be a war going on, but it did not intrude on the

serenity of this other-worldly realm. Sanctuary was peaceful, and the

troubles of the outside world could not touch her in this magical place.

She was half-Harshini after all, and welcome here.

R’shiel decided that she didn’t really care if she never returned to

the outside world at all.

CHAPTER 13

Karien was a vast country, full of tall evergreens, rugged valleys and

steep, but distant, snow-capped mountains to the east. With autumn

approaching the weather grew colder as they sailed north. Adrina found

herself shivering each morning when she took her daily exercise on deck.

The Ironbrook was a heavily populated waterway. They sailed past numerous

villages, some large and prosperous, some mean and depressing, some

barely deserving of the name at all. They seemed dirty and crowded to a

princess raised in the spacious, pink-walled cities of Fardohnya. In

fact, Karien seemed a nation lacking in colour. The villages were drab,

the people even more so, and the frequently overcast weather leeched the

remaining pigment from the world. She was not looking forward to spending

her life among these people, not even as their queen.

Adrina was easily bored and the seemingly endless journey up the

Ironbrook River toward Yarnarrow offered little in the way of

entertainment. She had exhausted most of the opportunities for

distraction available to her. She had admired all the scenery she could

bear and waved at so many ragged peasants lining the riverbank that her

arm felt ready to drop off. When she wasn’t being hounded by Madren

regarding the proper way to behave in a Karien court, Vonulus dogged her

heels with his instruction in the unbelievably demanding laws of the

Karien Church. Adrina was beginning to think the reason so many people

sinned was because it wasn’t humanly possible to remember everything

that would lead one into temptation.

The only other activity Adrina had to while away the long days on the

river was socialising with her ladies-in-waiting. She was not certain

what a lady-in-waiting was supposed to do. They hovered around her like

flies around a corpse, and seemed anxious to perform small, meaningless

tasks for her, but they were offended if she treated them as servants and

too sheltered to serve as entertaining companions.

Adrina was unusually cautious in dealing with them. It would not do for

these young women (virgins one and all) to learn that for her sixteenth

birthday her father had given her a handsome young court’esa. Nor would

it do to disillusion the Ladies Hope, Pacifica, Grace and Chastity

regarding her virtue. As far as Adrina could tell, every one of them had

been raised in finest Karien tradition, which meant they could read

(barely), sing (acceptably), play a musical instrument (tolerably well)

and discuss such riveting topics as needlework, banquet menus and the

convoluted family bloodlines of the Karien nobility. All of these topics

left Adrina cold, so she listened and smiled and pretended she didn’t

understand them when the conversation became unbearable.

Today was proving particularly trying. Tall, dour, Pacifica had taken it

upon herself to enlighten Adrina regarding the long and incredibly dull

history of her family, the Gullwings of Mount Pike. She had only got as

far as Lord Gullwing the Pious, who lived three centuries past, when

Vonulus disturbed them. Adrina welcomed him into the crowded cabin. Even

a lesson in the complex duties of a woman according to the Church of

Xaphista was preferable to another three hundred years of Dullwings.

“Vonulus! Have you come to instruct me?” she asked. “Or perhaps

another discussion about the definition of sin?”

“You would do well to heed both, your Highness,” Pacifica advised, a

little put out at Adrina’s shift in attention.

“We may discuss whatever you wish, your Highness.”

Adrina glanced at Pacifica and her companions thoughtfully. “Sin shall

be the topic today, I think. I am interested in your definition of

adultery.”

Predictably, the Ladies Hope, Pacifica, Grace and Chastity gasped at the

suggestion. Vonulus, however, was not so easily rattled.

“Certainly, your Highness. What were you planning?”

Adrina’s eyes widened innocently. “Planning? Why nothing, sir. I

simply seek to avoid pitfalls. I have no wish to do or say something that

in my country would be considered perfectly normal, but in yours would

see me stoned.”

“A reasonable precaution,” he noted with a look that said he didn’t

believe her for a minute. “What exactly did you want to know?”

“Define adultery. The Karien definition.”

“It is not the Karien definition, your Highness. It is the Overlord’s

definition, and therefore, the only acceptable definition.”

Adrina chose not to pursue that particular argument. “As you wish,

define it for me.”

“Adultery, according to the Overlord, is any thought or deed that

causes a man to lust after another man’s wife, or a woman to lust after

another woman’s husband.”

Adrina’s brow furrowed. “So, let me see if I understand you. If I

lust after an unmarried man, then I have not committed adultery, but if I

lust after a married man, I have? Is that right?”

“I think you take my meaning too literally, your Highness,” Vonulus

began with a shake of his head, but Adrina did not allow him time to

continue.

“So that would work the other way, too, I suppose?” she asked. “If

my husband . . . well, for argument’s sake, let’s pretend Cretin

falls madly in love with one of my ladies . . .” she glanced around at

the four rather appalled young women, before fixing her eyes on Chastity.

“Say . . . the Lady Chastity here . . .”

“Your Highness!” Chastity cried in horror.

Adrina smiled sweetly. “Oh never mind, Chastity, I only use you to

demonstrate my point. With a name like yours, how could you be anything

but pure? Anyway, let’s pretend that Cretin and Chastity . . . indulge

in a bit of . . . sin . . . then by your definition, Cretin would get off

free as a bird, because Chastity is unmarried, yet my poor Lady would be

stoned, because Cretin is married to me. Is that right?”

Vonulus did not look pleased. “That could be regarded as the strictest

definition, I suppose, however —”

“I see,” Adrina cut in. “And I can sin merely by thinking something

lustful?” Gods! Am I in trouble! “How would you know what I’m

thinking?”

“I don’t need to know, your Highness. Xaphista sees all. The Overlord

would know.”

“He must be a very busy god, then,” she remarked irreverently.

“It is by resisting such thoughts, that we spare our god the need to

constantly watch over us,” Vonulus replied.

“And do you ladies resist temptation?”

The young women nodded quickly in agreement. Too quickly, she thought,

with a private little smirk.

“The Overlord teaches us that to resist temptation is to ensure a place

at His table in the next life,” Pacifica said.

“You mean if you’re a good little girl in this life, you won’t come

back as a cockroach in the next?”

Vonulus sighed heavily. “Your Highness, I believe we discussed the

matter of reincarnation several days ago. There is no such thing. We are

given one life. When we die, our spirit ascends to the Overlord’s table

if we have lived according to his rules.”

“And you drown in the Sea of Despair for eternity, if you don’t,”

Adrina replied with a nod. “I remember our discussion. That would mean,

that by your definition, every soul who ever lived, who didn’t worship

Xaphista, is splashing about in the Sea of Despair, wondering where they

went wrong. It must be pretty crowded down there.”

“Your irreverence will lead you into trouble, your Highness,” Vonulus

warned. “Have a care when you reach Yarnarrow. Such comments will not

sit well at court.”

Adrina met the priest’s gaze evenly. “Can’t your religion stand a

bit of scrutiny, Vonulus? You wish me to believe in your god, yet you

resent me questioning anything I do not understand. My gods may be

numerous, but at least they have a sense of humour.”

“Your Highness, a sense of humour will be of little help to you, should

you be out of grace when you die. The Primal gods you worship are nothing

more than natural events to which the unenlightened have attached

divinity. You should be thankful that by marrying Prince Cratyn, you have

an opportunity to embrace the one true god.”

Adrina smiled apologetically, realising that she had pushed the priest

far enough for one day. It did not particularly matter to her that they

expected her to worship their god. She wasn’t a fool and had every

intention of acting as if she had converted. But her own beliefs ran too

deep to be overturned by a priest, no matter how clever or articulate.

“I appreciate your advice, sir,” she demurred. “I hope the Overlord

will forgive my pagan ignorance.”

Vonulus looked a little suspicious, but he nodded. “The Overlord can

see into your heart, your Highness. He will judge you accordingly.”

“Well, I don’t have anything to worry about then, do I?” she asked

brightly.

“I’m sure you don’t,” Vonulus agreed warily.

Two days later, they docked at Setenton, the first real city Adrina had

seen since coming to Karien. The city boasted a sizeable wharf district

and an impressive market, but it was as dirty and crowded as every other

town she had sailed past these last few weeks. A bleak, thick-walled

castle, built on a rise that gave it a commanding view of the river and

the surrounding countryside, dominated the walled city. This was the home

of Lord Terbolt, the Duke of Setenton, and coincidentally, Chastity’s

father — so Lady Hope informed her. As they waited for the ship to

dock, Adrina glanced at the young woman, but she showed no obvious

pleasure to be home. Rather, she kept surreptitiously glancing at Cratyn,

as if trying to catch his eye. To his credit, the young prince studiously

ignored her.

The sight that greeted them as they docked brought a smile to Adrina’s

lips. A full guard of honour awaited them — her own Guard, Fardohnyan

one and all, in full ceremonial uniform.

Her father held to the notion that vast wealth was only fun when you got

to flaunt it, and he had spared no expense equipping her Guard. Five

hundred strong, every man was mounted on a sleek black steed stamped with

the unmistakable breeding of the Jalanar Plains. The soldiers were

dressed in silver and white, from their ornate silver helms and short

white capes, trimmed with rare Medalonian snowfox fur, to their white,

silver-trimmed, knee-high boots.

According to Fardohnyan legend, the custom of the royal guard wearing

white had come about almost a thousand years ago, when King Waldon the

Peaceful seized the throne from his cousin Blagdon the Butcher. His Guard

wore white so that the people would know there was no innocent blood on

the hands of his soldiers. Whatever the reason, the ceremonial uniforms

were gorgeous, and Tristan wore his with the confidence of one born to

show-off. He really was much too good-looking for his own good, Adrina

decided. She had worried that Cassandra might cause trouble in Karien. It

occurred to her that Tristan was just as likely to get into mischief. All

that repressed emotion at court, mixed with her brother, was a recipe for

disaster.

Impressed by the sight of her Guard, Cratyn offered her his hand as they

walked down the treacherous gangplank, followed by their retinue. Tristan

met them at the bottom and bowed ostentatiously.

“Your Serene Highness, your Royal Highness, the Fardohnyan Princess’s

Guard awaits the honour of escorting you to Setenton Castle,” he

announced, rather dramatically, in Fardohnyan. “Which, I might add, is

as draughty and flea ridden as every other building in this godforsaken

country and I would very much like to go home,” he added, without

changing his smile or tone.

Adrina turned to Cratyn. “My brother welcomes us, and pledges his life

to see us safely to the castle,” she translated calmly, grateful that

Vonulus was still back on the ship. Tristan really should learn to be

more careful.

Cratyn frowned. “Your brother?”

“Half-brother,” she amended. “Tristan is one of my father’s

bastards.”

A shocked gasp escaped Pacifica’s lips at Adrina’s casual remark, a

fact that was not lost on Tristan, who was not supposed to understand

Karien. He bit back a grin as Cratyn, predictably, blushed crimson.

“Ah, please tell your . . . captain . . . that we are honoured,”

Cratyn stammered. “Although I hardly think the ride from here to the

castle will be life threatening.”

“His Highness appears to be having some difficulty coping with your

baseborn status,” she translated.

“His Highness looks like he’s about to burst something. I’ll bet

you can’t wait for the wedding. Shall we?” He offered Adrina his arm,

which she accepted gracefully, with a smile over her shoulder for her

fiancé.

They rode in an open carriage up the steep, cobbled streets of Setenton

toward the castle. Crowds lined the route to catch a glimpse of the

foreigner who would one day be their queen. Adrina smiled and waved. She

was born to this, and the Kariens seemed to appreciate her acknowledgment

of them. At least the townsfolk did.

After a while, Lady Madren leaned over with a frown. “You must not

encourage them, your Highness.”

“Encourage them, my Lady? These are to be my people, are they not? I

want them to like me.”

“It doesn’t matter that they like you, your Highness,” Madren said.

“Only that they respect and obey you.”

“In Fardohnya we have a saying, my Lady: ‘A king who has the love of

his people is harder to kill than one who has their enmity’. Being

pleasant costs nothing.”

“It is unseemly, your Highness,” Madren insisted.

“And what of you, Prince Cretin? Don’t you care that the people love

you?”

“The people love the Overlord, your Highness. It is His blessing that

gives my family the right to rule. What they feel for me is irrelevant.”

“Well, you trust in the Overlord,” she told him. “I’ll just keep

smiling and waving. I’m not actually a member of your divinely

sanctioned family yet.”

Adrina turned back to the peasants, ignoring Madren’s frown and

Cratyn’s despairing look. Tristan glanced back over his shoulder from

his position at the head of the Guard and she rolled her eyes at him. He

laughed and spurred his horse forward. Adrina had a feeling it was going

to be a very long day.

Fardohnya was a nation ruled by a single line of monarchs for a

millennium. A thousand years of Fardohnyan kings governed on the

principal that a nation that prospered was a nation relatively free of

internal unrest. It had proved a sound theory and consequently, little

Fardohnyan architecture was designed with defence in mind. Aesthetics was

the overriding concern. Besides, if one was wealthy enough, one could

hire the best architects to construct fortifications that didn’t

constantly remind one of their true purpose.

The Kariens did not subscribe to the Fardohnyan notion of beauty first,

usefulness second. Setenton Castle was a fortress and pretended to be

nothing else. The walls were thirty paces high and thicker than two men

lying end to end, and the courtyard bustled with the panoply of war.

Looking around her as she alighted from the carriage in a courtyard

crowded with men, horses and the ringing of smiths’ hammers, she

wondered if the Medalonian Defenders were as good as their reputation

held them to be. She privately hoped they were. Karien was much larger

than Medalon, and could overrun the smaller country through sheer weight

of numbers, if nothing else.

Hablet needed a drawn-out conflict on the northern border of Medalon. He

could not go over the Sunrise Mountains into Hythria with an invasion

force, but once on the open plains of Medalon, he could turn south with

ease. Of course, the Kariens thought he was planning to attack Medalon to

aid their cause. It would not be until they discovered his true

destination that his treachery would be revealed. Adrina was not in

favour of the plan, mostly because she would be the focus for the

Karien’s fury when they realised they had been duped. Her father had

advised her to plan an escape route when the news came. He had seemed

singularly unconcerned that his plan might cost Adrina her head.

Lord Terbolt greeted them from the steps of his great hall. He was a tall

man with hooded brown eyes and a weary expression. But he greeted Cratyn

warmly before he turned to Adrina.

“Your Serene Highness,” he said with a small bow. “Welcome to

Setenton Castle.”

“Thank you, Lord Terbolt,” she replied graciously. “I hope our

presence will not tax your resources unduly. And you have been playing

host to my Guard. I trust they have not been a burden to you.”

Terbolt shook his head. “A few language difficulties, your Highness,

nothing more. Please, let me have you shown to your rooms. You must be

tired, I’m sure, and we men have things to discuss that will not

interest you.”

On the contrary, Adrina was vitally interested, but it would be difficult

to convince these barbarians that as a woman she might have any idea of

politics or war. “Of course, my Lord. Perhaps Tristan might be of help,

though? I am sure he could learn something from your discussions and he

might be able to offer a new perspective, don’t you think?”

“But he doesn’t speak Karien, your Highness,” Cratyn pointed out,

with a rather horrified expression.

“Oh that’s all right, I’ll translate,” she offered brightly.

“I’m really not tired, my Lords, and although as Lord Terbolt pointed

out, I will no doubt be bored witless by the discussion — we are allies

now, are we not? All that I ask is that you not speak too quickly so that

I may follow the discussion. Tristan!”

Neither Terbolt nor Cratyn looked pleased by her suggestion, and poor

Madren looked ready to faint, but she had left them little choice.

“As you wish, your Highness,” Terbolt conceded with ill grace.

She picked up her skirts and, with Tristan at her side, marched indoors.

“Adrina, does something bother you about these people?” Tristan asked

her quietly as they entered the gloom followed by the rest of the

entourage. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed Terbolt greeting

Chastity with all the warmth of a man renewing his acquaintance with a

distant relative.

“What do you mean?” she asked as she looked back at him. “They are

fools.”

“Maybe. I just wonder if we are the ones being played for fools.”

“You pick a fine time to have second thoughts, Tristan,” she muttered

as they walked the length of the rush strewn stone floor. Tall banners,

depicting both the sign of the Overlord and the Lord Terbolt’s silver

pike on a field of red hung limply from the walls. Presumably the red

background was a romantic representation of the muddy Ironbrook. “You

were the one who encouraged me to accept this arranged marriage.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I just have this feeling. I can’t define

it, but it worries me. Be careful.”

“You’re the one who should be careful. Although, I have it on good

authority that provided you confine your attentions to unmarried women,

you shouldn’t need to worry about being stoned.”

“It’s going to be a long, cold winter, I fear, Rina.”

He had not called her Rina since they were small children. “You at

least have the option of going home someday. I have to spend my life with

these people. Not to mention Prince Cretin the Cringing.”

He leaned closer to her and, although speaking Fardohnyan, even if he was

overheard, nobody here would understand him. “Look on the bright side.

He’ll be off to war in a month or two. With luck the Medalonians with

keep him there for years.”

“With luck, they’ll put an arrow through him,” she corrected with a

whisper, then turned to her fiancé and smiled serenely, every inch the

princess.

Cratyn was looking at her with an odd expression. Not dislike, exactly.

It was stronger than that. She had a bad feeling it was distaste.

CHAPTER 14

Tarja returned to the camp late in the day, letting Shadow set her own

pace, still brooding over his last argument with Jenga. The Lord Defender

was trying to hold together a disparate force, Tarja knew that, and the

knowledge that he was doing it through deception weighed heavily on him.

But it didn’t excuse his intransigence over the matter of attacking the

Kariens. The Lord Defender was willing to defend his border, but he

refused to make the first move. He wanted to wait until the Kariens

invaded. Tarja disagreed. The Karien camp had grown considerably from the

five hundred knights that had been camped there all through summer. They

should be taking the fight to the enemy and they should do it now, before

the Karien force grew so large that they would simply be overrun.

Jenga was furious when he heard that Tarja had crossed the border. Using

the same Hythrun tactics that were so effective in the south, on their

numerous cattle raids into Medalon, he had taken a handful of men into

Karien under cover of darkness and stampeded the enemy’s horses through

their camp. The ensuing destruction had been extremely gratifying — it

had probably set back their war effort by weeks. He’d only lost three

men to injury, and had considered the entire affair a small, if

significant, victory.

Jenga did not see it that way. He had exploded with fury when he learnt

of the attack, accusing Damin of being a reckless barbarian for

suggesting the idea, and Tarja of being an undisciplined fool for

listening to him.

Following his desertion two years ago, Tarja had often longed for the

chance to return to the security and brotherhood of the Corps. But now

that he was back, he discovered it was not the easy ride he had hoped. He

had liked being in command of the rebels, he realised now. He had been

raised to command, and knew, without vanity, that he was good at it.

Tarja respected Jenga, but had grown accustomed to making his own

decisions. Jenga was a good soldier but he’d been Lord Defender for

more than twenty years, and that meant he had more practice with politics

than war. Tarja had spent the best part of his adult life at war with the

Hythrun, the Defenders and now the Kariens. Jenga had not raised his

sword in anger in decades.

They still had only six thousand of the twelve thousand Defenders they

could count on, and a thousand Hythrun Raiders from Krakandar. As he

thought of the Hythrun, he wondered, as he had already done countless

times, where Damin Wolfblade was.

Nobody had seen the Warlord for nearly a month — not since the argument

with Jenga after the raid, when he announced that he was going to speak

with his god. If Almodavar knew where he was, he wasn’t saying. The

grizzled Hythrun captain seemed unconcerned by his Lord’s absence. If

Damin wished to speak with the God of War, to seek his blessing, then his

troops were not about to object. They fervently believed Zegarnald would

help them. They were counting on it, in fact.

When he reached the camp, on impulse Tarja turned toward the scattered

Hythrun tents. Perhaps Almodavar had heard something. It was becoming

increasingly difficult to reassure Jenga that Damin had not simply

deserted them.

He rode through the camp, acknowledging the occasional wave from the

Hythrun troops. The Raiders were much less respectful of rank than the

Defenders. Among the Raiders, one earnt respect through battle, not

promotion or pretty insignia. But some of these men had faced Tarja on

the southern border. They knew him for a warrior and found nothing

strange in their Warlord’s alliance with his former enemy.

The Defenders had been far less accommodating. They resented the presence

of the Hythrun and made no secret of it. Tarja thought that much of the

impressive discipline the Defenders displayed was designed to show the

Hythrun how things were done in a “proper” army. The Defenders

despised mercenaries, and most of Damin’s Raiders were just that. Tarja

was a little more tolerant. Had the rebellion not intervened, he would

likely be a mercenary himself, by now. But feelings ran strong between

the two camps and fights broke out frequently. In the beginning, Tarja

and Damin had organised training bouts between the two armies, ostensibly

to foster some sort of cohesion between the two forces. Three fatalities

put paid to that laudable sentiment, and Jenga had ordered them stopped.

Now the training was strictly segregated.

He reached the centre of the Hythrun camp and discovered a large number

of the Raiders in a cheering circle, obviously wagering on some sort of

contest. As he neared the group a cheer went up, almost drowning out an

unmistakable cry of pain. Tarja dismounted curiously, threw the reins

over Shadow’s neck and pushed his way through the crowd.

The source of the Hythrun entertainment proved to be two boys, both

bloodied and wounded. The brawl must have been going on for quite some

time, by the look of the two combatants. The older of the two was a

well-muscled, fair-haired Hythrun lad of about sixteen, an apprentice

blacksmith that Tarja had seen once or twice around the forge. The

younger boy could not have been more than ten or eleven and was

unmistakably Karien, but despite the difference in their sizes, he

appeared to be giving a good account of himself, although he was clearly

on the brink of collapse. His freckled face was almost totally obscured

by blood, his clothes torn, his eyes burning with hatred. He was

staggering to his feet as Tarja pushed through to the front of the crowd.

Tarja winced sympathetically as the older boy ran at the disoriented

Karien lad and delivered a kick to the boy’s chin that snapped his neck

back almost hard enough to break it. With a pain-filled grunt, the Karien

boy dropped to the ground. Breathing heavily, the apprentice laughed,

triumphantly standing over his vanquished foe. He reached down and

snatched the pendant from around the boy’s neck and held it up high to

the cheers of the spectators. The five-pointed star and lightning bolt of

the Overlord glittered dully in the afternoon light. Someone started up a

cry of “Finish him!” which was quickly taken up by the rest of the

spectators. The apprentice grinned at the chant and pulled his dagger

from his belt. Tarja glanced around the Hythrun and realised, with

horror, that they were serious.

“Enough!” he shouted, stepping into the clearing, his red jacket

stark against the motley browns and black chain mail of the Hythrun.

Silence descended on the circle of Raiders. Only then did Tarja wonder

about the advisability of walking into the centre of thirty-odd Hythrun

Raiders crying for blood. The Raiders stared at him, their stillness more

threatening than their chanting. He covered the distance to the startled

apprentice and snatched the dagger from his hand.

“Get back to work, boy,” he ordered in a tone that brooked no

argument.

The Hythrun boy glared at him, but stepped away from the fallen Karien. A

discontented mutter rippled through the men, until one of them, a slender

man, with a puckered scar across his throat that looked as if he had

survived having it cut, stepped forward.

“You’ve no authority here, Defender,” he said. “Go back to your

pretty-boys and leave us to deal with the Karien scum as we wish.”

Tarja could feel the animosity from the Hythrun mercenaries surrounding

him. He was far from his own troops, and Damin’s restraining influence

had weakened in his absence. With a jolt, Tarja realised he may not get

out of this alive. The mercenary stepped closer and Tarja did the only

thing he could think of, under the circumstances. He brought his elbow up

sharply into the Hythrun’s face and then kicked the stunned

mercenary’s legs from under him. The Hythrun hit the ground before the

others could react. Tarja slammed his boot down across the man’s

scarred throat and then looked up at the startled Raiders.

“Anyone else?” he asked with an equanimity he did not feel. The man

beneath his boot squirmed desperately, gasping for air, lack of oxygen

draining his strength to escape the pressure of Tarja’s boot.

“I think you’ve made your point, Captain.”

Tarja had to consciously stop himself from sagging with relief as

Almodavar appeared in the circle. The Hythrun captain barked a harsh

order at his men in their own language and the circle dissolved. Tarja

took his boot off the throat of his challenger and the man scrambled to

his feet and ran off without looking back, clutching at his neck.

Almodavar smiled grimly.

“I never thought you had a death wish, Captain,” the Hythrun remarked

with a shake of his head. “You should know better than to interfere

with Raiders when their blood is up.”

“Your Raiders should know better than to encourage cold-blooded

murder,” Tarja retorted, turning to the prone form of the Karien boy.

He knelt down beside the lad and was relieved to see his eyes fluttering

open blankly.

The Hythrun captain looked down at the boy and shrugged. “Don’t blame

my Raiders too quickly, Captain. That one asks for it daily. He wants to

die for his Overlord.”

Tarja pulled the boy to his feet. Far from being grateful, the boy seemed

disappointed that Tarja had saved him. He shook himself free and

staggered a little before drawing himself up to his full height.

“I need no help from an atheist!” he spat defiantly in broken

Hythrun. He had obviously been in the camp long enough to pick up some of

the language. He would never have learnt a heathen language in Karien.

Tarja glanced at Almodavar and then back at the boy. “Ungrateful little

whelp, isn’t he?” he said in Karien, so the boy would understand him.

Almodavar, for all that he looked like an illiterate pirate, spoke Karien

almost as well as he spoke Medalonian and Fardohnyan. Damin held that

understanding an enemy’s language, was the first step to understanding

an enemy. He had been surprised to learn that most of Damin’s Raiders

spoke several languages. His Defenders, the officers at least, could

speak Medalonian and Karien. It had been considered polite to converse

with one’s allies in their own language, but few bothered to learn the

languages of the south. It was a lesson Tarja had taken to heart,

although trying to convince Jenga that the Defenders should learn to

speak Hythrun was proving something of a chore.

“Aye,” Almodavar agreed, easily falling into the language of their

enemy. “This isn’t the first time, and I’ll wager it won’t be the

last, that he’s caused trouble. He and his brother were the ones who

brought the news of the alliance. His brother isn’t much trouble, but

you’d think this one planned to defeat us single handed.”

Tarja studied the boy curiously for a moment. “This is the Karien

spy?”

The boy bristled at Tarja’s amusement. “Atheist pig! The Overlord

will see you drown in the Sea of Despair!”

“I’m starting to regret saving your neck, boy,” Tarja warned.

“Have a care with that mouth of yours.”

“The Overlord will protect me!”

“I didn’t see him around just now,” Almodavar chuckled, and then he

changed back to speaking Medalonian without missing a beat. “You

wouldn’t consider taking him back with you, I suppose?” he asked.

“I doubt he’ll last much longer around here with that attitude.”

Tarja frowned. The last thing he needed was an uncontrollable

ten-year-old reeking havoc in their camp in the name of the Overlord. But

Almodavar was correct in his assertion that he would not last long among

the Hythrun. He pondered the problem for a moment then turned to the

captain.

“Very well, I’ll take him back with me,” he agreed, speaking Karien

so the boy could follow the conversation. “You keep his brother here.

If the boy gives me any trouble, I’ll send word. You can send back a

finger from his brother’s hand each time you hear from me. When we run

out of fingers, start on his toes. Perhaps the prospect of seeing his

brother dismembered bit by bit will teach him a little self-control.

It’s obviously not a virtue the Overlord encourages.”

The boy’s blood-streaked face paled, tears of fear and horror welling

up in his eyes. “You are a vicious, evil, barbarian bastard!” he

cried.

“A fact you would do well to remember, boy,” Tarja warned. He dare

not look at Almodavar. The Hythrun captain made a noise that sounded like

a cough, but which Tarja suspected was a futile attempt to stifle a

laugh. “Go and fetch your belongings. If you’re not back here in five

minutes, you’ll find out what your brother looks like without his left

ear.”

The boy fled as Almodavar burst out laughing. “Captain, I swear

you’re turning into a Hythrun.”

“What did you expect from a vicious, evil, barbarian bastard?”

“Truly,” Almodavar agreed. “You’ve had a busy day. First you take

on my Raiders, and then you subdue a Karien fanatic with a few words.

What’s next?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Tarja said. “You’ve no word

from Lord Wolfblade?”

“None. Don’t let it concern you, Captain. He’ll be back.”

Tarja sighed, not really expecting any other answer. He’ll be back. But

before or after the war is over? he wondered.

CHAPTER 15

Yarnarrow was a huge city, rivalling Talabar in size, although it lacked

the southern capital’s grace and aesthetic beauty. Steep pitched roofs

of grey slate covered the more substantial buildings; while the poorer

districts were simply hovels thrown together with whatever material their

pitiful inhabitants could scrounge. The vast Yarnarrow Castle loomed over

the city like a shadowed hand, and was even more forbidding than the

city, which had grown up around its slanted walls. Adrina longed for the

flat-roofed pink stone villas of Talabar, the broad balconies, the

flower-laden trellises and the heavy scent of their perfume on the still

air. She missed the wide, tree-lined streets and the gaily-dressed

citizens. Everything was grey here — the city, the sky, even the

people. Yarnarrow was depressing and dirty, and the most pervasive odour

was stale wood-smoke that hung like a pall over the city as if it were

constantly wrapped in fog.

She despaired at the thought of spending her life here.

The wedding took place with almost indecent haste, the day after Adrina

arrived. Vonulus had instructed her in the Karien wedding vows, and

Madren had ensured that she knew exactly what was expected of her. They

had barely landed in Yarnarrow when she was whisked away to her large and

rather draughty apartments to prepare herself for the ceremony the

following day. She was not even accorded the honour of an introduction to

King Jasnoff or Queen Aringard, a slight against her that had her fuming.

Tamylan, the only slave she had been allowed to keep, helped her dress on

the morning of the wedding. Her ladies-in-waiting had other duties to

attend to, it seemed, which did not bother Adrina at all. She defiantly

ignored the stiff, grey silk dress that Madren had informed her was her

wedding gown, and dressed instead in the traditional Fardohnyan bridal

outfit she had brought with her. It had been made for Cassandra

originally, but they were about the same size, so Adrina had appropriated

the gown from her younger sister, rather than explain why Japinel had not

designed a new one. It was a little tight, and she knew it would cause a

commotion, but she was still smarting over Cratyn’s obvious distaste

for his Fardohnyan bride.

Among the more interesting things she had learnt during her short stay at

Setenton Castle was that prior to the treaty with her father, Cratyn had

previously been betrothed to Chastity, and that he had broken the

engagement to marry Adrina. It accounted for Cratyn’s reluctance, and

Chastity’s pitiful demeanour whenever the prince was in the room. The

girl was obviously hopelessly in love with him and Adrina suspected he

reciprocated the young woman’s feelings. She had every intention of

making him forget the silly cow ever lived, and if anything was going to

advertise her matchless beauty, it was the traditional gown of a

Fardohnyan bride.

The gown was in two pieces. The bodice was made of deep blue lace,

threaded with diamonds, with long narrow sleeves and a low neckline that

offered a tantalising view of her ample bosom and left her midriff bare.

The skirt sat snugly on her hips, the same glorious blue as the bodice,

made up of layer upon layer of transparent silk that flowed like a

waterfall against her legs. The skirt was belted with a layer of silver

mesh. In the mesh was sheathed the small jewelled dagger that had once

belonged to her mother. Centuries ago, Fardohnyan brides had carried a

sword, but it was tradition, rather than necessity, that required the

Bride’s Blade these days, and the blade was more ornamental than

practical. It was sharp, though. She had cut her finger testing its edge

after Hablet had presented it to her the day she left Talabar.

The Fardohnyan bridal jewels completed her outfit. In her navel nested a

blue diamond of immeasurable value, matched by the sapphire and diamond

choker that encased her long neck. She wore her hair down, and it hung

past her waist in an ebony fall of silken waves, as was the tradition for

all Fardohnyan brides. Over it all, she wore a shimmering blue veil that

covered her head and the lower half of her face. The veil trailed ten

paces behind her, floating on the slight current of air created by her

passage as she took the long walk down the aisle of the vast Temple of

Xaphista to the shocked gasps of the gathered Karien nobility.

As she traversed the length of the vast temple, Adrina was quite

overwhelmed by the opulence of the building. Having seen the bleak,

austere monastery on the Isle of Slarn, the Temple of Xaphista seemed

almost garish by comparison. Tall, fluted columns of gold-flecked marble

were spaced evenly down the centre of the cathedral, supporting a vaulted

ceiling that led to a dome over the altar. The dome was lined with

thousands of tiny mother-of-pearl tiles, which reflected the sun onto the

worshippers in a spray of rainbow light.

The temple was filled to capacity with every nobleman and noblewoman in

Karien who had managed to get themselves invited to the royal wedding.

Adrina heard their shocked whispers. There was no sign of warmth among

the gathering. No familiar faces or encouraging smiles. Tristan had not

been allowed to attend, nor had any of her Guard. They waited outside,

not permitted to sully the sacred temple with their pagan presence. The

only familiar face she saw during her interminable walk down the aisle

was Vonulus, standing with the other priests at the front of the temple,

dressed in his elaborate ceremonial robes and clutching his precious

staff. The priest shook his head faintly as she caught his eye, as if

scolding her for her defiance.

She turned her attention back to the altar and the somewhat aghast figure

of Prince Cratyn. He wore black, from head to toe, the severity of his

outfit relieved only by a thin golden coronet on his head and a gold and

silver pendant in the shape of the star and lightning bolt of the

Overlord. His expression was as close to anger as she had ever seen it,

in her limited acquaintance with him. To the Seven Hells with him, she

decided. To the Seven Hells with all of them.

The ceremony was blessedly short, requiring little more from her than her

agreement to obey Cratyn in all things and be a good and upstanding

Defender of the Faith. Almost before she knew it, she was married. The

High Priest, who had spent the entire ceremony trying not to see the

considerable amount of bare flesh she was displaying, declared them man

and wife and then prostrated himself on the floor of the altar. Carefully

instructed by Vonulus, Adrina knew this was coming, and with Cratyn at

her side, followed suit. Biting back a gasp as her bare skin touched the

icy marble floor of the temple, Adrina momentarily regretted her impulse

to wear her own gown. She had forgotten about this part of the ceremony.

Every person present was required to prostrate themselves before their

god and by the sound of the muffled grunts and groans behind them, some

were finding the task easier than others.

They lay prone on the floor of the temple for a full ten minutes, the

entire temple hushed, as each member of the congregation examined their

conscience and contemplated their service to the Overlord. Adrina spent

the time wishing she could get up. That floor was freezing.

Finally, the High Priest climbed awkwardly to his feet, and the

congregation followed. Adrina turned to Cratyn and smiled, deciding to be

gracious, at least in public. He took her hand uncertainly and led her

through the temple to the muted, and rather unenthusiastic applause of

the wedding guests.

When they reached the entrance, she was relieved to find Tristan and her

Guard, once again in their glorious dress whites, waiting to escort them

back to the castle. He smiled at her encouragingly, his men holding back

the crowd, as Cratyn handed her up into the open carriage for the ride

through the streets.

She sat down and smoothed her skirts before glancing at her new husband.

He was not looking at her, but back at the temple where a sobbing

Chastity had just emerged into the rare sunlight. Adrina frowned. How did

one compete with such an insipid rival?

“You could smile, you know, husband. Getting married is supposed to be

a joyous occasion. At least in Fardohnya, it is.”

“We are not in Fardohnya now,” Cratyn pointed out, as they moved off

with a jerk. “You would do well to remember that.”

Startled by his icy tone, Adrina retorted without thinking. “You would

do well to remember who you married. Chastity will just have to stay that

way, I’m afraid.”

Cratyn glared at her, but did not reply. Despite the unusually warm day

and the waving crowds, the ride back to Yarnarrow Castle was thoroughly

unpleasant.

Had she been married in Fardohnya, the rest of the week would have been

spent feasting and dancing to celebrate the occasion of her marriage. In

Karien such revelry was considered wasteful and unseemly. On reaching

Yarnarrow Castle, Adrina was escorted to the royal apartments to meet the

Karien King — not to celebrate her marriage, but to formalise the

treaty between Fardohnya and Karien.

Jasnoff proved to be a more rotund version of his son, with the same

brown eyes and hair, although his was flecked with grey. He also wore the

same shocked expression when he saw what she was wearing. He made no

comment about it, however, and simply rose from his small throne and

accepted her curtsy as was his due.

“You will sign here,” Jasnoff ordered, as soon as the pleasantries

were taken care of. He pointed to a parchment scroll waiting on the

small, slanted desk, a tonsured scribe holding out an inked quill

expectantly.

“Certainly, your Majesty. What exactly is it that I’m signing?”

“It is a letter to your father,” Cratyn explained behind her. “It

informs him that you are married in accordance with Karien law, and that

we have kept our side of the bargain. On receipt of this letter, he will

send your dowry and begin preparations for the invasion of Medalon.”

“My dowry? Ah, you mean he will sign over sovereignty of the Isle of

Slarn, don’t you?”

Adrina took the quill from the scribe. There was something vaguely

degrading about being traded for a lump of rock. She signed the letter

with a flourish and handed the quill back to the scribe.

Jasnoff nodded with satisfaction and turned to his son. “Your mother

and I will look forward to seeing you at dinner. And your wife, of

course,” he added as an afterthought.

Cratyn bowed to his father and Adrina dropped into another low curtsy as

the King and his scribe strode from the room, leaving them alone. Adrina

turned to Cratyn questioningly. Vonulus and Madren had spent a great deal

of time instructing her on the Karien wedding ceremony, but had barely

mentioned what was supposed to happen afterwards.

“So what now, Cretin?” she asked. She waited for him to blush. This

was the first time they had ever been alone, and she had no doubt the

poor boy was probably dreading his marital duty. That, or he’d rather

be doing it with Chastity.

The slap, when it came, took her completely by surprise. Her head snapped

back and his signet cut her cheek, leaving a thin smear of blood on the

back of his hand.

Cratyn was not blushing, he was furious.

“Fardohnyan whore!” He slapped her again, this time even harder, and

she staggered under the blow. “You will never disgrace me or the Royal

House again by such a wanton public display!”

Adrina quickly decided to forgo trading blows with him. Cratyn might be a

fool, but he was stronger than she was. Such rare common sense was the

last rational thought she had as her own anger exploded.

“You will never lay a hand on me again, you gutless little turd! How

dare you hit me!”

“I dare what I please, your Highness,” he told her, his voice a quiet

rage. “I am your husband!”

“That remains to be seen! I seriously doubt your manhood is going to be

up to the task. Perhaps if I simper and pout and let you call me

Chastity, it will be easier for you?”

Cratyn raised his hand to strike her again, but this time she was ready

for him. She had her delicate and wickedly sharp Bride’s Blade at his

throat, faster than he could credit. With eyes wide, he slowly lowered

his arm.

“That’s better,” she said, holding the thin blade to his neck with

her outstretched hand. “Husband you may be, Cretin, but if you ever lay

a hand on me again, I will slit your miserable throat. Do we understand

each other?”

Cratyn nodded slowly and she lowered the knife. He rubbed his neck where

she had jabbed him, fingering the small bead of blood that came away on

his finger. He stared at her, but his expression was far from apologetic.

“I should not have hit you,” he conceded. “It was unworthy of me.

But don’t play me for a fool, Adrina, or think your threats and a table

dagger have me cowed.” He moved to the side table and poured himself a

generous cup of wine before he turned back to her, his anger replaced

with quiet certitude. “Did you really believe that we knew nothing of

your reputation? Of your lovers? I have known since we first met what you

are. Your sister’s wanton behaviour in Talabar merely played into our

hands.”

The admission stunned her. “What are you saying? You actually wanted to

marry me?”

“I married Hablet’s eldest legitimate child,” Cratyn corrected

coldly. “Any issue of yours will be heir to the Fardohnyan throne.”

“Not if my father has a legitimate son. And I have fifteen bastard

half-brothers. Father could legitimise one of them any time he wanted

to.”

“If he does, they will die. The Overlord has willed it. Fardohnya will

become the Overlord’s through the ascension of a Karien king to the

throne.”

“You are out of your mind if you think I will aid you in this!”

“You are my wife, Adrina,” he insisted stubbornly, as if there was

nothing further to be discussed on the matter. Then he added, almost as

an afterthought, “Another thing, I will require you to order your Guard

to place themselves under my command. I will be taking them to the front

with me.”

“Oh no you won’t! My father never gave you leave to use my Guard in

battle. They are under my command.”

“Then you will command them according to my wishes.”

“The Seven Hells I will! My Guard isn’t going anywhere without me,

least of all to some soggy battlefield to fight your wars for you.”

“As you wish, Adrina,” Cratyn shrugged. “If you insist, you will

accompany your Guard, but they will fight.”

“How in the name of the gods do you plan to make me order them into

battle? I’ll die before I give such an order.”

Cratyn placed the cup down carefully and crossed his arms as he studied

her. “You swear by the Primal gods. That is an offence punishable by

death. You are my wife and have sworn to obey me in the eyes of my God

and every nobleman in Yarnarrow. To defy me is punishable by death. If

that does not convince you, I am sure it will only take your bastard

half-brother and his pagans a few days to break some church law

punishable by death.”

“You hypocritical son-of-a-bitch! You have the gall to preach piety to

me yet you would calmly murder my brother in the name of your pitiful

god!”

“Be careful, Adrina,” Cratyn warned. “Insulting the Overlord is

punishable —”

“By death,” she finished impatiently. “I get the idea, your

Highness.”

“Then you will do as I command?”

Adrina could barely credit the change in him. He seemed so sure of

himself, here in Yarnarrow. The blushing princeling who had almost

fainted at the sight of the barely dressed Fardohnyan women was still

there, underneath the confident exterior, but this was his God speaking.

His faith ran so deep it was impossible to shake his belief that

everything would turn out as Xaphista willed it. As the realisation came

to her, Adrina forced her anger down. She could not fight this by having

a tantrum. She needed to have her wits about her to find a way out of

this terrible bargain.

“I have conditions,” she said.

“I have no need to grant you anything, Adrina.”

“No, you don’t,” she agreed. “But you want my cooperation, and

believe me, I am much more tractable when I have my own way.”

He nodded slightly. “As you wish, what are your conditions?”

Adrina’s mind was racing ahead, trying to think what she could ask for

that would not raise suspicion. “If I am to accompany you to the

Medalon border, I wish to do so in a manner befitting my station as your

wife. I want my full retinue, including my ladies-in-waiting.” There!

Let’s see how your precious Chastity likes roughing it on the front

with a few thousand smelly soldiers, she thought.

“I believe that can be arranged,” he conceded. “Was that all?”

“No. I want to be included in your war council. I will not allow you to

waste Fardohnyan lives without being fully informed as to your plans.”

“Absolutely not! A council of war is no place for a woman.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugged. “If you refuse me, then I will stand

up at dinner tonight and scream at the top of my voice that Xaphista is a

lying, hypocritical bastard. Somewhat like you, I imagine. Such an act

would be punishable by death, would it not? If I die, you’ll have no

heir to the Fardohnyan throne and no troops to throw at the Medalonians.

If you think I’m bluffing, then by all means, refuse me.”

He thought for a moment, weighing up, no doubt, the advisability of

calling her bluff, against the reaction of his Dukes to a woman in their

war council.

Finally he nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Very well.”

“And one other thing,” she added as an afterthought. “I want every

Fardohnyan under my command given special exemption by the Church. As you

pointed out, they are bound to break some unknown Church law, sooner or

later. It will be a lot easier for both of us if you don’t whittle away

at their numbers by hanging every transgressor for some slight, real or

imagined, against your precious god.”

Although he bristled at her tone, he was not so foolish as to deny the

logic of her request. He nodded.

“That’s it then,” she said. “I will do as you ask.” For now,

she amended silently.

“I have some conditions of my own,” Cratyn told her as she turned

away.

“Such as?”

“You will never dress in such a provocative manner again. You will

behave in a manner befitting a Karien Princess, or, Fardohnyan heir or

not, I will see you stoned.”

“Of course, your Highness,” she agreed, her voiced laced with

sarcasm. “Perhaps a hair shirt would be more suitable?”

He ignored the jibe. “And you will not speak to your half-brother, or

any of your Guard unless Vonulus is present. I will not have you making

your own plans behind my back.”

Now that could prove awkward, she thought in annoyance, but she did not

see a way around it. “You show a disturbing lack of trust in me, your

Highness.”

“A warranted lack of trust,” he retorted. “Do you agree?”

She nodded slowly. “I agree.”

“Good. In that case, you may return to your rooms and dress in

something more . . . appropriate . . . for dinner. Tomorrow, I will have

the nuns sent to you, to discuss the most opportune time in your cycle to

consummate our marriage. I do not intend to spend one moment longer in

your bed than I have to.”

Of all that had been said in the past hour, that shocked her the most. It

even hurt! How dare he!

“Just be sure that when you do deign to come to my bed, you have some

idea of what you’re supposed to do,” she retorted coldly. “As you

apparently know, I have been taught the art of lovemaking by

professionals. It would be most unfortunate if your much-needed heir to

the Fardohnyan and Karien thrones fails to be consummated because I

couldn’t stop laughing.”

The insult hit the mark as she intended, but she swept up her skirts and

strode from the room before he had a chance to answer her.

CHAPTER 16

For longer than human memory, Sanctuary had remained hidden in the

mountains named for it. It had weathered nature’s inevitable passage of

time, untouched by anything but the magical peace and serenity that

seeped through its very walls. The vast white-spired complex had watched

ages come and go, kingdoms rise and fall, mortals live and die. The gods

roamed its halls at will and the Harshini who lived there sought nothing

more than wisdom and knowledge and safety from the foibles of humanity.

Nothing had ever disturbed it.

Until now.

Until the demon child.

Brakandaran heard the laughter as he approached Korandellan’s chambers

and winced. It wasn’t that nobody laughed in Sanctuary, on the

contrary, the Harshini were happy by nature. But this was not the polite,

considerate laugh of an amused Harshini. This laugh was loud and

heartfelt and unmistakably female. The laughter echoed through the halls

with startling clarity, turning the heads of the white robed Harshini who

glided silently past him in the hall. Their black eyes were either

curious or indulgent, depending on whether or not they had any knowledge

of its source.

Brak hurried on, almost afraid to discover the reason for the demon

child’s mirth. Korandellan was a tolerant king — he had ruled the

Harshini through some of its most turbulent history — but he was

ill-equipped to handle R’shiel. She had a knack for saying the wrong

thing at the wrong time, asking awkward and frequently unanswerable

questions, and she was totally unimpressed by the pivotal role she was

expected to play in the conflict of the gods. Nor was the Harshini King

easily able to deal with the fact that she was an instrument of

destruction. It was hard for him to accept that the demon child’s

purpose was to destroy. Harder yet for him to teach her what she needed

to know to enable her to complete the task. Lorandranek, R’shiel’s

father, had been driven insane by the knowledge.

Brak opened the door to Korandellan’s chambers with a thought. The King

leapt to his feet with a relieved smile at the sight of him. He and

R’shiel were on the balcony, overlooking the hollow valley that

Sanctuary encompassed, a crystal pitcher of chilled wine between them.

Both the King and the demon child were dressed in the light linen robes

that were all the protection one needed in the atmosphere-controlled

vicinity of the Citadel. His black leathers seemed out of place. Brak

crossed the white tiled floor and bowed to his king, who seemed

inordinately glad to see him.

“Brakandaran!” Korandellan cried. “You’re back!”

“So it would seem.”

“R’shiel and I were just discussing her childhood at the Citadel,”

the King explained. “She has had a most interesting life.”

Interesting is something of an understatement, Brak thought, but it did

not explain R’shiel’s laughter.

“The King asked me if I missed my mother,” she explained, as if she

understood his confusion. “It struck me as rather funny.”

“Our worthy monarch has no concept of a personality like the First

Sister’s,” Brak agreed wryly. “But it’s good to hear you

laughing. You’re looking much better.”

Another understatement. He had never seen her look better. Cheltaran, the

God of Healing, had done more than heal the near-fatal wound she received

in Testra. It was as if he had healed her soul as well. Or maybe it was

because Death had forsaken any claim on her until the life Brak had

offered in return for hers was forfeited. Her violet eyes were shining,

and her skin was golden rather than sallow. She had put on weight, too,

now that she was eating a diet more suited to her Harshini metabolism. He

realised they would not be able to keep her here much longer, and

wondered if Korandellan realised it too. They would have taught her much

about her Harshini heritage and the power she had at her command, but

this girl was destined to destroy a god. She would not, could not, learn

all she needed within Sanctuary’s peace-filled walls.

“What news have you, Brakandaran?” the King asked. He waved his arm

and a chair appeared at the table for him. Korandellan took his own seat

and poured him a cup of wine with his own hand. Brak wanted to tell him

it wasn’t necessary, but it would have been useless. For more than

twenty years, Korandellan had been trying to prove to him that he did not

hold him responsible for Lorandranek’s death. Every small gesture meant

something to the King. Brak took the offered seat and accepted the wine.

“Not good news, I fear,” he said, glancing at R’shiel. He wondered

what her reaction would be to the news he carried. Much of her current

serenity was a direct result of Sanctuary’s magical atmosphere. And, he

privately suspected, a deliberate glamour laid on her, to take the edge

off her more extreme human emotions while her body and mind recovered.

That glamour would not hold if she ever realised it was there. She was

easily powerful enough to break through it. Ignorance of the spell was

the only thing protecting the gentle Harshini from her violent human side.

“Are the Kariens still planning to invade Medalon?” Korandellan asked

with concern. The mere thought of a war made him pale. It wasn’t

cowardice; it was simply part of being a Harshini. A part that neither

Brak nor R’shiel, being half-human, were susceptible to.

“It’s worse than that,” Brak told him. “They have allied with the

Fardohnyans.”

Korandellan shook his head, tears glistening in his totally black eyes.

“Foolish humans. Don’t they realise what such a war will cost?”

“They realise,” Brak said. “They just don’t care.”

R’shiel frowned. “Even if the Fardohnyans don’t join in the

conflict in the north, they could still send troops up the Glass River in

the south. The Defenders can’t fight a war on two fronts. They barely

have the numbers to fight on one, even with Hythrun allies.”

Brak wondered who had told her about the Hythrun. Probably the demons.

They could gossip like old women when something caught their fancy.

Korandellan said nothing, just shook his head. He was no more able to

discuss tactics than he was able to contemplate murder.

“It’s liable to escalate beyond Medalon,” Brak agreed. “If the

Fardohnyans enter Medalon from the south then they can cross into Hythria

without having to go over the Sunrise Mountains. Hablet has no interest

in Medalon, but he’d love to get his grubby little hands on Hythria.”

“We must do something!” Korandellan exclaimed. “We cannot allow the

entire world to be plunged into war. Perhaps if I ask the gods . . .”

“Well, I don’t suggest you mention it to Zegarnald,” Brak

suggested. “A global conflict would rather please the God of War. In

fact, I wouldn’t mind betting that he’s been giving it a bit of a

nudge. It must get pretty boring looking down on all those measly little

border skirmishes. We haven’t had a decent war in centuries.”

“Your disrespect will prove fatal one day, Brakandaran.”

Brak started at the voice as the overwhelming presence of the God of War

suddenly filled the chamber. Brak should have known better than to even

mention His name. Here in Sanctuary, more than any other place, to name a

god was to call him. He turned in his chair but did not rise, although

R’shiel and Korandellan did. Zegarnald took shape before them, so tall

his golden helmet brushed the ceiling, dressed in a simple dark robe that

covered him from head to toe, out of respect for Korandellan, no doubt.

The Harshini were uncomfortable with weapons and Zegarnald carried at

least one of every weapon his worshippers had devised, from a dagger to a

longbow. Brak would have bet money he had the odd catapult stashed about

his person somewhere.

“Divine One, you honour us with your presence,” Korandellan greeted

him sombrely.

The War God smiled, if such a grimace could be called a smile. “Well,

some seem more honoured than others. I would think, Brakandaran, that you

of all the Harshini would be pleased to see me. I do not offend your

sensibilities, as I do your king’s, yet he can find it in himself to be

gracious.”

“I’m half-human,” Brak shrugged. “What can I say?”

“You could start by not saying anything,” Zegarnald retorted.

“Particularly about matters you know nothing of.”

Korandellan laid a restraining hand on Brak’s shoulder — a silent

plea not to argue with the god. “Brakandaran means no disrespect,

Divine One.”

“On the contrary, Korandellan, that’s exactly what he intends.

However, in this case, he is correct. I have been giving this war a

nudge, as he so elegantly puts it.”

“Why?” R’shiel asked curiously. She had come to accept the sudden

appearance of the gods, along with a lot of other things that Brak

suspected she would not be nearly so accepting of, were she outside

Sanctuary’s magical walls.

Zegarnald turned his gaze on the demon child, as if noticing her for the

first time. “When you understand that, demon child, you will be ready

to face Xaphista.”

“I really think your faith in me is misplaced. I wouldn’t know the

first thing about killing a god.”

Surprisingly, Zegarnald nodded in agreement. “Unfortunately, you speak

the truth. Korandellan would have more chance of defeating him than you

at present, a situation I have decided to remedy.”

Brak looked at Zegarnald suspiciously. “How?”

“The demon child must leave Sanctuary and return to the humans,” the

god decreed. “You have helped her, Korandellan, but your peaceful

ministrations and Sanctuary’s magic are destroying the instincts she

will need to survive Xaphista.”

Korandellan did not appear pleased by the order. “No Harshini will be

turned out of Sanctuary, Divine One, not even when decreed by a god. The

demon child may leave if she wishes, but I will not send her away.”

“As you wish,” Zegarnald agreed, then he turned to R’shiel. “What

say you, child? Do you wish to return to your human friends?”

R’shiel barely hesitated. “No. I want to stay here.”

Zegarnald seemed almost as surprised as Brak by her words. The god

studied her closely for a moment then nodded. “I see. You are more

devious than I suspected, Korandellan, but the glamour that holds back

her emotions cannot last forever. Brakandaran, I suggest you take the

demon child into the mountains for a day. Let her breathe the air outside

of Sanctuary for a time and then ask her the same question. Her answer

will differ a great deal, I suspect.”

“What do you mean? I feel fine.”

“And happy, and calm, and contented,” Zegarnald agreed. “But can

you feel pain? Or anger? Or grief? I think you will discover such

emotions beyond you while you live within these walls.”

R’shiel looked puzzled, uncertain. Korandellan looked decidedly unhappy.

“Is this true?” she asked the Harshini king. “Have you done

something to me that stops me feeling those things?”

“It was necessary, child,” Korandellan told her, as incapable of

lying as he was of causing pain.

“But it can’t be,” she insisted. “I have no holes in my memory. I

remember everything. And everyone.”

“And yet you feel nothing?” the god asked. “You feel no loss for

your friends, no anger at being betrayed, no fear for their safety? Take

my advice, leave these walls for a time and see if you feel the same.

When you wish to return to your friends, call me. I will see you

delivered safely to them.”

The god was gone an instant later, leaving a very confused young woman

behind. Brak glanced at the King and shook his head. “You cannot fight

the inevitable, Korandellan.”

The King sighed. “I’m Harshini, Brakandaran. I cannot fight

anything.”

CHAPTER 17

Adrina intended to make Cratyn pay for striking her, and pay dearly. Such

an act was beyond unforgivable. In the finest traditions of mort’eda

— the ancient Fardohnyan art of revenge — she quite coldly and

deliberately planned to make him rue the day he ever laid eyes on her.

Her first step was acquiescing to his demands. Overnight, Adrina became

the perfect Karien Princess — so perfect that it brought suspicious

stares from Madren and Vonulus, both of whom viewed her transformation

with suspicion. Lacking proof to the contrary, however, there was little

they could do, given Adrina’s exemplary behaviour. Cratyn did not seem

surprised. He no doubt considered it a direct result of his ultimatum,

and Adrina was happy to let him think that way until she was ready to

teach him otherwise.

Adrina dressed according to Karien custom, wore her hair in a snood, as

was proper for married Karien Ladies, and followed Cratyn the required

three paces behind him whenever they appeared in public together. She

converted to the Overlord with remarkable conviction and even attended

morning prayers in the chilly Temple with Queen Aringard each morning at

dawn. She embroidered with her ladies and planned menus with commendable

frugality. She gave alms to the poor on Fifthdays and met with the nobles

of her husband’s court with eyes lowered demurely. She wore no

cosmetics and trimmed her long nails to the short blunt shape the Kariens

preferred. In short, she gave nobody a single excuse to fault her

behaviour.

Of course, there were any number of ways to get at Cratyn, the easiest

target being the hapless Lady Chastity.

Adrina suddenly decided that she preferred the Lady Chastity’s company

to others’. She began to foster a friendship with the girl that

culminated some three weeks after her wedding in a long session of

“girl-talk”, which centred mostly on Cratyn. A single afternoon was

all it took to reduce the poor girl to tears as Adrina waxed lyrically

about the prince, about how many children they would have, about how

handsome he was and how lucky she was that some other woman hadn’t

snatched him up before now. When Chastity had all she could stomach she

excused herself hastily. Adrina could hear her sobbing from down the hall.

Teasing Chastity was poor sport, though, and it put Cratyn in a foul

mood. He burst into her rooms as she bent over her needlework and ordered

Tamylan out, his pale face flushed with rage.

“What did you do?”

“I wasn’t aware that I had done anything, your Highness. Could you be

a little more specific?”

“The Lady Chastity is distraught! What did you say to her?”

“We were merely discussing married life. I was endeavouring to

enlighten her about the joys of conjugal bliss.” She smiled at him

sweetly and added, “Such that it is.”

“You are not to discuss such things with her!”

“Why ever not?” There was nothing she had said or done that he could

fault her for without crossing into dangerous moral territory, and they

both knew it. “Could it be that the Lady Chastity still harbours some

affection for you, my dear? Now that would be awkward wouldn’t it, you

being married to me . . .”

She let the rest of the sentence hang. The young prince stormed out of

the room, muttering to himself about foreign whores.

Adrina was getting very tired of being referred to as a foreign whore.

But there were other ways to punish him. Her first real chance came when

they began their preparations for their trip to the border. Adrina held

Cratyn strictly to his promise to see her accommodated in a manner

befitting her station, and by the time they left Yarnarrow, her entourage

was almost as large as the force of knights and foot soldiers

accompanying them. She would happily have beggared him, given half a

chance, and it was only Jasnoff’s intervention that prevented her from

doing just that. As soon as the King complained, Adrina ceased her

outrageous demands, but by then the damage had been done. Adrina and her

ladies were going off to war in style.

Adrina’s most subtle, and by far her most effective revenge she aimed

at Cratyn’s manhood. The nuns had dutifully visited Adrina the day

after her wedding to discuss her cycle in rather unpleasant detail, and

they determined the most opportune time to conceive was eight days after

the wedding. Adrina’s bed remained empty until that time. When the

designated night finally arrived, Adrina excused herself early and spent

a considerable amount of time preparing for Cratyn’s visit, including

preparing a small quantity of the mixture that would ensure that in the

unlikely event that Cratyn actually desired her, his body would not

respond.

Getting Cratyn to accept the laced wine had been easy. She had a feeling

he could only bring himself to touch her if he wasn’t entirely sober.

She then waited, with an expectant look, for Cratyn to make the first

move. His fumbling and ultimately futile attempts to consummate their

union left her weak with ridiculing laughter. Cratyn fled the chamber in

embarrassment and she did not lay eyes on him for two whole days

afterwards. Altogether an entirely satisfactory outcome, she decided.

But Adrina was determined that no child would ever come from this union,

so she set about making certain it never did. She knew enough herb lore

to ensure she would not suffer an unwanted pregnancy — it was a

necessity for any woman in a society where court’esa were the norm. But

the easiest way to prevent a pregnancy was simply not to let Cratyn into

her bed on the days designated by the nuns as suitable. There was also

the added bonus that if the marriage remained unconsummated for a year

and a day, under Karien law she would be free of Cratyn entirely.

One of the lesser-known advantages of being instructed in the arts of

love by a court’esa was learning how to cool a man’s ardour as easily

as arousing it. It was a skill every court’esa owned — even

professional lovers needed a night off occasionally — but it was a

skill rarely passed on to their masters or mistresses. If one’s

paramour knew what one was up to, it was impossible to guarantee success.

It only worked on an inexperienced lover, and that description fitted

Cratyn better than his custom-made armour. There were drugs too, one

could use, although they were a closely guarded secret among the

court’esa. Adrina had extracted those secrets from Lynel, a dark-eyed

court’esa from Mission Rock in southern Fardohnya, for the promise of a

minor title. So grateful had she been to learn the arts and acquire the

drugs, that she even kept her promise, and as far as she knew, Lynel was

still happily ensconced in his own small manor near Kalinpoor on the

Jalanar plains. In the days and weeks that followed her marriage to

Cratyn, she often had cause to silently thank the man.

But her revenge did not stop there. While it was intensely satisfying to

her to watch Cratyn crumble with mortification every time she glanced at

him, the real fun came from making it known that the Crown Prince of

Karien was impotent.

Her first step was to cry, quite convincingly, on Madren’s shoulder

about her inability to arouse her husband. Madren, of all her retinue,

was the most suspicious and the most watchful. Adrina blamed herself, of

course and almost choked when Madren delivered her stiff and rather

unimaginative suggestions on how to deal with the situation. As she had

made certain that the servants would overhear her heartbroken confession,

within a day the news was all through the castle. Tamylan reported that

the kitchens were abuzz with rumours and that even the stableboys had

heard. By the time their vast caravan left Yarnarrow there was not a man

or woman in the castle, serf or noble, who had not heard the rumour that

Cratyn’s manhood was in doubt.

The effect such rumours had on Chastity was predictable. The girl was

torn between horror that her love might be impotent and delight that he

had not slept with Adrina. That the pale skinned blonde lusted after

Cratyn was so obvious, Adrina wondered that she hadn’t been hauled off

and stoned for her adulterous thoughts. On the other hand, there was many

a duke who would have preferred a Karien queen, and Adrina wondered if

she would survive the birth of a son, should she be so foolish as to

conceive. A claimant to the Fardohnyan throne did not need a Fardohnyan

mother to raise him, and everybody knew how perilous childbirth could be.

Adrina refused to give any of these fanatics an opportunity to rearrange

the world to their liking. She would suffer the humiliation of Cratyn

only coming to her rooms when she was likely to conceive; she would

tolerate Madren’s hawk-like scrutiny and Vonulus’ pious instruction.

She would bear King Jasnoff’s obvious distaste and Queen Aringard’s

sour disapproval. She would even put up with the miserable Karien weather.

Until she found a way out of this mess, Adrina didn’t really have much

choice.

Tristan was predicably unhappy about being ordered to the border, but as

she had promised Cratyn she would not speak to him alone, she had not had

the chance to explain it to him before they left Yarnarrow. In fact,

getting a message to Tristan became more and more important as they drew

closer to the border. She was afraid he would do something reckless. He

knew the terms of the agreement under which he and his soldiers were in

Karien, and knew that she was flying in the face of Hablet’s express

wishes by ordering her Guard to the front.

Hablet wanted the Hythrun so involved in the Medalon conflict that they

would not notice the direction his army was heading when then crossed the

southern border of Medalon. Loaning her Guard to Cratyn to ensure a quick

victory in the north was not liable to help her father’s cause, and she

was far more concerned about his reaction than anything Cratyn might

threaten her with. Hablet was not a man who took disruption of his plans

well. The problem kept her awake night after night, until one morning, as

she sat on a small stool in her sumptuous travelling tent, while Tamylan

brushed out her long hair before she dressed for the day’s travel. She

studied the former slave in the mirror thoughtfully. She really was quite

a pretty young woman.

“Tam, do you like Tristan?”

The question startled her. “Tristan?”

“Yes. You know, Tristan. Tall. Fair. Golden eyes. Good looking and

entirely too aware of the fact?”

Tamylan smiled. “Do I like him? I suppose.”

“Good,” Adrina announced with satisfaction. “I want you to become

his lover.”

The brush halted mid-stroke as Tam stared at her in the mirror. “You

want me to be Tristan’s lover?”

“Don’t act so thick, Tam. You heard me. You’re both Fardohnyan, far

from home. Nobody would look twice.”

“Your Highness, I appreciate your . . . thoughtfulness . . . but

somehow, I don’t think your brother is interested in the likes of me.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Tam,” Adrina told her cheerily.

“You’re very pretty and there isn’t a court’esa for a thousand

leagues, so Tristan can hardly afford to be choosy now, can he?” She

laughed at the young woman’s expression. “Oh Tam, don’t look so

horrified. Don’t you see? I can’t speak to Tristan without that

vulture Vonulus around. If everyone thinks you and Tristan are lovers,

they won’t question you visiting him.”

“If they think Tristan and I are lovers, I’m likely to get stoned.”

“No you won’t. The Fardohnyans have been given a special exemption by

the Church. You’ll be safe enough. Far safer than me, in fact.”

Tamylan scowled unhappily. “I don’t like this place, your Highness.

I’d rather you figured out a way to get us home.”

“I’m working on it, Tam,” Adrina assured her. “Believe me, I’m

working on it.”

There was one bright spot in her miserable existence, and it came from

the most unexpected source. The day after her wedding, Drendyn,

Cratyn’s cheerful cousin, had paid her a visit carrying a large wicker

basket, which he placed gently on the rug in front of the hearth before

turning to her with a beaming smile.

“I have brought you a wedding gift,” he announced.

“And it’s a beautiful basket, too,” she agreed graciously.

“Basket? Oh! No! It’s what’s inside!”

Curiously Adrina lifted the lid and peered inside. A wet nose thrust

itself at her and a long sloppy tongue slapped her face. Laughing

delightedly, she threw back the lid and lifted the puppy out. He was tan

in colour, his shaggy coat thick and soft. The pup was enormous, even at

such a young age, and she struggled to lift him.

“He’s beautiful!” she cried. “What is he?”

“He’s a dog,” Drendyn explained, a little confused.

“I know he’s a dog, silly, but what sort of dog? We have nothing this

big in Fardohnya. If he gets much bigger I’ll be able to saddle him!”

“He’s a Karien hunting dog,” the young Earl told her. “You said

you liked hunting, so I thought you could train him now. We breed the

best hounds in Karien in Tiler’s Pass. Do you like him?”

She pushed away the sloppy kisses of her new friend and laughed. “Oh

Drendyn, I love him. Thank you so much.”

The Earl looked very pleased with himself. “Nothing is too good for our

future queen. You will have to think of a name for him.”

“I shall call him . . . Tiler! In honour of your home.”

Tiler had not left her side since. The dog grew at an alarming rate, and

consumed enough to keep a peasant family well fed. He was, besides

Tamylan and Tristan, the only soul in Karien who seemed to love her

unreservedly. Adrina found it strange that she, having been raised in

excessive luxury with anything she wanted there for the asking, should

find such joy in such a shaggy, clumsy beast.

CHAPTER 18

Brak could have followed R’shiel’s path through the mountains with

little difficulty, even had a demon not appeared to show him the way. The

little grey creature was young and it could barely speak, but it tittered

with concern and kept looking over its small grey shoulder to ensure Brak

was still following, as it led the way through a forest carpeted in the

fiery shades of autumn.

When he finally reached her he hesitated. She was sitting on the edge of

a precipice, dressed in dark riding leathers, her feet dangling over a

long sheer drop that disappeared into mist.

“I’m not suicidal, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she

said without looking at him. The little demon scrambled up the rest of

the path and climbed into her lap.

“Did you bring him here? Traitor.”

She turned to face Brak. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks tear

stained. “Did they send you to find me?”

“It’s a curse. All I seem to do these days is chase after you.”

When he reached the ledge he sat down beside her and admired the view

silently for a moment. The steep mountains were still snow capped, even

at this time of year, and the air was pleasantly cool. He could see

Sanctuary’s tall spires in the distance, but only because he knew they

were there. To mere human eyes, the spires looked like any other steep

peaks in this vast range full of them. “Korandellan was worried about

you.”

“He did this to me. It serves him right.”

“Nobody meant to hurt you, R’shiel. They did it to protect you.”

“Did they know how much it would hurt when it wore off?”

“Probably not. Harshini don’t really understand human emotions. But

when you came here, you were dying. They did what they had to.”

She wiped her eyes impatiently. “I know that. That’s what makes it so

infuriating. You have no idea how hard it is to stay angry at these

people.”

“I do know,” he assured her. “Better than you, girl. I’ve lived

between two worlds for centuries.”

She glanced at him curiously. “Will I live as long as you?”

Brak shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose you will. Most half-humans

seem to inherit Harshini longevity. You might fall off this precipice at

any moment too, so don’t tie yourself into knots trying to predict the

future.”

“Is that how you get by?”

“That and large quantities of mead,” he replied with a thin smile.

She looked at him sharply then smiled when she realised he was joking.

“You don’t really fit in here, do you Brak?”

“No more than I fit in a human world. But don’t let my inability to

find my niche in the world deter you from trying to find yours.”

“I was under the impression my niche was already carved in stone,”

she pointed out sourly. “I am the demon child, am I not?”

“R’shiel, nobody is going to make you face Xaphista until you’re

ready. Stop worrying about it. If you really are meant to tackle

Xaphista, there will come a time when you won’t need to be asked.

You’ll want to do it.”

“I can’t see that happening anytime soon.”

“As I said, don’t tie yourself into knots trying to predict the

future.”

R’shiel did not answer him for a while. She stared out over the

mountains, idly scratching the young demon behind its large wrinkled ear.

Finally she turned to him, the tears under control for the time being.

“Does Tarja think I’m dead?”

The question surprised him a little. He had not expected her to be able

to think things through so rationally yet. The first time he had broken

through a glamour designed to suppress his emotions, he’d been

incoherent for days.

“I suppose so. Nobody has told him otherwise that I’m aware of.”

“He’s done his grieving then,” she sighed. “And I will live to

see him whither and die an old man. I’m not sure I can deal with

that.”

“The way Tarja finds trouble, it’ll be a bloody miracle if he lives

to be an old man, so I wouldn’t let that stand in your way.”

She frowned at his poor attempt at humour. “You’re pretty tactless,

for a Harshini, aren’t you?”

“I’m the bane of their existence,” he agreed. “At least I was

until you came along and relieved me of the title. However, it seems I am

doomed to serve your cause, whether I like it or not.”

“There’s no need to be so gallant about it.” She turned back to the

glorious view and was silent for a time before she spoke. “I wish I

knew what to do, Brak.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to go home. But there’s a small problem. I don’t seem to

have a home any longer. Sanctuary isn’t where I belong, I know that

now, and I can hardly go back to the Citadel.”

“No, that’s probably not a good idea,” he agreed with a faint smile.

“What happened to Joyhinia?” she asked abruptly. “Did Tarja kill

her?”

“Dacendaran stole her intellect. Then Tarja destroyed it. She lives,

but she’s as innocent and harmless as a child, now. I suppose she’s

on the border with the Defenders. We’d have heard if she returned to

the Citadel in that condition.”

“And this Hythrun who is helping Tarja, what’s he like?”

“Damin Wolfblade? You’d like him. He’s almost as good at finding

trouble as Tarja. I sometimes think it was a mistake bringing those two

together. I’m not sure the world is ready for either of them.”

“And Lord Draco?”

Brak sighed heavily. “R’shiel, if you’re so anxious to see how they

are, go to them. Zegarnald has already offered to take you. You can’t

stay here forever and you don’t want to, anyway. Follow your instincts.

Destiny has a habit of catching up with you, no matter how hard you try

to outrun it. Believe me, I speak from experience.”

“Were you destined to kill my father?”

Brak stared at her, aghast at the question. It took him a moment to

recover himself enough to answer her. “I don’t know, R’shiel.

Perhaps I was. One of the advantages of being destined to do things, is

that it can take the place of a conscience for a while.”

“Korandellan says you’ve been trying to outrun your destiny your

whole life.”

“Does Korandellan often discuss my failings with you?”

“He uses you to illustrate the pitfalls of being half-human.”

Brak scowled at her but offered no comment.

“You think I should go back, don’t you?” she sighed.

“It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what you think that counts.”

“I’m afraid,” she admitted.

“Of what?” he asked curiously. “Tarja?”

She nodded. “I’m afraid he’s accepted that I’m dead. Suppose

he’s moved on? Suppose he’s found someone else?”

Brak snorted impatiently. “Suppose you stop being such an idiot! Gods,

R’shiel! Zegarnald was right. You’re turning into a mouse. Have a bit

of faith, girl! The man loves you. Six months wondering if you’re dead

isn’t going to change that. If it has, then he never loved you in the

first place, so you might as well be rid of him. Either way, put us all

out of our misery and go find out for yourself instead of sitting here on

the top of a mountain bemoaning your lot in life.” He did not add that

Kalianah had made certain Tarja would never love another. She did not

need to know that.

R’shiel glared at him, startled at his outburst. Months of the

eternally accommodating Harshini had left her unprepared for a little

human aggravation.

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

“Why not? That’s what you’ve been asking me. You want me to tell

you what you should do, so that if it doesn’t work out you won’t have

to blame yourself. Well, thanks, R’shiel, but I have enough of my own

burdens to lug around without taking on yours as well.”

He watched the anger flare in her violet eyes with relief. Her spirit was

still there, underneath the shock from the glamour and the effects of her

time spent in the smothering peace of Sanctuary. It was rare that he

agreed with the War God, but in this case, Zegarnald was right. R’shiel

would wither if she stayed here much longer. This girl had faced down

three hundred angry rebels, she had been raped, imprisoned, and mortally

wounded by the woman she grew up thinking was her mother. None of it had

been able to break her. But much longer within Sanctuary’s calming

walls and the human shell that had protected her inner strength would be

dissolved.

Pushing the demon from her lap, she scrambled to her feet and brushed

down the leathers before turning on him. “I don’t need you to tell me

what I want to do. I’ll go where I want, when I want, and you can go to

the lowest of the Seven Hells, for all I care!”

She stormed off down the path, the little demon tumbling in her wake.

Brak watched her go with a faint smile.

“Deftly handled, Lord Brakandaran.”

Brak turned towards the deep voice, unsurprised to find the old demon

Dranymire behind him. “I thought you’d be around somewhere. You could

have helped, you know.”

The little demon sat down beside Brak with a smug expression. “If she

had fallen off this cliff, I would have been there in an instant. But

some things are best left to one’s own kind.”

“It’s not my responsibility to protect her. That’s supposed to be

your job.”

Dranymire nodded sagely. “And protect her I will, Brakandaran,” he

said. “But I can only save her from outside danger. I cannot save her

from herself.”

CHAPTER 19

Mikel of Kirkland found it hard to be brave in the Defender Camp. Among

the Hythrun it had been easy. There he had Jaymes to support him. Jaymes

was always brave. Jaymes hadn’t blabbed about the Fardohnyan alliance

trying to make himself sound important. Jaymes had been quiet and sullen

and strong.

The Hythrun were quick to anger and easy to provoke, and Mikel felt it

was his solemn duty to do what he could to sabotage their war effort. He

had honoured the Overlord countless times in the weeks he spent among

them, cursing the soldiers, spitting in their stew whenever he got the

chance, and making a general nuisance of himself. It had been easier once

the Warlord left. The big blonde Hythrun had frightened the boy more than

he was willing to admit, but once he was gone, Mikel found his courage

increased. The fight with the blacksmith’s apprentice had been the last

in a long line of skirmishes with his captors.

The Defenders were different, however. They did not listen to his insults

or his curses, or if they heard them, they simply laughed indulgently at

him. Even more humiliating was the fact that the captain who had saved

him from the apprentice and taken him to the other camp had placed him in

the care of a woman! Her name was Mahina and he was supposed to call her

Sister, even though she wasn’t a nun and didn’t deserve the title.

Worse, when the little old lady, who reminded him of his own Nana, had

gotten hold of him, she took one whiff of his ragged tunic and ordered

him to bathe. She then stood over him while the deed was done, to ensure

he was properly clean. Everybody knew that taking off all your clothes

was a sin against the Overlord and it was a well-known fact that total

immersion in water was bad for you and gave rise to unhealthy vapours.

But she had stood there like a slave-master on a Fardohnyan galley and

made him wash every part of his body. She then added insult to injury by

trimming his hair and making him wear a pair of cast-off Defender’s

trousers and a pleated linen shirt several sizes too big for him. His

tunic and hose she rather ceremoniously burned on the hearth, holding her

nose as she did so.

As praying to the Overlord had always evoked a reaction from the Hythrun,

he was startled when his prayers drew nothing from Mahina and the

Defenders but bored looks and, in some cases, stifled yawns. The

Defenders did not seem offended by his prayers. They just didn’t care!

His devotions meant nothing to them. They were atheists who considered

worshipping the gods a quaint and rather laughable custom. That hurt

almost as much as the thought that his misbehaviour might cost Jaymes a

finger.

The Defenders were frighteningly well disciplined, a fact which surprised

the boy. They were under the command of a tall, hard-looking man called

Lord Jenga, but it was the captain who had brought him here who scared

him most. His name was Tarja Tenragan, and every night, when Mikel said

his prayers to the Overlord, he prayed his god would strike the man down.

Mikel burned with hatred for the tall Medalonian who had so calmly

ordered Jaymes dismembered if Mikel misbehaved. Although he was only a

captain, everybody seemed to listen to him, even Lord Jenga, and he had

faced down the Hythrun Raiders without blinking. Mikel was sure there was

nothing on this world that could scare him — and that scared Mikel,

because he knew that in battle, the Medalonians would not run in the face

of the first concerted charge, as he had often heard Duke Laetho boast.

In fact, much of what Mikel had heard in the Karien camp was proving to

be incorrect. The Hythrun did not eat human babies for breakfast and the

red-coated Defenders weren’t weaklings dressed up in fancy uniforms and

playing at being soldiers. They were hard men and well trained. Much

better trained than the Kariens, Mikel suspected. Where the Karien camp

spent time boasting of past victories on the jousting field or

anticipating future glories, these soldiers were on the training field in

Medalon.

They were much better supplied too, Mikel discovered. Unlike the Kariens,

the Medalonians and their Hythrun allies had a constant supply line from

the Glass River, and they lived like kings compared to his own people. He

had eaten more since being a captive than he had since arriving on the

front as Lord Laetho’s page some four months ago. He began to wonder if

it was a sin to eat so well, but when he refused to eat, Mahina had

threatened to have him force fed. When that threat had not worked, Mahina

called Tarja in. The captain had looked at him coldly and simply asked

one question.

“Left hand or right hand?”

Mikel had not missed a meal since and never again brought up the topic of

sinning by eating too well.

Mahina had set him to performing chores around the camp, which in truth

did not vary much from what had been asked of him as Lord Laetho’s

page. He waited tables and filled wine jugs and ran errands for the old

woman, all the while keeping his eyes and ears open. Mikel was certain he

would eventually be rescued. If not, there was always a chance he could

escape — except that if he did, Tarja was likely to kill Jaymes, so he

tried not to think about it too much. But if the chance ever arose, he

wanted to take back as much intelligence as possible to Lord Laetho.

Perhaps even Prince Cratyn or King Jasnoff would want to hear his

information. Mikel managed to spend a good deal of time in idle dreams of

his triumphant return to the Karien camp, bearing the one vital piece of

information that would ensure a Karien victory.

In the meantime, he performed his chores doggedly, determined to give

Tarja no reason to harm his older brother. Mahina was often distracted,

but she was not unkind and it was hard to hate her. In fact, it was hard

to hate many of the Medalonians, although his loathing of Tarja Tenragan

never wavered. Most of them treated him well, if not out of kindness,

exactly. Mikel suspected it was because they did not consider him a

threat. He had grandiose, if rather vague plans to disabuse them of that

notion some day and he prayed to the Overlord every night before he slept

that his god would show him the way.

The Defenders’ camp spread out across the plain in neat lines of

identical tents, radiating from the old keep in the centre, which served

as the temporary command post for the Medalonian forces. The Defenders

called it Treason Keep, which Mikel thought the strangest name. It was

here that Mikel did his chores for Mahina. It was here that Lord Jenga,

Tarja Tenragan and another dangerous looking man called Garet Warner met

with the savage Captain Almodavar and a passionate young man called

Ghari, to make their plans. Mikel had not worked out exactly what

Ghari’s position was in the Medalon forces, but he was often called in

to discuss matters of import, although he had little to offer in the way

of tactical advice. He seemed to be in charge of all sorts of other

things — tasks that were vital to the war effort but not directly

involved in the fighting.

Mikel was amazed at how little time the Medalonians spent discussing

actual battle plans. They spent a lot more time worrying about supplies

and ammunition and feed for the horses and securing enough fuel to see

them through the winter. He supposed it was because they did not have the

Overlord to protect them. Such mundane matters were rarely discussed in

the Karien camp. The Overlord would provide.

Mikel had a natural ear for languages, and it was not long before he

could make sense of what they were saying. Astonishingly, once Mahina

realised he could understand what was being said, far from discouraging

him, she took time out to give him lessons and even boasted to Tarja at

how quickly he was picking up the language. Tarja had actually smiled!

Of all things in the Defenders’ camp that confused or surprised Mikel,

the strangest by far was the Crazy Lady. She had rooms in the restored

upper level of Treason Keep, heavily guarded by Defenders and a sad

looking man called Lord Draco who said little and kept to himself in the

chambers above the great hall. Lord Draco frightened Mikel, and not

simply because of his physical resemblance to Tarja. The man had an air

about him that spoke of emotions Mikel was too young to define. The only

redeeming features that Mikel could see were his devotion to the Crazy

Lady and the fact that any time Lord Draco and Tarja were in the same

room you could almost see the hatred between them like streaks of jagged

lightning. He did not know why Tarja hated Lord Draco and was too afraid

to ask anyone the reason, but it made him feel a little better to know

that all was not as perfect as it seemed in the Medalonian camp.

The Crazy Lady never left her room. Mikel had seen her once, when Mahina

had sent him to her chamber with a document she had to sign. The guards

had opened the door for him and Affiana, the tall, no-nonsense woman who

seemed to be the Crazy Lady’s nurse, had met him inside. Affiana had

relieved him of the scroll and bustled him out the door, but not before

he caught a glimpse of the Crazy Lady sitting on the floor in the centre

of the chamber, clutching a ragged doll and humming tunelessly. The

guards outside had shooed him away, leaving him burning with curiosity

regarding the Crazy Lady’s identity.

The third week into Mikel’s internment in the Defender camp, Mahina

sent him to find Tarja. A messenger had arrived from the front with news,

and she wanted to see him. It must be something important, he knew, but

he was sent away before he could learn what it was.

While Mikel dreaded the thought of seeking Tarja out, he was looking

forward to the opportunity to visit the training ground legitimately. He

hurried through the camp, ignored by Defenders who considered him not

worth noticing. The day was quite cold and still. Swirls of dust floated

through the camp like smoke eddies. Mikel all but ran, knowing the

quicker he got there, the more time he could spend watching the Defenders

before he had to approach Tarja.

The training ground covered a vast area north of Treason Keep. It was

dusty and noisy, the long grass scuffed bare by the boots of thousands of

men training for war. He slowed as he reached the field, weaving his way

cautiously between groups of men charging with pikes at targets nailed to

posts buried deep in the ground. A little further on another troop

bearing red-painted shields was practising a set of striking sword blows.

The sergeant in charge bellowed impatient instructions about turning

hands, and standing side-on, and told one hapless young man that if he

continued to use his shield as a counter-balance instead of protection he

would undoubtedly have the honour of being the first trooper to die in

defence of Medalon.

A little further on Mikel watched in awe as a troop of Hythrun Raiders

practised, mounted on their beautiful golden steeds. They were shooting

into melons mounted on short poles, which exploded in a ruddy mess as

wave after wave of them galloped towards the targets; they loosed their

arrows side-on, reloaded and fired at the next target without missing a

beat. The Raiders steered their horses with their knees and rode as if

nothing could unseat them. Karien knights picked their horses for their

ability to carry the weight of an armoured man. Agility and speed were

secondary concerns. Mikel thought of Lord Laetho’s huge and very

expensive warhorse, which looked clumsy and cumbersome compared to the

sleek Hythrun mounts, and wondered how he would fare in a battle.

He moved on in the direction Mahina had told him Tarja would be, watching

the Hythrun horsemen over his shoulder as he hurried forward. He stopped

again for a moment to watch another group attacking a number of armoured

targets, practising slowly and deliberately as they aimed for the

vulnerable places in the armour with deadly precision. Mikel frowned as

he watched them. Although every man here was training for war, these men

were specifically training to kill or disable the knights who would lead

the charge. He shuddered at the thought. The Medalonians seemed to be

taking this war a lot more seriously that his own people. But then they

had to, he reminded himself. They were outnumbered and they did not have

the Overlord on their side.

“Here, lad, what are you doing hanging about the field?”

Mikel jumped guiltily and turned to the man who had challenged him. It

was Ghari, he discovered with relief. Ghari did not frighten him nearly

as much as the Defenders.

“Sister Mahina sent me to find Captain Tenragan.”

Ghari placed his hand on Mikel’s shoulder with a friendly smile.

“Let’s go find him then, shall we? I’m looking for him too.”

Mikel nodded a little uncertainly and let Ghari lead the way. He watched

the man out of the corner of his eye, expecting to see some sign that

Ghari’s friendliness was feigned, but the young man simply glanced down

at him and smiled again. Mikel could not understand these people at all.

Tarja was on the far side of the training ground, stripped down to

trousers and boots and sweating in the cold sunlight. He was training

with another man, a little older than he, and both men were breathing

hard, dust clinging to their sweaty skin as they traded blows. Both had

the musculature of men who spent hours with a sword, but Mikel was

astounded to see Tarja’s back scarred with the unmistakable mark of the

lash. He was savagely pleased to think that someone had lashed Tarja. He

would like to meet the man and thank him.

The sound of metal against metal rang loudly as Tarja and his opponent

moved back and forth, neither man trying to gain the advantage, simply

working muscles to the point of fatigue and beyond to strengthen them.

Mikel had heard one of the Medalonians say that it was the training you

did after you reached the point of exhaustion that really counted.

Everything you did up to that point was just warming up.

Tarja saw them approaching and held up his hand to halt the fight. His

opponent lowered his sword and glanced at Mikel and Ghari. Realising that

their appearance heralded the end of their bout, he raised his blade in

salute to Tarja with a weary smile.

“You’re getting slow, Tarja. I can still stand up.”

“I’m getting slow,” Tarja laughed as he returned the salute.

“More likely some Karien knight is going to make a trophy of your

hide.”

The older man chuckled. “Perhaps, but he’ll have trampled you getting

to me.” Captain Alcarnen picked up his shirt off the ground and wiped

his forehead with it, then threw it over his shoulder. “Ghari,” he

said with a nod as he walked past the young man.

“Captain,” Ghari replied, with a surprising amount of angst. Mikel

looked at him curiously. He didn’t like Nheal at all, that much was

obvious.

“You didn’t come looking for me for the pleasure of my company, I

suppose?” Tarja asked. He slipped his shirt over his head but did not

bother to tuck it in to his trousers.

“No,” Ghari agreed. “There’s a bit of trouble brewing in the

followers’ camp. I thought maybe you could do something.”

The captain did not seem pleased. “What is it this time?”

“Some of our people tried to set up a temple to Zegarnald. The

Defenders tore it down.”

“Heathen worship is against the law, Ghari. You know that and so do

they.”

Ghari placed his hands on his hips and glared at Tarja. “Damn it,

Tarja, we followed you here to save Medalon from the Kariens. You told us

things would change, that we’d be free to worship our gods —”

“All right, I’ll speak to Jenga,” Tarja promised, obviously not

pleased by the prospect then he turned his gaze on Mikel, who shivered

with apprehension.

“And what of you, boy?” he asked abruptly. “What are you doing

here?”

“Sister Mahina . . . she sent me to . . . a messenger came . . . from

the front . . . she said . . .” Mikel could have cried as he stuttered

under the scrutiny of the captain.

“I gather that means Sister Mahina has received a messenger from the

front and she wants to see me?” he translated condescendingly.

Mikel’s hatred surged through his veins like lava. I will kill this man

one day, he swore silently. Tarja seemed oblivious to his animosity.

“This could mean things are about to get interesting.”

“You think the rest of the Kariens have arrived?” Ghari asked.

“Either that, or they’ve packed up and gone home, which would be too

much to hope for,” he said, sheathing his blade. “Has anyone told

—” Tarja’s words were cut off by an ear-shattering whoop as the

Hythrun Raiders suddenly thundered past them at a gallop, leaving them

coated in a cloud of fine dust. Tarja glared at the troop angrily,

spitting grit as he watched them vanish into the dust. “What in the

name of the Founders are they up to?”

Ghari wiped his eyes. “Something’s caught their attention.”

Tarja shook his head in annoyance and followed the path of the Raiders.

He strode ahead of Ghari and Mikel, who had to run to catch up. The

Raiders had not gone far. They were milling about, shouting

incomprehensibly a mere fifty paces from the edge of the camp, kicking up

a cloud of dust as thick as a winter fog in Yarnarrow. Mikel watched the

Raiders curiously, coughing as the dust tickled the back of his throat.

He glanced over his shoulder and discovered most of the men on the

training ground had stopped what they were doing and had turned to see

what the commotion was about.

Tarja strode on, then suddenly stopped, frozen to the spot, as three

figures began to materialise out of the dust. All three were on foot, and

Mikel immediately recognised the figure in the centre, leading his

lathered golden stallion, as the Hythrun Warlord who had been missing

these past weeks. The man on his left Mikel had never seen before, but he

was tall and lean with dark hair and walked with long, easy strides.

Damin Wolfblade was grinning like a fool, obviously enormously pleased

with himself. The tall man beside him simply looked satisfied. The figure

to the right of the Warlord made Mikel gasp. It was a woman, he realised,

wearing close-fitting dark leathers that showed every line of her

statuesque body in startling detail, an outfit that would have seen her

stoned had she dared wear it in Karien. As she neared them, the Warlord

and the other man stopped and waited, letting her walk on alone. She was

very tall and had long, dark red hair that fell in a thick braid to her

waist. She was the most beautiful woman Mikel had ever seen, even when he

was at court; prettier even than the Lady Chastity, who was supposed to

be the most beautiful woman in all of Karien.

He glanced up at Tarja, whose expression had changed from anger to awe.

As the woman walked towards him, Mikel thought he could have killed

Tarja, had he a knife, and the captain would not have noticed, so

enthralled did he seem at the sight of the pretty lady.

“By the gods!” Ghari breathed softly behind him. “She’s alive!”

Ghari apparently knew who the pretty lady was, but his words seemed to

break the spell that held Tarja motionless. The captain walked out to

meet her, and as soon as she saw him, the pretty lady broke into a run.

She collided with Tarja, who swept her off the ground and spun her around

in a full circle with an inarticulate cry. He was kissing her before her

feet touched the ground, a deed that had the gathered army cheering and

Mikel blushing with embarrassment at such a wanton public display.

“Who is she?” Mikel asked Ghari. He looked up at the young man and

was startled to see his eyes misted with tears.

“R’shiel,” Ghari explained, although the name meant nothing to him.

Ghari glanced down at him and ruffled his cropped hair with a grin.

“She’s the demon child. She’s come back to us!”

That description meant as little to Mikel as the lady’s name, but it

seemed fitting that a man as evil as Tarja would be attracted to a demon.

The crowd flowed past him as the soldiers all converged on the returning

Warlord and his companions. He quickly lost sight of Tarja and R’shiel

as the crowd swallowed them.

Mikel turned away, his heart heavy. It was bad enough that these

Medalonians seemed so organised and battle ready, but it was patently

unfair that Tarja Tenragan was allowed to be happy, or that they had

demons on their side. He impatiently brushed away tears of anger and said

a silent prayer to Xaphista.

Help me, he prayed. The demon child has returned to help our enemies.

Mikel had no way of knowing if Xaphista had heard him or not.

He would have been astonished and delighted to know that he had.

CHAPTER 20

The Karien war camp proved to be as uncomfortable as Adrina had feared.

Cratyn’s army was slow in gathering and many of his knights had been

here far longer than they ever intended. The sixty days they owed their

king was long past. What kept them at the border now was the hope of

recovering some of the cost of their expedition once they reached

Medalon, and the exhortations of the priesthood that this was a holy war.

When one feared eternal damnation, it was easier to stay and fight. Food

was scarce and so was fuel; winter was fast approaching. Nobody had

expected the Defenders to be waiting on the border when the knights

arrived.

The original force of five hundred had been deemed sufficient to cow the

unprepared Medalonians and punish them for their temerity. Instead they

were met by a large force of Defenders with Hythrun allies and defences

that left the knights gasping. There was nothing hurried or hastily

thought-out about their earthworks. Even to the inexperienced eye it was

obvious that the Defenders planned to force the battle along a path of

their choosing. Although Adrina heard some of the knights boast that the

first sight of an armoured charge would send the Defenders scurrying, she

knew better. Whoever had planned the defence of the Medalon border had

planned this long ago — and planned it well. Taking Medalon was not

going to be easy, despite the Kariens’ numerical superiority and the

much-talked-about blessing of the Overlord.

Not surprisingly, Adrina’s first appearance at the war council caused a

stir, even more than Tristan’s inclusion. Tristan was a man, after all,

and a warrior, for all that he was foreign. It was not considered seemly

for a woman to involve herself in such manly pursuits as war, even in the

unlikely event that she would have anything constructive to offer. Adrina

bore the insults stoically, letting Cratyn defend his decision to his

vassals. If he was going to lead these men, he needed the practice,

anyway.

The war council was made up of the eight Dukes of Karien. The loudest was

a heavy-set man with a thick neck and an even thicker intellect —

Laetho, the Duke of Kirkland. Adrina marked him as a dangerous fool. He

had apparently lost two of his servants a few months back, having sent

the children over the border to spy on the Medalonians. It was safely

assumed they were both dead. Only an idiot would, quite literally, send

boys out to do a man’s job.

The man next to Laetho was as tall, but only half his girth. Lord Roache,

the Duke of Morrus. He said little and gave the impression that he

wasn’t listening, more often than not, but when he did comment, it was

obvious he had not missed a word of the discussion. Adrina regarded him

with caution.

Next to Roache, she was delighted to discover Cratyn’s cousin Drendyn,

the Earl of Tiler’s Pass. His father was too infirm to make the journey

to the border and had sent his son in his place. Drendyn was young and

enthusiastic, but dangerously inexperienced. He had never faced a man in

battle, never had his life seriously threatened. Adrina thought it likely

he would die, sooner rather than later, no doubt doing something

exceptionally foolish, which he considered exceptionally brave. It was a

pity really, because she quite liked the young Earl.

The fourth member of the council was even younger and more inexperienced

than Drendyn. Jannis, the Earl of Menthall, was also here in the place of

his father, although Tam had heard it rumoured that the reason the old

Duke was absent had something to do with the “wages of sin”. Adrina

wondered if it meant he’d caught the pox, but it was hardly a question

she could put to any of her Karien companions, and the reason hardly

mattered anyway. Dark and slender, Jannis was barely more than a child

and agreed with everyone, even when they disagreed with each other.

On the other side of the long trestle table set up in the large command

tent was Palen, the Duke of Lake Isony. He was a lot smarter than he

looked. He had the ruddy face of a peasant and the mind of a general,

Adrina decided. If Cratyn listened to his advice, he might even win this

war. On Palen’s right sat Ervin, the Duke of Windhaven. His purpose

seemed entirely decorative. He was dressed in blue velvet with snowy lace

collar and cuffs, and spent more time fiddling with his moustaches than

he did taking part in the conversation. When he did speak up it was

usually on a point that had been passed over ten minutes before.

Next to Ervin was a stout, middle-aged man with a patch over one eye. The

Duke of Nerlin, Wherland had the unfortunate nickname of Whirlin’

Nerlin, but he was an experienced fighter, having spent time in the gulf

fighting Fardohnyan pirates. His advice was always preceded with the

comment, “When I was in the navy . . . ”. But he wasn’t a fool, and

when he finally figured out how to fight on dry land, he would be a

dangerous opponent.

The last of the Dukes should have been Chastity’s father Terbolt, the

Duke of Setenton; however, he had sent his brother, Lord Ciril, in his

place. A heavier version of his older brother, Ciril did not look

surprised at her inclusion. He had already suffered through her unwelcome

presence when she visited his brother’s castle on the way to Yarnarrow.

Adrina wondered why Terbolt had stayed at home, hoping there was nothing

sinister in his unexplained absence. As for Ciril, she marked him as a

stolid, if unimaginative knight, who would advise caution, but would see

any battle plan through to the bitter end.

She said nothing during the first meeting of the council and had, via

Tamylan, advised Tristan to do the same. If they asked him a direct

question, she translated it for him and then dutifully repeated his

answers to the Dukes. To his credit, Tristan gave no sign that he

understood a word of the discussion going on around him, even when the

Kariens suggested things that, under normal circumstances, would have

made him laugh out loud. By the time the meeting broke up, nothing had

been decided, and there were eight dukes with eight different ideas as to

how the battle should be engaged, well, seven in reality — Jannis

agreed with everyone — and one very confused young prince.

When the tent finally emptied, leaving Cratyn and Adrina alone, she

turned to him with a hopeful smile.

“It is the right time in my cycle, your Highness. Can I expect you

tonight?”

“I’ll see. I have a lot to do.”

“Of course, however, it’s been several months now and we still

haven’t consummated our union. Perhaps here, on the battlefield, you

might find the . . . fortitude . . . to get the job done.”

Cratyn glared at her, his expression a mixture of hatred and despair.

“Don’t push me, Adrina.”

“Push you, husband? I doubt pushing you would achieve any more than

pulling your limp sword has so far.”

“You taunt me at your peril, Adrina.”

She laughed. “Peril? What peril? What are you going to do, Cretin? Hit

me again?”

“I’m warning you . . .”

“Does your sword get hard when you think of Chastity, my dear?”

Cratyn flew out his chair and turned to face her. He was red faced with

shame and shaking with fury. “Don’t you even mention her name, you

pagan whore! I’m not fooled by this act you are putting on! If I cannot

lay with you, it is because the Overlord does not wish me to sully myself

in your filth!”

Adrina took a step backwards, her hand on Tiler’s collar. The dog took

exception to Cratyn’s tone and he was growling softly, warningly.

“Perhaps you’re right, Cretin. Perhaps you are cast in the image of

your god. He’s undoubtedly an emasculated idiot, too.”

Cratyn snatched up a map from the table and made a show of studying it.

His hands were shaking with suppressed rage. “Return to your tent,

Adrina, and take that damned beast with you. I will come to you when the

Overlord assures me the time is right, not to satisfy your crude heathen

lust.”

“Lust? Now there’s a word I never thought to associate with you. Are

you sure you know what it means?”

“Get out.”

“Get out, your Highness,” she corrected.

He slammed the map onto the table. “Get out! Go back to your tent and

stay there! I will not tolerate your pagan disrespect a moment longer!”

His shout had Tiler lunging against her hold. He bared his teeth at the

prince defiantly.

“Don’t you dare take that tone with me, you impotent fool! I am a

Princess of Fardohnya!”

“You are a heathen slut,” he cried angrily.

She could not hold Tiler any longer. He slipped her hold and lunged for

the prince. Cratyn threw his hand up to protect his face as the dog flew

at him. His cry brought the guards running from outside the tent.

It almost happened too quickly for Adrina to see. Tiler had Cratyn pinned

against the table. The guards saw nothing but their prince under attack.

Adrina saw the blade in the hand of the guard and screamed as she

realised what they intended. She threw herself at the dog, but the guards

were quicker. Tiler squealed with agony as the guard ran him through.

“No!” she sobbed as the dog slid to the ground.

“Sire? Are you all right?” the guard asked with concern as he helped

Cratyn up. Tiler had savaged his arm, but he had managed to fend off the

worst of the attack.

“You killed my dog!” Adrina accused, unaware of the tears coursing

down her face. “I want him punished, Cretin! He killed my dog!”

“Your damned dog was trying to kill me!” Cratyn gasped, still shaking

from fear and shock. “I’m more inclined to knight him.”

Adrina brushed away her tears and gently kissed Tiler’s limp head

before climbing to her feet.

“You’ll pay for this,” she warned, then she turned and walked out

of the tent with all the regal bearing her breeding and ancestry allowed.

When she reached her own tent she dismissed her ladies-in-waiting

impatiently and called for Tam. When her maid found her, she was tearing

at the laces of her bodice impatiently, sobbing inconsolably.

“Here, let me do that,” Tam offered, as she saw Adrina struggling.

The princess knocked the offered hand away.

“No! I can do it myself! I want you to go and see Tristan. We’re

getting out of here.”

The young woman studied her closely. “Out of here? How?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. But we’re leaving and I don’t care

what it does to the alliance, to the war, or to my father. I’ve had

enough!”

“We’re a thousand leagues from home in the middle of a battlefield on

the border of an enemy nation,” Tamylan pointed out. “Where are you

planning to go, your Highness?”

Adrina glared at her in annoyance then sagged onto her bed. It was a

large four-poster that had taken a full team of oxen to bring it to the

front. One of the trappings of her station designed to inconvenience

Cratyn.

“I don’t know,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes. “Oh, Tam, they

killed Tiler!”

The slave opened her arms and she sobbed against Tamylan’s shoulder

hopelessly. Grief was a new emotion for Adrina. She had never before lost

a living soul she had loved.

“There, there, I know it hurts, but it will pass in time,” Tam

advised.

Adrina wiped her eyes and sat up determinedly. “I can’t do this any

more, Tamylan. I don’t care if there’s a crown at the end of it. I

cannot bear these people. It’s like a prison.”

“I understand, your Highness, but think it through before you act too

hastily. This might be a prison, but it’s a sight more comfortable than

the one awaiting you on the other side of the border, or worse, if you

were caught by the Kariens trying to run away.”

Adrina looked up at the slave who had been by her side for as long as she

could remember. “You always did say more than was proper for a slave.”

“That’s because I’ve always been your friend first, Adrina.”

Adrina smiled wanly. “Even though you were my slave?”

“Slavery is a state of mind, your Highness,” she shrugged.

“You’re a princess, yet you’ve less freedom than I have. I never

minded being a slave. It just meant that I knew where I stood.”

After Tamylan left, Adrina lay on the bed and thought on what the slave

had said. She was right. Even being a princess didn’t stop you from

being used by other people for their own ends, or save you from being

hurt. If anything, it made you more vulnerable. Well, enough was enough.

She would find a way out of this and she would never, as long as she

lived, ever allow a man to hurt her again.

And by the gods, she vowed, she would make Cratyn pay.

PART 2

BATTLE LINES

CHAPTER 21

Loclon may have been responsible for letting Medalon’s most notorious

criminal escape, but his expertise with a blade was widely acknowledged.

Commandant Arkin assigned him to the cadets. His days were spent in the

Arena teaching future Defenders the finer points of swordplay.

Following his initial annoyance at not being assigned to active duty, he

found he enjoyed the job. He had regained his fitness quickly. The cadets

were in awe of both his skill and his fearsome scars, and the rumour that

he had killed a man in the Arena enhanced his reputation considerably.

The work gave Loclon a rare feeling of omnipotence. While they were in

his charge, he had the power of life and death over these young men, and

he wielded it liberally. Demerits were earnt easily in his classes and,

almost without exception, the cadets treated him with gratifying

obsequiousness to avoid incurring his wrath. Of course, there was the odd

dissenter. Occasionally, a cadet would fancy himself a cut above the rest

of his classmates. There was one such foolhardy soul in the Infirmary

now. His temerity had cost him his right eye. Commandant Geendel, the

officer in charge of the cadets, had demanded an explanation, of course,

but the word of an officer was always taken over the word of a mere cadet.

Loclon smiled to himself as he rode through the Citadel toward his

lodgings, thinking of the expressions on the cadets’ faces when he had

appeared in the Arena this morning. No doubt they had all been hoping

Geendel would relieve him of his duty. Well, they had learnt a valuable

lesson today. In the Defenders, the officers would always close ranks

around their own. Loclon had learnt that lesson the hard way, too.

On impulse, Loclon turned down Tavern Street, deciding he owed himself a

drink to celebrate his victory over the cadets. He reined in outside the

Blue Bull Tavern, handed his mount over to a waiting stableboy and walked

inside, his boots echoing hollowly on the wooden verandah. Business was

slow this early, but he spied a familiar figure hugging his ale near the

fireplace. He ordered ale from the barkeep and crossed the room to join

his friend.

“Gawn.”

The captain looked up. “Loclon. Finished for the day?”

Loclon nodded and took the seat opposite. Although Gawn had been a year

or two ahead of Loclon when they were cadets, their friendship was a

recent one. They had discovered they shared a loathing of Tarja Tenragan

that few in the Defenders understood. Gawn had spent time on the southern

border with Tarja and blamed him for just about everything that happened

to him while he was there, starting with an arrow he took during a

Hythrun raid, to the tavern keeper’s daughter he had impregnated and

been forced to marry.

Loclon had met the girl once, a slovenly, lazy slut who spoke with a

thick southern accent. To make matters worse, the child had been

stillborn and Gawn was left with a wife he loathed, who would hold back

his career just as surely as Tarja and R’shiel’s escape from the

Grimfield would hold back Loclon’s.

“I heard there was some trouble with a cadet.”

Loclon shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle. What are you doing here so

early?”

“Parenor was called to a meeting with Commandant Arkin.” Captain

Parenor was the Citadel’s Quartermaster. Gawn had been assigned as his

adjutant on his return to the Citadel. It was an administrative position

and a grave insult to a battle-experienced officer. “They are asking

for even more supplies on the border.”

Nobody in the Citadel was exactly sure what was really happening on the

northern border. Near half the Defenders in the Citadel had been sent

north, supposedly to push back an attack by the Kariens. The reason the

Kariens were attacking varied, according to which rumours one believed.

Loclon believed the one that fitted with his own view of the world —

that the Kariens were invading to avenge the death of their Envoy at

Tarja’s hand. But it did not explain Tarja’s reinstatement to the

Defenders, or the sudden alliance with the Warlord of Krakandar, or the

First Sister’s change of heart. Even Gawn, who knew the southern border

well, was at a loss to explain how near a thousand Hythrun Raiders could

cross into Medalon without being noticed.

“I heard something else today that might interest you.”

“What’s that?”

“The Warlord of Elasapine crossed into Medalon with five hundred

Raiders and placed himself at the disposal of Commandant Verkin in

Bordertown, supposedly to help fight off an expected attack by the

Fardohnyans.”

“I though we were fighting the Kariens?”

“Apparently, the Fardohnyan king married one of his daughters to Prince

Cratyn. Parenor is furious because now Verkin is sending in supply

requisitions that he can’t fill, and the local merchants have got wind

of the fact. The price of grain has doubled in the past month.”

Loclon could not have cared less about the price of grain, but it irked

him that he was sitting here in the Citadel while there was a war going

on.

“If we have to fight on two fronts, they’ll need every officer they

can get their hands on. You and I might finally get a chance to do what

we were trained for, my friend.”

“Instead of me pushing parchment around and you nursemaiding a bunch of

homesick cadets? I’ll drink to that!” Gawn swallowed his ale in a

gulp. Loclon signalled the barkeep for another but the captain shook his

head. “Better not, Loclon. If I don’t get home soon she’ll be after

me with a carving knife. Founders, how I loathe that bitch!”

Loclon smiled sympathetically. “Why go home at all?”

“I’ve not the money for any other sort of entertainment. She takes

every rivet I earn. Speaking of which, could you fix up the tavern keeper

for me? I’m afraid I’ve overspent, somewhat.”

“Very well,” he agreed, thinking of what Gawn already owed him. The

amount did not bother him. He had no problem with cash these days, but it

was time Gawn did something to earn such generosity. “On one condition.

You come with me to Mistress Heaner’s tonight.”

Gawn pulled a face. “If I can’t afford to pay my tavern bill, how do

you expect me to afford that sort of place?”

Loclon smiled. “The same way I do, my friend.”

When Loclon had woken up in the Blue Room in Mistress Heaner’s House of

Pleasure, he had discovered, somewhat to his annoyance, that the

redheaded whore was no longer breathing. Worse, he felt no relief.

Killing her had done little to ease his torment. Peny had been too dull,

too plain, too fat, and too damned ordinary to satisfy him. Even in his

imagination, she had been a poor substitute for R’shiel. He lay there

for a time, wondering what it was going to cost him to keep Mistress

Heaner from having him kneecapped. She did not care about murder, but she

did care about her assets and Loclon had just deprived her of one.

This was not the first time Loclon had killed one of Mistress Heaner’s

court’esa, but on the previous occasions he had been a champion in the

Arena, and his winnings had provided him with the funds to pay whatever

she asked in compensation. This time, however, he had spent everything he

owned and was not due to be paid for another month. At the interest rate

she charged, the debt would have doubled by that time. He was still

pondering the problem when the door opened and Mistress Heaner entered

the room, followed by Lork, her faithful bodyguard. Lork gave a

reasonable impression of a living mountain, his dead eyes reflecting

little intelligence and undying loyalty to the woman who employed him.

Mistress Heaner held up the lamp and glanced at Peny with a shake of her

head, before turning to Loclon.

“You’ve been careless, Captain.”

“I’m sorry, Mistress. I shall see that you’re compensated.”

“With what, Captain? You’ve no career in the Arena any more. On a

captain’s pay, you can’t afford a drink here, let alone indulge your

rather exotic tastes.”

Loclon swung his feet onto the floor and snatched his trousers up. “I

said, I will see that you are paid, Madam, and I shall. Do you question

the word of an Officer of the Defenders?”

“I question the word of any man who beats women to death for pleasure,

Captain,” she retorted coldly. “Perhaps I should just have Lork kill

you now, and save myself any further trouble.” Lork flexed his

plate-sized hands in anticipation.

Loclon glanced at his sword that lay on the other side of the room,

knowing there was no way he could reach it before the man was on him.

“Perhaps we might come to . . . an arrangement?”

Mistress Heaner laughed. “What could you offer me, Captain, that I

don’t already have in abundance? Kill him, Lork.”

Loclon jumped to his feet, but Lork moved with remarkable speed for one

so huge. He had grabbed Loclon by the throat and slammed him against the

wall with one hand. Loclon gasped from the pressure, his feet dangling as

the big man squeezed the life out of him. He discovered he was sobbing,

begging for mercy in a voice that was quickly losing strength. He was on

the point of losing consciousness when Mistress Heaner stepped forward

and signalled Lork to release him. The big man suddenly released him and

Loclon dropped to his hands and knees, sobbing with fear.

“Perhaps there is something you can do for me, Captain.”

“Anything!” he croaked, gulping for air. He wiped his streaming eyes

and looked up at her.

“Anything? A careless promise, Captain.”

“Anything you ask,” he repeated desperately.

Mistress Heaner studied him for a moment then nodded. “Bring him,

Lork.”

Lork grabbed hold of him again and half-dragged, half-carried Loclon down

the hall to a narrow flight of stairs that led to the basement. Mistress

Heaner led the way, holding the lamp, which threw fitful shadows onto the

walls. Lork dropped him heavily and he spat dirt from his mouth as he

looked around.

“Get rid of the body,” the woman told her henchman. “And see that

we are not disturbed.”

Lork grunted in reply and returned upstairs. Mistress Heaner ignored

Loclon and walked to the far end of the dark basement. She removed the

glass from the lantern and lit a taper from the small flame, which she

used to light a row of thick beeswax candles lining a long narrow table.

He stared at the candles with growing horror as they illuminated a richly

embroidered wall hanging that depicted the five-pointed star and

lightning bolt of Xaphista, the Overlord.

“You’re a heathen!”

“Heathens believe in the Primal gods,” she corrected. “I serve

Xaphista, the one true God. As will you.”

Loclon climbed unsteadily to his feet. “No. I won’t join your sick

cult. I’ll report you for this.”

Mistress Heaner finished lighting the candles and turned to him.

“You’ll report me? Perhaps you should consider your situation more

carefully, Captain. You might be able to walk away from murder in the

Arena, sir, but I doubt your superiors will be quite so understanding

about Peny’s fate.”

“I’m an Officer in the Defenders! I can’t countenance this!”

“You are monster who kills for pleasure, Captain,” she reminded him.

“I don’t recall that being a virtue the Defenders hold dear.”

“I don’t believe in your god.”

“A point that is quite irrelevant,” she shrugged. “You will serve

him, however, whether you believe in him or not.”

“How?”

Mistress Heaner smiled, correctly interpreting his question as the

beginning of his surrender. “The Overlord is a generous god. In return

for your service, he will see that you are taken care of. All you have to

do is keep me informed as to what is happening among the Defenders.

Report any rumours you hear. Perhaps secure a document or two. I may even

need you to kill, occasionally, something you have already proved is to

your liking.”

“That’s treason!”

“You baulk at treason, yet you don’t seem to mind murder. A curious

moral stance, don’t you think?”

“And if I refuse?”

“I believe we’ve already covered that.”

Loclon stared at the symbol of the Overlord and thought over Mistress

Heaner’s offer. For all his faults, he believed in the Defenders and

had been raised to think of anyone who practised heathen worship a

traitor to his nation. The decision was surprisingly hard to make.

“Perhaps I can offer you another incentive, Captain,” she said

softly. “You and the Overlord do share a common purpose, you know.”

“What purpose?”

“You’ve heard of the demon child?”

Loclon turned to her, a little confused by the sudden change of subject.

“Everybody has. It’s just a stupid legend. The rebels claimed it was

Tarja.”

“The heathens were wrong, as they are about so many things. There is a

demon child, however, and she was created to destroy Xaphista. Naturally,

my god would like to see that she does not live long enough to fulfil her

destiny.”

“She?”

“The demon child is an old friend of yours, I believe. Her name is

R’shiel.”

Loclon started as a sudden image of black eyes and a cold blade slicing

his throat filled his vision. He could hear Mistress Heaner laughing

softly as the rage consumed him, blood pounding in his ears.

“Ah, you remember her, I see. Your service to the Overlord will provide

you with an opportunity to redress the wrongs done you by R’shiel té

Ortyn, Captain. A convenient arrangement on both sides, don’t you

think?”

In the months that had passed since then, Loclon never wanted for

anything. His rent was paid on time by an anonymous donor. He often

arrived home to find a small purse sitting on his side table, filled with

gold rivets. He was welcomed at Mistress Heaner’s and was never asked

for payment, although he had been careful not to kill another

court’esa. In fact, the urge had dissipated somewhat, now that the

promise of a chance at R’shiel was in the offing. He no longer

considered his actions treasonous. He had been offered a chance for

revenge, a chance that the Defenders had refused him. That justified

everything.

But teaching cadets meant there was a limit to the information Loclon was

privy to, and Mistress Heaner was growing impatient with him. Gawn, on

the other hand, was far better placed to provide the intelligence she

demanded. By bringing Gawn into the fold, his position would be secured

and his chance at R’shiel would be certain.

Of course, he needed to find something to convince Gawn to join them, and

as he settled his companion’s account with the barkeep, it came to him.

In return for his service to the Overlord, Loclon would relieve Gawn of

his most onerous possession.

He would kill his wife for him.

CHAPTER 22

Tarja lay awake for most of the night, simply watching R’shiel

sleeping, thinking it was a pastime he thought he would never tire of. In

sleep her expression was peaceful, her breathing steady and even. The

faint, familiar sounds of the camp slowly coming awake as dawn approached

filtered through the canvas walls of his tent. Reality intruded rudely

into his own, private, perfect world. He almost felt guilty for being so

happy.

He also knew it would not last. They were on the brink of war and liable

to be hanged for treason. The Gathering was almost on them and Garet

Warner was already talking of returning to the Citadel to make his

report. Damin kept fingering his sword threateningly every time Garet

mentioned the subject, still of the opinion that the safest course of

action was to slit the commandant’s throat.

The rebels were growing restless, too. The shaky truce brought about in

Testra was in danger of falling apart. Tarja felt responsible for the

rebels, but his position here was ambiguous. He had been welcomed back

into the Defenders, his desertion if not forgiven, then at least not

mentioned, yet too much had happened for him to follow orders without

question as he once had done. He was walking a fine line between loyalty

to the Defenders and the responsibility he felt for the rebels who had

put their lives in his hands because they believed he could help them.

And now R’shiel was back.

He loved R’shiel. He knew it as surely as he knew how to take his next

breath, but he could not say why that night in the old vineyard in Testra

a year ago, he had suddenly realised it. He could remember wanting to

strangle her. They were fighting, something that until that moment they

had done a great deal. R’shiel was trying to get even with Joyhinia and

did not particularly care how many rebels’ lives she spent doing it.

Tarja remembered wanting to slap some sense into her one moment, wanting

to die in her arms the next. It bothered him a little. He felt no guilt

that he had grown up thinking she was his sister. No thought that would

in any way cloud his love for her seemed able to take root in his mind.

He reached across to gently lift an errant strand of long, dark red hair

that had fallen over her face then froze as he felt something move under

the blanket. Certain he had not imagined it, he threw back the covers and

yelped with astonishment. His cry woke R’shiel with a jerk.

“What in the name of the Founders is that!”

R’shiel glanced down sleepily. A small grey creature lay curled between

them, seeking the warmth of their bodies, although Tarja’s yell had

obviously frightened it. With an incomprehensible chitter it scrambled up

the pallet and wrapped its thin grey arms tightly around R’shiel’s

neck, staring accusingly at him with black eyes too large for its

wrinkled grey head.

“It’s only a demon,” R’shiel laughed, peeling the creature off so

that she could breathe.

“Only a demon?” Tarja asked, his heart still pounding.

She laughed again, a rich, throaty laugh that Tarja had not heard from

her in a very long time. “It’s bonded to the té Ortyn bloodline and

I was the first té Ortyn it saw, I suppose.”

“So . . . what . . . it thinks you’re its mother?”

“Demons don’t have mothers, silly. They . . . just . . . come into

being. She won’t be able to speak or do much at all until she’s

melded with the other demons a few times.”

“She?” he wondered doubtfully, as he stared at the androgynous little

creature. “How can you tell?”

“I can’t,” R’shiel shrugged, pulling the demon off her neck again

as it tried to hide in her long hair. “Demon’s don’t have genders,

not really. They just sort of decide along the way somewhere. I just have

a feeling this one wants to be a girl.”

“You sound quite the expert.” Nothing could have made the change in

R’shiel more obvious, or pointed to what she was, than waking to find a

demon in his bed.

“It’s a necessary virtue, when you’ve got demons following you

around everywhere you go. You’re lucky there’s only one in the bed.

They were as thick as flies in Sanctuary.”

He looked at her curiously, wondering if she would elaborate. She had

said little in the days since her sudden return. Not, he thought wryly,

that they’d spent a lot of time talking. But her time there had wrought

a noticeable change in her. She was more certain of herself. Perhaps she

had finally accepted what she was. Perhaps the Harshini had done

something to her besides healing the wound that almost killed her, and

they had certainly done that well. Not even a hint of a scar marred the

golden skin below her breast where Joyhinia had thrust Jenga’s

discarded sword into her.

“I can feel it, you know,” she added softly in the darkness, as if

she knew what he was thinking. “It’s like there’s a tether linking

me to Sanctuary that nothing can break. I think if I was lost in a

snowstorm, I’d still be able to find it.” She sighed wistfully. “I

used to feel it when I was in the Citadel, but I never knew what it was.

Which was probably a blessing,” she added with smile.

He wondered if this was how it would be. Would she tell him, bit by

tantalising bit, or would he never hear the whole story of her stay in

the magical halls of the Harshini? The little demon started chattering

again, pulling on her hair. He knew he would learn nothing more for the

time being.

“Is this,” he asked, pointing at the little demon with a scowl, “an

event that we can look forward to on a regular basis? Waking to find

demons in our bed?”

“It could have been worse, Tarja. There could have been half a dozen of

them melded into a cactus, or worse.”

“Worse?”

“Well, they could have melded into a dragon,” she laughed. “Or a

snow cat, or a Karien knight in full armour or a beehive, or a —”

“What?” he cut in abruptly. Something she said sparked the germ of an

idea in his mind, but it was elusive. It hovered on the edge of his

awareness, just out of reach.

“I was kidding, Tarja,” she said, looking at him oddly. “I’ll

speak to Dranymire. He’ll keep the demons out of our bed if it bothers

you so much.”

“No, I didn’t mean that. You were talking about the demons melding.”

“But I didn’t really mean they’d do it —”

“But they can meld into anything, can’t they?” he asked, afraid to

give voice to the idea in case she thought him insane.

“I suppose,” she agreed, a little doubtfully.

“Or anyone?”

“Who exactly?”

Tarja sat up and began pulling on his clothes hurriedly. “Get dressed.

We have to talk to Brak.”

“Tarja! What are you up to?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he told her as he tugged on his boots. “I

need to talk to Brak first. Hurry up!”

She threw her hands up in disgust, but did as he asked, although she was

still lacing her vest as he hurried her out into the chill morning. The

little demon had vanished, thankfully — at least Tarja hoped it had.

The idea of one of his men waking to find an inquisitive demon poking

around in his equipment did not bear thinking about.

“Tarja!” R’shiel demanded as she ran to catch up. “What’s this

about?”

“I’ve got an idea, but I need to find out if it’s possible,” he

explained, as he strode through the waking camp towards the old Keep.

Pink fingers scratched at the sky as dawn clawed its way over the Jagged

Mountains.

“Maybe if you shared this brilliant idea, I could tell you.”

He grinned at her as he strode past the guards in front of the Keep, but

did not answer. He pushed open the door to the old great hall and strode

towards the huge hearth at the far end, and a small figure curled up near

the dying embers.

“Boy!” he snapped, jerking the Karien lad awake. “Find Lord

Brakandaran and tell him I need to see him urgently!”

The child nodded hastily and scrambled off the hearth. He was running by

the time he reached the door.

“You bully! That child is terrified of you!”

“I know,” he agreed, taking the poker to stir some life back into the

coals. “I threatened to chop his brother’s fingers off.”

“Why?”

He stopped stoking the fire and looked at her. “Because he’s a

fanatical believer in the Overlord and if I hadn’t put an end to his

antics, somebody would have killed him. Better to be terrified of me and

live long enough to reach manhood, than find himself skewered by a

Hythrun sword.”

She smiled at him then and moved closer. She smelled of summer and

leather and their lovemaking. It was a heady and very distracting

combination.

“Don’t you ever get tired of being so damned noble?” she teased.

He found himself unable to think of a suitably witty retort as she slid

her arms around his neck and kissed him. He dropped the poker with a

clatter as rational thought began to slip away, wondering what else the

Harshini had taught her. Either that, or R’shiel had inherited that

magical race’s rather legendary libido.

“Can’t you two make up for lost time somewhere else?”

He felt her smile as she broke off the kiss and turned to look at Brak.

The Harshini rebel was shaking his head at them. The Karien boy looked

mortified.

“Hello Brak,” R’shiel said, making no attempt to leave the circle

of his arms. “We weren’t expecting you so soon.”

“That’s obvious. I was heading this way when the boy found me.”

Tarja somewhat reluctantly let R’shiel go and glared at the boy.

“Shoo! Go find us some breakfast!”

Mikel nodded wordlessly and fled. Brak watched him go with a frown. “I

think you actually enjoy tormenting that child, Tarja.”

“I’m an evil, barbarian bastard. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Brak shook his head at the folly of humans. “The boy said you wanted to

see me.”

“I need to know about demon melds,” he explained, throwing a small

log on the fire as the exposed embers glowed red in the dim hall. The

dawn striped the long chilly hall with slices of dull light and their

breath formed small misty clouds as they spoke.

Brak glanced at R’shiel who shrugged, her expression confused.

“Would you care to be a bit more specific?” the Harshini asked. “If

we had a week, I could tell you a tenth of what I know.”

“Can they take on a human form?”

“I can’t imagine why they’d want to, but they could do it.”

“Can they imitate people? Take on a specific form?”

Brak’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I’ve got a bad feeling I know

where this is leading, Tarja, but yes, they can imitate people. Before

you get too enamoured of the idea, let me explain a few things. The more

complex the shape, the more demons it takes, and the shorter length of

time they can hold the meld. If you’re thinking of doing what I suspect

you’re thinking of doing, it won’t work. A human form is hard enough.

To create one that walks and talks convincingly would take dozens of

demons and you’d be lucky if they could maintain it for more than a few

hours.

“That’s assuming they would agree to such an idiotic idea. Then you

have the problem of getting the meld to act the way you want. Your demon

meld could say the wrong thing at the wrong time and blow the whole

illusion.”

“But it’s theoretically possible, isn’t it?” Tarja insisted.

Brak nodded reluctantly. “Theoretically.”

R’shiel listened to the conversation, her eyes wide. “Founders!

You’re thinking of replacing Joyhinia with a demon meld?”

“Not permanently,” he told them, trying hard to contain his

enthusiasm. “Just long enough to get through the Gathering. If Joyhinia

can stand up in front of the Gathering then she can appoint Mahina as the

new First Sister.”

R’shiel stared at him and then at Brak, her mind obviously racing.

“It might work.”

Brak threw his hands up in despair. “R’shiel! You’re as bad as he

is! Think about it. The only way it would work is if you went with the

demons to the Citadel. And you’d need Joyhinia with you, too — they

couldn’t copy her convincingly with her so far away. You’d be putting

everyone in danger, starting with yourself. Besides, Dranymire would

never agree to anything so dangerous. The demons are bonded with the

Harshini to protect them, R’shiel. Not aid them in committing

suicide.”

R’shiel seemed unfazed by Brak’s tirade. “I didn’t say it would

be easy, Brak. I just said it might work.”

The Harshini shook his head in disgust. “Korandellan must have

suppressed your ability to think, along with your emotions, R’shiel.”

Tarja glanced at R’shiel curiously, wondering what he meant. R’shiel

simply shrugged. “Zegarnald said I needed toughening up, Brak. Just

think of this as . . . training. Of course, if you don’t want to help

—”

Brak sighed heavily. “Gods! I don’t believe this. This is rank

stupidity. It is insane.”

Tarja nodded in agreement, his enthusiasm for the idea waning a little at

the thought of sending R’shiel to the Citadel. He had not considered

that when the idea came to him. Perhaps it was a crazy idea. “Well, it

was worth a try. But I won’t do anything to endanger R’shiel.”

“It’s not your place to decide what might endanger me. Besides, it

might well be the only chance we have.” R’shiel’s enthusiasm for

the idea seemed to be increasing in direct proportion to his growing

reluctance.

“Listen to Tarja,” Brak told her. “You might be the demon child,

but you’re a long way from being invincible. It was worth considering,

but it won’t work. Forget it.”

“You’re right, it would never work,” she agreed, capitulating with

suspicious speed. “We’ll have to think of something else.”

Before he could question her willingness to drop the matter so easily,

the Karien boy returned bearing a tray with steaming mugs of tea. Tarja

took the tray from the lad before he dropped it and handed out the mugs.

R’shiel smiled at him innocently over the rim as she sipped the

steaming brew.

But something about that smile, full of ingenuous sweetness, sent a

shiver of apprehension tingling down his spine.

CHAPTER 23

Mikel emptied the bucket of water from the well in the corner of the old

Keep’s yard into another bucket, grumbling as the icy water splashed

his trousers. Today was not going well at all.

First, Tarja had so rudely awakened him to find Lord Brakandaran, and

then Mahina had snapped at him for being late with her tea. And then the

soldiers on the Keep gate had teasingly refused to let him pass when she

sent him with a message for Lord Jenga. And then Lord Jenga had yelled at

him when he almost got himself trampled by the horses milling about in

one of the vast corrals south of the camp.

No, today was not going well at all.

To add to his misery, the atmosphere in the Defenders’ camp had changed

noticeably following the return of the Hythrun Warlord and his two

unexpected companions. For one thing, Tarja was smiling a lot these days,

which made him a little less fearsome but did not alter Mikel’s

loathing for him. If anything, it increased it. How dare he look so smug!

As for the pair who had returned with Damin Wolfblade, Mikel had been

horrified to hear someone say they were Harshini.

Mikel found that hard to swallow. Did they think him a child to believe

such wild stories? Everybody knew that the Harshini were monsters with

wart-covered skin, sharp pointed teeth and drooling mouths who ate wicked

Karien children, particularly if they wavered in their devotion to the

Overlord. Lord Brakandaran looked just like any other man and the pretty

lady was more beautiful than Lady Chastity, so she couldn’t possibly be

a Harshini monster. Mahina had introduced her as Lady R’shiel and

warned him to treat her with respect, or suffer the consequences. The

Lady had smiled at him pleasantly, but otherwise paid him little

attention. Had it not been for her obvious attachment to Tarja, he could

have almost allowed himself to like her.

Mikel hefted the bucket and turned towards the hall, muttering miserably

to himself, but he had only taken a few steps when a scratching sound

behind the well caught his attention. Glancing around to ensure he was

unobserved, he put down the bucket and walked cautiously around the stone

lip of the well. A heap of rubble from the crumbled outer wall was piled

up on the other side. He heard the sound again and moved toward the

source, wondering if it was a cat, or perhaps a fox who had inadvertently

wandered into the Keep. He hoped it was a cat. He liked cats. Perhaps he

could catch it and keep it for a pet . . .

The area near the well was one of the warmest in the Keep, with the forge

on the other side of the wall. It would be a good place to hide. Mikel

listened hard, trying to hear over the rhythmic clanging coming from the

smiths on the other side. The scratching sound came again, louder this

time, from a dark hole formed by the fallen masonry. With a careful hand,

Mikel reached into the darkness.

Whatever it was, it bit him with a force that made him cry out in pain.

He scrambled backwards around the well, tripped over the bucket and

landed on his backside in a puddle of icy mud. His hand was bleeding

profusely and throbbing, and tears of fright and pain and humiliation

were streaming down his face. Laughter wafted down from the guards on the

wall-walk who had looked down at the commotion. A grey streak emerged

from the rubble with a screech and bolted past him towards the Keep. He

watched it race past and into the arms of the Lady R’shiel.

She caught the creature with a smile and turned to Mikel. “Don’t

worry, I think you frightened her as much as she frightened you.”

Mikel stared at the little monster with wide eyes. He didn’t know what

it was, but it was clinging to R’shiel, chattering unintelligibly in a

screeching voice and pointing at him with huge black accusing eyes.

“Oh look, you’re hurt.”

She shooed the creature away and it literally vanished into thin air.

Mikel traced the star of the Overlord on his forehead to ward off evil as

the Lady walked over to him and squatted down, smiling reassuringly.

“Here, let me look at it,” she said. He held out his throbbing hand

wordlessly, too afraid to do anything else. She took his hand in her own

and almost instantly the pain vanished. He snatched his hand back in

astonishment. The bite was gone, the skin as smooth as if it had never

been broken.

Mikel screamed.

R’shiel waved back a curious guard come to see what all the fuss was

about. She sat back on her heels until he ran out of breath then smiled.

“Feeling better?”

“Wha— what did you do to me?” he demanded. Had she used magic on

him? Would he be condemned to drown in the Sea of Despair for eternity

because she had infected him with evil spirits? Mikel was weak with fear

at the prospect. “You used the power of the pagan gods on me!”

“Never fear, little one, it’s the same power as that of the Overlord,

so it shouldn’t do you any lasting harm.”

Mikel shrank away from her. She did not look like a monster, but she

could use magic — and the little creature, who was obviously some sort

of evil-spawned monster, had run to her for comfort. Perhaps she was

Harshini. Maybe under those close-fitting leathers was warty skin that

peeled when you touched it and gave you diseases that had no cure and

made you do nasty things to people and turned you into —

“I said, your name is Mikel, isn’t it?”

Mikel forced away the terrifying images that filled his head. He nodded,

afraid that if he did not answer her, she would turn him into a beetle.

“And your brother? Where is he?”

Mikel’s eyes narrowed at the question. Why does she want to know that?

“The Hythrun have him,” he told her sullenly.

“It must be pretty scary for you, Mikel. You’re a long way from home

and surrounded by strangers. I know how that feels.”

Try as he did to despise her, he knew she meant what she said. She really

did understand how he felt. The thought frightened him. Had she used more

magic on him? There is only the Overlord, he reminded himself. He was

relieved when the prayer came so easily. Xaphista was still with him.

“Nothing scares me,” he declared defiantly.

She laughed. “Maybe nothing does, at that. Are you all right now?”

He nodded and suffered her assistance as he climbed to his feet. As soon

as she let him go, he snatched up his empty bucket and ran back to the

hall as if all the demons of the Harshini were on his heels.

Several days later the Medalonians held their most important meeting

since Mikel had been in the Defender’s camp. Everyone was in

attendance. Tarja and Lord Jenga, Sister Mahina and Garet Warner, Ghari,

Lord Wolfblade and the mean-looking Captain Almodavar, and Lord

Brakandaran. The only one missing was the Lady R’shiel. Mikel did not

know where she was. Perhaps even the Medalonians were afraid to share

their battle plans with a Harshini magician. They obviously did not share

the same feeling for the small Karien boy who served them. Mikel moved

among the adults, filling wine cups and collecting empty platters left

over from their meal. Nobody seemed to notice him. The hall was cold —

it was not possible to seal all the cracks in the draughty old ruin —

and torches sputtered fitfully, flaring occasionally as an errant draught

fanned them into brightness. The fire did little to relieve the chill. If

anything, it made the gathered people look more sinister, but if it was

the cold or fear that made Mikel shiver, he could not say.

“This may sound like a stupid question,” Lord Brakandaran was saying

as Mikel silently filled his cup. “But has anyone thought to offer the

Kariens a settlement?”

“What? You mean offer them peace?” the Hythrun Warlord gasped with

mock horror. “Bite your tongue, man!”

“Perhaps not so stupid,” Sister Mahina mused. “They must have

realised by now that even if they win, it will be an expensive victory.

Perhaps they would consider a peaceful settlement.”

Tarja shook his head. “I doubt it, but I suppose it’s worth a try.”

“At the very least, it might delay them for a while,” Jenga agreed.

“That would take us well into winter before the first attack. Those big

warhorses, weighted down with armour, will be a liability rather than an

asset if it snows. Even a decent rainstorm will turn the battlefield into

a quagmire.”

“I’ll be very disappointed if they agree,” Damin said. “And

surprised. They’ve too much at stake to withdraw at this point.”

“You’re right,” Garet Warner said in his soft, dangerous voice,

which seemed to startle the Warlord. Damin Wolfblade didn’t seem to

like the commandant much. “The banner flying over their command tent is

Cratyn’s, not Jasnoff’s. He’s young and he needs to prove himself.

Agreeing to a settlement would imply weakness. He won’t back down.”

“And what of the Fardohnyans?” Mahina asked. “Perhaps they might

persuade him?”

Garet shook his head. “Again, I doubt it. They were sent to Karien as

the Princess’ Guard, and the first thing Adrina did was bring them to

the border to aid her husband. They obviously share a common purpose.”

“Adrina?” Damin Wolfblade asked in surprise. “I thought he married

Cassandra?”

“He married Adrina,” Brak confirmed. “She left Talabar with Cratyn

several months ago. Her progress up the Ironbrook was something of an

event, I hear.”

“Gods!” Damin muttered. He looked concerned.

“Is that a problem?” Lord Jenga asked.

“It could be,” Brak answered. “Adrina is Hablet’s eldest

legitimate child. Adrina’s son could claim the Fardohnyan throne.”

“Who cares?” Mahina asked. “Our problem is here and now, not

whether or not there is a Karien heir to Fardohnya.”

“Our problem could be Adrina herself,” Damin warned them. “If

she’s half as bad as her reputation suggests, then she’s the one to

look out for, not Cratyn.” The Warlord glanced at his captain who

nodded in agreement.

“Do you know her?” Tarja asked Damin curiously.

“No, thank the gods! She was in Greenharbour a couple of years ago for

my uncle’s birthday.” Suddenly he grinned. “Despite my uncle’s

wishes, and a number of dangerously close calls, I managed to avoid an

encounter with Her Serene Highness.”

“How bad can the woman be?”

“Bad,” Damin assured him. “She’s got the body of a goddess and

the heart of a hyena. Hablet offered a dowry for her that was beyond the

dreams of avarice — and he still couldn’t marry her off. Adrina

married to the Karien Crown Prince is not a happy prospect. I wonder how

poor Cratyn is coping.”

“He can’t be doing too badly,” Garet said. “She’s followed him

to the front with her troops. Maybe she’s found her soul mate.”

“If she has, then I’m packing up and going home now,” the Warlord

announced, although Mikel didn’t think he was serious.

“I’d like to meet the woman that makes you turn tail and run,

Damin,” Tarja chuckled.

“Does it really matter?” Mahina asked, obviously annoyed by the

banter between Tarja and the Warlord. “We were discussing the

advisability of sending an emissary to the Kariens, I believe?”

“Assuming we do, who would we send?” Jenga asked. “I’m in no mood

to give them a hostage, should they not honour our flag of truce.”

Mikel was quite offended at the idea that his prince would do any such

thing. How dare they impugn Cratyn’s honour!

“What about the boy?” Lord Brakandaran suggested. All eyes turned to

Mikel curiously. He quivered under their unrelenting gaze.

“Are you crazy?” Tarja said.

“It’s no crazier than some ideas I’ve heard lately.” He turned

back to the others to explain. “His return could be considered a

gesture of good faith. The child has been here for months and he will

tell the Kariens everything he’s seen. It might give them pause, even

if your offer of peace falls on deaf ears.”

“But he’s a child,” Jenga objected.

“All the more reason to send him home.”

All eyes turned at the sound of the imperious voice and Mikel was

suddenly forgotten. The Crazy Lady descended the stairs regally, dressed

in a long, high-necked white gown. She had icy blue eyes and a haughty

expression and surveyed the room as if everyone in it was beneath

contempt.

“You will bow in the presence of the First Sister!” she snapped.

Instinctively, the stunned Medalonians almost did as she demanded. Lord

Wolfblade’s jaw was hanging slackly in astonishment and Tarja wore an

expression of such hatred that it made Mikel take a step backwards. Only

Lord Brakandaran did not seem startled by her appearance.

“Impressive, Lord Dranymire,” he said.

Suddenly the Crazy Lady seemed to wobble and her expression changed from

contempt to amusement.

“Spoilsport!” R’shiel accused, stepping out of the shadows on the

staircase. She looked at the others who still sat frozen in various poses

ranging from amazement to outright shock, and laughed. “You should see

your faces!”

“Humans are far too easy to impress,” the Crazy Lady remarked, in a

male voice much deeper than the one she had spoken with a moment ago.

Mikel was certain he had been swallowed up whole and sucked into some

sort of pagan hell. The Crazy Lady wobbled again and Mikel watched in

horror as she literally fell apart. Then the room was swarming with

little grey creatures like the one that had bitten him by the well. The

creatures fell about laughing in high twittering voices, as if they were

privy to some marvellous prank. It was more than Mikel could cope with.

He screamed in terror as the creatures neared him.

His scream brought the others out of their torpor. They all began talking

at once and Mikel could make no sense of what they were saying. He did

not try. He could hear someone crying and it took a little while to

realise it was he. R’shiel walked toward him, pushing the monsters out

of her way impatiently. He shied away from her in fear.

“I’m sorry, Mikel. I didn’t mean to frighten you. They’re demons,

that’s all. They won’t hurt you.” She turned impatiently.

“You’re scaring the poor child to death. Be gone!”

The demons vanished almost instantly, shocking the grown-ups almost as

much as Mikel. “The Overlord will protect me. The Overlord will protect

me. The Overlord will protect me,” he chanted softly as the tears

streamed down his face.

“Let the boy take the message to the Kariens, Lord Jenga,” she

pleaded. “Send him home. He doesn’t belong here.”

Jenga looked at Brak uncertainly. “You said he would tell his people

what he’s seen here. Do you really want him to report what he’s seen

here tonight?”

Brak shrugged. “The Karien priests will know we are here soon enough.

It might even give them pause.”

“Or they won’t believe him,” Garet pointed out. “I certainly

don’t believe what I just saw.”

A meaningful glance passed between the adults before Jenga turned on him.

“Boy! Go get your gear packed. You’re leaving first thing in the

morning. You will take our offer of peace back to Prince Cratyn, is that

clear?”

Mikel nodded. Tears of joy, as opposed to fright, threatened to unman

him. “And . . . my brother?” he ventured cautiously.

“He stays,” the Hythrun Warlord announced, before anybody else could

answer. “He will be a hostage to your good behaviour. If your prince

accepts our offer, we’ll send him home.”

It would have been too much to hope for any other answer, although he

wondered if he’d waited and asked the Lady R’shiel when she was

alone, the result might have been different. But it was too late now.

Mikel nodded and the Lady R’shiel smiled at him reassuringly. He was

going home. The Overlord had finally answered his prayers — some of

them, at least. By tomorrow evening, he would be standing before his

prince and his priests and he could finally tell them of the evil that

resided south of the border in the camp of the Defenders.

CHAPTER 24

They sent him back to the Karien camp mounted on a nondescript dun

gelding. Tarja Tenragan and Damin Wolfblade escorted Mikel as far as the

earthworks that were constructed along the front. It was the first close

look Mikel had got of the Medalonian defences. He tried to remember every

detail to tell Prince Cratyn, but it wasn’t easy with Damin on one side

of him on a huge golden stallion, and Tarja on the other on a sleek black

mare. As if they knew the reason for his swivelling head and wide eyes,

they began to point out various features of the defences to each other

over the top of his head, describing in rather graphic and gory detail

the affect they would have on any attacking Karien force.

The earthworks gave cover for a vast number of bowmen, Tarja explained

cheerfully to the Warlord, which would decimate the vanguard of any

Karien attack. Even if the knights were armoured, their horses would

founder under the rain of arrows. Each archer carried around fifty

arrows, and if they took their time, they could keep up the deadly hail

for an hour or more. Being trapped under a dead warhorse while it rained

arrows was not a happy prospect, Damin agreed with relish. And, he added,

if they were so foolish as to send unarmoured men to lead the attack, it

would be a massacre. Mikel tried very hard not to listen to them. They

were teasing him, he knew, and his courage was growing stronger the

closer he came to the border. The Overlord was with him and he was on his

way home. There was nothing they could do to him that would quell his

growing excitement.

“This is as far as we go, boy,” Damin said eventually, reining his

horse in as they reached the edge of the field that the Medalonians

ominously referred to as the “killing ground”. He looked down at

Mikel and grinned. “Just head north, boy. You’ll reach Karien sooner

or later.”

“And carry this,” Tarja added, thrusting a broken spear into his

hand, to which had been tied a scrap of white linen.

“My people won’t harm me!” Mikel said, quite offended by the flag

of truce. “I am going home!”

“You’re going home wearing a Defender’s uniform,” Tarja pointed

out. “I’m sure they won’t kill you if they know who you are, but

you’re not going to get close enough to tell them, dressed like that.

Take it.” He looked across at Damin and added with a grin, “Mind you,

they’d never believe a Defender could be so short.”

Reluctantly, Mikel accepted the flag.

“You have the message?” Damin asked.

He nodded glumly and patted the bulge under he jacket where the sealed

letter from Lord Jenga was securely tucked, as the two men he hated most

in this world talked to him like a small child. They would ask if he’d

washed behind his ears next!

“Then scat!” the Warlord said, slapping the flank of the gelding. The

horse surged forward and Mikel nearly lost his seat as he galloped

headlong toward the border.

Not an experienced rider, Mikel clung grimly to the pommel until he

remembered to use the reins. The slightest touch and the well-trained

cavalry mount slowed his headlong rush to a more manageable pace. With a

sigh of relief, Mikel remembered the flag, and propped it up against his

thigh as he rode through the waist-high grass of the no-man’s land

between the two camps. Although he did not know the exact location of the

border, he knew that he would soon be in bow range of the Kariens, and he

would be hard pressed to deliver his intelligence about the Medalonians

with an arrow through his chest.

It annoyed him intensely that it had been Tarja who pointed that out.

He was still half a league or more from the camp when the Karien sentries

found him. The sight of Lord Laetho’s purple pennant, with its three

tall pines worked in red, brought tears of relief to his eyes, which he

hastily brushed away as the knights approached. The Overlord was truly

with him, he knew now. Not only had he been released, but he had sent his

own people to meet him. Mikel was giddy with relief as the tall knight in

the lead lifted his faceplate. It was Sir Andony, Laetho’s nephew,

newly knighted last summer and enormously proud of the fact. Andony

studied him for a moment, waving away the drawn swords of his three

companions.

“Sir Andony!” he cried, urging his horse forward.

“Mikel?” he asked in astonishment. “We thought you long dead,

lad!”

“They sent me back. I have a message for the prince.”

Andony frowned. “You seem remarkably well fed for someone kept prisoner

these past months, boy. And you wear the uniform of the enemy.”

Mikel glanced down at his rolled up Defender’s trousers and the

too-big, warm red jacket they had given him in the Medalonian camp.

“They took my clothes and burned them. You must take me to the prince!

I’ve seen so much, Sir! I have to tell him!”

Andony nodded, not entirely convinced. “Well, we’ll see if Lord

Laetho wants you to speak with his Highness. Come!”

Andony wheeled his big horse around and fell in beside Mikel. One of the

other knights took station on his left and the other two fell in behind.

Mikel rode into the Karien camp, not in triumph as he had dreamt, but a

barely disguised prisoner.

“They offer peace,” Prince Cratyn announced, throwing the parchment

Mikel had delivered onto the long table in the command tent. Smoking

torches threw tall shadows on the canvas walls, which made Mikel’s eyes

water. The braziers did little to warm the big tent.

“They offer nothing!” Lord Laetho corrected, pointing at the document

with scorn. “They ask us to pack up and go home! They offer no

compensation! They do not even apologise for murdering Lord Pieter!”

Mikel could not read, but even if he had been able, he had not been given

an opportunity to examine the contents of the sealed document he had

delivered. He wondered at Lord Laetho’s interpretation of the offer.

Sister Mahina had been quite hopeful that a peaceful solution might be

reached.

“I would not go quite that far,” Lord Roache corrected. “But you

are right, in that it is somewhat arrogant in its tone. The Medalonians

appear to think they might prevail.”

The full war council had convened upon hearing of the letter from the

Defenders, even though it was the middle of the night. Mikel had spent

the day being questioned by Lord Laetho and now stood just inside the

flap of the command tent, chewing his bottom lip nervously. In his

dreams, when he faced the war council, he had not been nervous, or cold,

or afraid. Mikel glanced around, rubbing his eyes and trying not to yawn.

The movement caught the eye of the tall Fardohnyan captain who stood

opposite him on the other side of the tent, near the Princess Adrina. The

man winked at him solemnly. The small gesture gave Mikel a much needed

morale boost.

Princess Adrina had obviously dressed in a hurry. Her long dark hair was

tied back with a plain blue ribbon and she wore a simple dress of fine

grey wool, covered with a warm fur cloak. Mikel watched her, thinking

that she was just as pretty as the Lady R’shiel, which was only proper,

since she was married to Prince Cratyn. But she did not look at Cratyn

the same way Lady R’shiel looked at Tarja. There was no warmth in her

eyes at all, except when she addressed the fair-haired Fardohnyan

captain. And Prince Cratyn’s gaze did not linger on Adrina, the way

Tarja’s lingered on R’shiel.

No, he decided, his prince and princess knew how to behave in public.

Nobody would ever come upon them kissing where anybody could see them.

The princess was far too well bred to lean back suggestively against her

husband, while she talked of war to her council, or dress in skin-tight

leathers, or ride astride like a man. It was comforting to be back among

people who acted with decorum and restraint.

“It is a sign of their weakness,” Earl Drendyn announced, leaning

back in his chair. “They have seen the force we have gathered and are

afraid!”

“Even the lowest creature can fight savagely when it’s frightened,”

Duke Wherland reminded them. His eye-patch looked decidedly ominous in

the sputtering light. “I learnt that in the navy.”

“It may be a ruse,” Duke Palen agreed, scratching at his greying

beard thoughtfully. “A delaying tactic, perhaps?” He turned in his

seat, his gaze falling on Mikel, who gulped nervously. “What say you,

boy? Laetho tells me you were there when they decided to make this

offer.”

Mikel swallowed again, his mouth suddenly dry.

“The boy knows nothing useful,” Duke Ervin scoffed, pulling on the

ends of his waxed moustaches. “I don’t know why you bothered to bring

him here.”

“My Lords,” the princess intruded cautiously, her eyes lowered

demurely. She was such a perfect lady. “Children, like women, are

frequently overlooked in a war camp. You may find he knows more than the

Medalonians realise.”

Prince Cratyn looked up sharply as the Princess spoke, but it was Lord

Ciril who answered her. “Her Highness shows remarkable insight for a

woman. Come forward, boy!”

Mikel stepped forward hastily, although his throat was so dry it felt as

if somebody had sandpapered it. “My . . . My Lord?”

“You were there when they composed this message?” Duke Roache asked.

Mikel shook his head. “No, my Lord. But I heard them discussing it.”

“Well? What did they say, boy?” Duke Ervin demanded impatiently.

“Sister Mahina, she said we could win . . .”

“There! What did I tell you!” Drendyn laughed. He took a long swig

from his wine cup. He looked very pleased with himself. “They know we

will defeat them!”

“Shut up, fool!” Palen snorted, before turning his ruddy peasant’s

face to Mikel. “Carry on, boy.”

“But she said it would be an expensive victory,” he finished, gaining

a little confidence in the face of the elder Duke’s support. “Lord

Jenga . . . he said it might . . . give you pause. He said an attack in

winter . . . in the mud or the snow . . . would be hard for armoured

knights.”

“Any fool knows that,” Roache muttered

The Fardohnyan captain said something Mikel could not understand, and the

others turned to the princess expectantly. “My captain asks if the

child heard what the Hythrun Warlord had to say.”

Eleven heads turned to look at him expectantly. Mikel suddenly remembered

all the horrible things Damin Wolfblade had said about the lovely

princess and paled. He could not repeat that!

“He said . . . he said that if you accepted the peace offering he would

be very disappointed. He said you have too much at stake to withdraw

now.” The princess smiled at him before she translated the answer for

her captain and his heart fluttered. This was how a true lady should look

and behave. Decorous, elegant and modest. And Damin Wolfblade said she

had the heart of a hyena! How dare he!

“The Medalonians don’t appear to be suffering under too many false

illusions,” Lord Wherland remarked, “if what the boy says is true.”

“Aye,” Lord Palen agreed, “and they are correct about the snow. It

would seriously hamper the knights.”

“Then we need to attack before it snows, gentlemen,” Prince Cratyn

announced. Mikel’s heart swelled with pride as he watched the young

prince. He was so noble and serious. He did not joke about death or make

lewd comments about women. He was renowned for his piety. And he would

crush the Defenders, Mikel thought fiercely. The Overlord was with him

and he had the most beautiful, well-mannered princess in the whole world

by his side. Nothing could defeat them.

“Aye,” Palen agreed. “We’ve sat on our backsides too long. It is

time to teach these atheists a lesson. Only a fool would wait until

winter to attack. Do you have anything else to tell us, boy?”

Mikel faced a moment of indecision. Should he mention the Harshini?

Should he say he had seen a demon? Lots of demons? If he did, would they

believe him? Or would they send him to the priests for Absolution Through

Pain for lying? Should he tell them that Jaymes would only be released if

they agreed to the peace offering? It had all seemed so clear when he was

a prisoner among the Defenders. But now, faced with the war council and

their stern expressions, his courage deserted him.

“My Lords, the child is exhausted,” Princess Adrina said, saving him

from having to answer. “It is the middle of the night and he is almost

falling over with fatigue, as am I. Perhaps I could take the child and

see him settled for the night while you make your plans? After all, a war

council is no place for a lady,” she added, bringing nods of agreement

from the men. Mikel thought she was beyond perfect. She was the

embodiment of Karien femininity. “Once he’s rested, I am sure he will

remember more. In fact, I would be happy to take it upon myself to

interview the child, thus freeing my Lords for more important business.

It would be my small contribution to your war effort.” The gathered

Dukes nodded, as impressed by her words as Mikel was. “Do I have your

leave to depart, your Highness?”

Prince Cratyn waved his agreement with a furrowed brow, as if something

concerned him, but he was probably just worried about the princess. She

should not have been dragged from a warm bed at this hour of the night.

“Then I bid you goodnight, my Lords,” she said, rising gracefully

from her seat. “May the Overlord be with you as you make your plans, so

that your victory is quick and decisive. Come, child.”

She held out her hand and Mikel took it in wonder. He did not notice the

cold as they walked from the tent. He barely even noticed the tall

Fardohnyan following them outside. The princess said something in her own

language to the captain, who nodded and disappeared into the darkness,

then she turned and looked down at him.

“You must be the bravest young man in all of Karien,” she said with

obvious admiration. “To have spent all that time in the heart of the

enemy and remain so true to your faith. I want to hear about every single

moment of the time you spent with those nasty Defenders.”

“I’ll try to remember everything, your Highness,” he promised her.

For the Princess Adrina he would walk to the Sea of Despair and back.

CHAPTER 25

“You are out of your bloody mind!”

R’shiel met Brak’s anger with a wall of serenity that she did not

entirely feel as she dismounted beside him. It was a little bit like

having her emotions suppressed by Korandellan, except this time the calm

was self-imposed. She was learning.

“There is no other way, Brak.”

“You will never get away with it!” he insisted, pacing the uneven

ground. The magnificent sorcerer-bred horses loaned to them by the

Hythrun wandered off to graze. R’shiel could the feel the touch of

their equine thoughts as they munched contentedly on the fresh grass. The

air was cool and still, as if autumn were trying to decide if it should

move over and let winter in, or if it should linger on the plain for a

time. They had ridden south a ways onto the vast grassland, out of sight

of the camp, Brak insisting he had to speak with her alone. She

understood the reason for his caution as soon as he opened his mouth. He

did not want the humans to hear him chastise her like an errant child. Or

perhaps he was hesitant to reveal any limits to their Harshini power. It

was far easier to keep up the illusion of invulnerability if others were

not aware you had limitations.

“One thing! Just one little thing goes wrong and the whole ludicrous

illusion will fall apart. You can’t just waltz into the Citadel with a

demon meld and expect to confront the Gathering — let alone convince

them that the meld is really Joyhinia!”

“It convinced everybody here,” she pointed out.

“And it lasted for a mere five minutes before it fell apart! The

Gathering goes on for hours. The meld won’t hold that long.”

“Dranymire says it will. With practice.”

“Practice? Do you have any idea how long the demons need to practise? A

dragon is the result of a thousand years of practice, R’shiel! Garet

Warner is leaving for the Citadel the day after tomorrow and he’ll

barely make it in time for the Gathering. Even if you could get there in

time, you would have to convince at least some of the Quorum to support

your case for re-appointing Mahina as First Sister, and that could take

weeks in itself, even assuming the meld was sufficiently cohesive to do

anything so complex.”

R’shiel sighed patiently. She had given this a lot more thought than

Brak gave her credit for.

“I can cast a glamour over myself. Nobody will recognise me.”

“Well, that changes everything!” Brak snorted. “Now it’s just

impossible, whereas before it was inconceivable! I can’t believe you

talked Dranymire into this!”

At the mention of his name the demon popped into being at her feet. He

looked up and frowned at Brak. “You are letting your human temper get

the better of you, Lord Brakandaran.”

“I’m letting my human common sense get the better of me,” Brak

snapped. It was a measure of his fury that he spoke so bluntly to the

demon. Brak was usually more circumspect around them, particularly

Dranymire. “How can you let her do this?”

Dranymire pulled himself up to his full height, making him nearly as tall

as R’shiel’s knee, and glared at Brak. “Lord Brakandaran, there are

some things more important than individuals. Karien priests gather beyond

the border, even as we speak. The Harshini must be able to protect

themselves, and to do that, they need access to the Citadel. Sanctuary

was built as a retreat — not a defence — and it will not stand a

concerted attack if the Karien priests cross the border and discover its

location. The Harshini need the protection and the power of the

Citadel.”

R’shiel looked down at the little demon in surprise. It had never

occurred to her that the Citadel might hold power for the Harshini.

“It will do no good if I protect R’shiel from the danger of entering

the Citadel, if in the long run the Harshini are destroyed. Xaphista is

aware of the demon child’s existence, just as any other god would be.”

Brak took the demon at his word, it seemed, nodding reluctantly. “Then

let me go in her place. Let me call on the demons bonded to my bloodline

to create the meld. I’m expendable. R’shiel is not.”

“No,” R’shiel said with utter certainty, although she had no idea

where it came from. “I have to do this, Brak. I need your help, but

ultimately, the task is mine.”

He shook his head. “You need me? For what? To bring home your body?”

“I need you to help me convince the Quorum,” she explained.

Years of being raised on the schemes of Joyhinia had prepared her for

this, more than Brak knew. She had been fed politics for breakfast,

manipulation for lunch and treachery for dinner for most of her life.

Brak, on the other hand, was more Harshini than he cared to admit, for

all that he had killed Lorandranek.

R’shiel took a deep breath, knowing the reaction to her next suggestion

was likely to be even more extreme than the idea of the demon meld. “As

you said, we need to convince the Quorum, and that could take weeks. So I

don’t plan to convince them. I plan to coerce them.”

Brak was aghast at the suggestion. “Coerce them?”

“We will take Joyhinia to the Gathering and when she stands to speak,

there will not be a voice raised in protest. Not if we cast a coercion

over the whole group.”

He took a deep, calming breath before he spoke. “R’shiel, I know you

weren’t at Sanctuary long, but somebody must have mentioned the

prohibition on coercing humans to act against their natures. It’s . . .

it’s on a par with killing, as far as the Harshini are concerned.”

She looked at him evenly. “I am the demon child. I was created to

destroy. Coercion seems to pale a little compared to that.”

“And when the coercion wears off?” he asked. “What then? What

happens when the Sisters of the Blade wake the next morning, wondering

why in the Seven Hells they voted Mahina back into power?”

“We’ll have to stay in the Citadel long enough to ensure that

doesn’t happen. If anybody makes too much fuss, Mahina can send them

away — post them somewhere remote where nobody will listen to them. A

leader always removes the loudest opposing voices upon attaining power.

It’s a time-honoured tradition. It was also the mistake Mahina made the

first time she was elected. I doubt she’ll be so trusting this time.”

“And what of the real Joyhinia? What do you plan to do with her?”

“Not long after the election, Joyhinia will be struck down with a

terrible fever that will leave her incapacitated,” she explained. “It

will destroy her mind, unfortunately. She will be moved to the villa at

Brodenvale where the sisters who are too old and infirm to look after

themselves are cared for. She will live out her days in comfort and

peace, as befits a retired First Sister, blissfully unaware of the events

going on around her.”

Brak let out a long slow whistle. “Gods, no wonder Xaphista fears your

coming. A té Ortyn Harshini who schemes like a Sister of the Blade.”

She smiled faintly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant as one,” he snarled, turning his back on her. He

walked to his mount and patted its graceful neck. R’shiel wondered if

he was sharing his disapproval with the horse.

“Brakandaran will help you,” Dranymire assured her.

“I suppose. But what did you mean when you said the Harshini needed the

power of the Citadel? I thought the Citadel was just a bunch of

temples?”

Dranymire shook his head. “It is more than that, child. The power is

there for anyone to see, even humans.”

“What power?” There was nothing she could recall from the Citadel

that reeked of Harshini power. And if there had been, she was certain the

Sisterhood would have destroyed it long ago.

“You call it the Brightening and the Dimming, I believe,” the little

demon explained. “It is the pulse of the Citadel.”

R’shiel’s eyes widened. The gradual brightening of the Citadel’s

walls and the eventual dimming each evening had been so much a part of

her life. She had rarely given it a second thought. The idea that it was

proof of the living Harshini magic enthralled her. The pulse of the

Citadel.

“Can I tap into that power?” she asked. If she could access that, if

there was some way to leave her mark on the Citadel, to impose the order

they needed to be able to fight the Kariens single-mindedly, she was

determined to use it. Another lesson learnt at Joyhinia’s knee: use

whatever and whomever it takes to achieve your goals. The end always

justifies the means.

R’shiel felt so little for the childlike husk that was now Joyhinia,

that it was impossible to regard her as the same woman. She felt nothing.

No resentment. No burning desire for revenge. The Joyhinia who had raised

her, and then cast her adrift to suffer, the woman who had scorned her

and ultimately tried to kill her, was dead. The shell that remained was

not worth the effort it took to hate. It was strange, though, that after

all this time and everything Joyhinia had done to her, it was her foster

mother’s influence she felt most. The serenity of the Harshini had

healed her. But it was Joyhinia’s brutal practicality that would enable

her to survive. There was something vaguely disturbing in the idea.

“Don’t you have power enough?” Brak replied sourly. She had been

too engrossed in her thoughts to notice his return. He led his horse

toward her and swung into the saddle. His expression was bleak.

She shrugged and glanced up at him.

“I guess we won’t know that until I face Xaphista and we see who is

left standing once the smoke clears,” she said.

CHAPTER 26

They rode back in silence, Dranymire sitting atop the pommel of

R’shiel’s saddle until they neared the camp. He vanished as the vast

followers’ camp came into view. R’shiel glanced at Brak, but his

expression was still as sour as it had been when they rode out this

morning.

“Stop fretting.”

“I’ll stop fretting when you start demonstrating some sense.”

“We have to do this, Brak. Have you seen the size of the Karien army?

We need every Defender on the border. We need Mahina in charge.”

He shook his head, but did not answer her.

When they reached the corrals on the southern side of the camp, they

dismounted and walked their horses forward. The smell was pungent, with

so many animals so close, and she could feel Wind Dancer’s thoughts as

the mare sensed the nearness of her kin. Two Hythrun hurried forward as

they neared the coral where the sorcerer-bred mounts were kept, a little

way from the more ordinary Medalonian cavalry horses. R’shiel waved

them away, preferring to unsaddle the beast herself.

Wind Dancer’s thoughts lingered wistfully on fresh hay. R’shiel

enjoyed the touch of her equine mind. Everything was so simple. So

uncluttered. Brak moved on a little further, apparently preferring

solitude to her company.

“We have men aplenty to tend your horse, Divine One.”

R’shiel hefted the saddle clear of Wind Dancer and turned toward the

voice in the gathering darkness. “Please don’t call me that, Lord

Wolfblade.”

“A compromise, then. You call me Damin, and I’ll call you

R’shiel.”

“Done!” She lifted the saddle over the rail and turned to him.

“Damin.”

“Did you enjoy your ride?”

“Very much. She’s a beautiful horse.”

“Then she is yours. A gift.”

“I couldn’t accept anything so valuable, Lord . . . Damin.”

“Why not?” He moved closer, stroking Wind Dancer’s golden withers

as she removed the bridle. “I’ve already told Tarja I planned to make

you a gift of her. He didn’t seem to mind.”

“I don’t need Tarja’s permission to accept a gift,” she said,

ducking under Wind Dancer’s head, which put the bulk of the beast

between them. She began rubbing the horse down with more force than was

absolutely necessary. “I’m just afraid you’ll read more into my

acceptance than is warranted.”

“I see. You think I’m planning to use my association with the demon

child for my own political ends, is that it?”

“Aren’t you?”

He laughed. “You and my sister would make a great pair. Kalan thinks as

you do. I offer this gift because I like you, R’shiel. If it helps my

cause some day, then fine, but I would make the offer even knowing it

might harm my cause.”

She stopped brushing Wind Dancer and stared at him. “Why are you here,

Damin?”

“Lord Brakandaran asked me to come.”

“So you dropped everything and left your own province vulnerable to

attack, to help an enemy? Just because Brak asked you? I find that hard

to believe.”

“You were raised by the Sisterhood, R’shiel. Perhaps if you’d been

raised among people who place their gods above all else, you’d

understand.”

“Perhaps,” she muttered, unconvinced. Damin Wolfblade seemed too sure

of his own place in the world to care much about the gods. But it was to

him that Zegarnald had delivered Brak and her. The War God had a high

opinion of this human Warlord. Maybe that was why she did not entirely

trust him.

“R’shiel, I will be the first to admit that my association with you

will give the other Warlords pause. If I can call the demon child my

friend, my position will be almost unassailable. I might even find out

what it feels like not to fear an assassin’s blade. But that’s not

the reason I came. The Karien army has to be stopped before it reaches

Hythria. If not, my people face a war on a scale you cannot imagine.

Hythria is a large nation, but the Defenders are a much more coherent

force than any my people can muster. They are trained to act as one army.

My nation has seven Warlords with seven different ideas as to how a

battle should be fought, even if you could get them to agree to fight on

the same side.”

“You sound so plausible, I almost believe you.”

“I do, don’t I? I’ve been working on that little speech for a

while, although I hadn’t planned to use it on you. I wrote it in a

letter to my brother Narvell.”

“Your brother?”

“He’s the Warlord of Elasapine. I hoped to appeal to his better

nature and use his forces to block any Fardohnyan incursion into southern

Medalon.”

“Did he listen to you?”

“Oh yes, he did as I asked. I also hinted in my letter that I would

deny him my permission to marry the girl he’s been lusting after since

he was fifteen, if he didn’t.”

The darkness had fallen swiftly as they spoke, and the night was lit by

cold starlight; their breath frosted as if their words were things of

substance. R’shiel opened the corral gate and Wind Dancer trotted

through happily to join her companions. She gathered up her bridle as

Damin lifted the saddle from the rail and together they headed toward the

tent where the tack was stored.

“I think I would rather have you as a friend than an enemy, Damin.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“You’ve nothing to fear from me, I —” R’shiel stopped in her

tracks as a prickle of magic washed over her. It was faint, but

unmistakable. The feeling was unpleasant, as if someone was channelling

magic through a filter of slime and filth.

“What’s the matter?”

Brak reached them at a run. “Call your men out, Damin. The Kariens are

getting ready to attack.”

Damin looked puzzled, R’shiel even more so. “Is that what I can

feel?”

Brak nodded. “The priests are calling on Xaphista. What you feel is

them working a coercion, R’shiel.”

She shuddered, thinking this was what she had planned for the Gathering.

She hadn’t known it would feel so unclean.

“When will they attack?” Damin demanded.

“Not for a while yet. But they’d only be doing this if they planned

to move soon.”

Damin did not need to be told twice. He dumped the saddle at

R’shiel’s feet and ran toward the Keep.

“Can’t we do something, Brak?”

“If you want to reveal your presence to Xaphista, by all means, stop

his priests from calling him.”

She glared at him before picking up the saddle, lugging it toward the

tent. “What’s the use of having all this power if you can’t do

anything with it?”

Brak held back the tent flap for her as she shouldered her way in. She

dumped the saddle and bridle on the racks and then pushed past him as she

stepped outside, looking toward the crumbling old fort. Distant shouts

reached them on the cold air as Damin raised the alarm.

“You can do anything you want, R’shiel,” Brak said, following her

gaze. “The trick is knowing when it’s going to cause more harm than

good.”

“Like coercing the Gathering?”

He nodded. “You think what you can feel now is unpleasant. Wait until

you’re channelling it yourself. The Harshini prohibition on coercion

isn’t some altruistic principle. It’s dangerous, R’shiel, and you

are still a babe in arms when it comes to magic.”

R’shiel glanced at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was

fixed on the rousing army.

“Then what should I do?”

He turned to her finally and shook his head. “If I knew that R’shiel,

I’d have told you.”

CHAPTER 27

Brak’s timely warning proved its worth and the Defenders were in

position long before the Karien army advanced the following morning. As

dawn lightened the sky, Tarja rode behind the lines to Lord Jenga’s

position on a small knoll overlooking the battlefield, frost crackling

under Shadow’s hooves.

Ditches filled with sharpened stakes would force the battle down a

v-shaped corridor, pushing the Kariens into an ever-narrowing field of

fire. The Jagged Mountains to the east, and the Sanctuary Mountains to

the west, formed a natural barricade to any flanking manoeuvres. The

mountains were both a blessing and a curse. The Kariens could not get

past them, but neither could the Defenders. The only way to flank the

enemy was to wait until they had crossed the border and were well into

Medalonian territory.

Damin’s mounted archers had been split into two companies: one under

the command of the Warlord and one under the command of Captain

Almodavar. They were positioned on the arms of the V-shape and would

harry the enemy flanks as the Kariens advanced. Their mobility and their

astounding accuracy with their short bows meant they would remain

relatively safe from counter-attack, as the Kariens would have to break

ranks and cross the stake-filled ditches to pursue them.

At the apex of the v-shape waited the longbowmen. They were the only hope

of halting the Karien advance. The longbow could out range any weapon the

Kariens could bring to bear on the Defenders, and their defence lay in

the rain of arrows that should decimate the Kariens before they got close

enough to use their own weapons. Behind them stood the infantry, ready to

advance if the Kariens got so close that the archers were endangered.

Tarja commanded one of the units of light cavalry. His job was to come at

the enemy from behind, once the Kariens were committed to the battle. The

deadly trenches had been carefully measured and dug to ensure a cavalry

mount could clear them, as it was a safe assumption that a Karien

warhorse, weighted down by the knight he carried, would have no hope of

achieving the same feat. What worried Tarja was the Fardohnyan cavalry.

They had dug the trenches before they learnt they would be facing

Fardohnyans as well.

The killing ground was pockmarked with treacherous holes, dug to trap the

charging destriers of the mounted knights. Tarja wondered if it was a

measure of his character that he felt more sympathy for the horses that

would die this day than the men.

He reached the command position and dismounted, as a trooper hurried

forward to hold his mount. Jenga waited under the shelter of a wide

pavilion, talking to Damin and Nheal Alcarnen, who had command of the

reserves. To his surprise, R’shiel and Brak waited with him.

R’shiel looked pale in the dim light. Brak’s expression revealed

nothing of what he was thinking.

“It’s stopped,” she told him as he entered the tent, pulling off

his leather gauntlets.

“What’s stopped?” Jenga asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“The magic. Whatever the Karien priests were doing, they’re not doing

it any more.”

“Is that a good sign?”

Brak shrugged. “Depends on how you look at it. At the very least, it

means you won’t have long to wait.”

Jenga frowned, uncomfortable with this talk of magic. Tarja warmed his

hands over the brazier for a moment before turning to Brak and R’shiel.

“Just exactly what were they doing?”

“Coercing their troops, Brak thinks,” R’shiel told him.

“What does that mean?’

“It could mean they won’t stop attacking, regardless of what you

throw at them,” Brak warned. “A coercion makes men act against their

natural instincts. Don’t count on them breaking, even if faced with

impossible odds. They’ll just keep on coming until it wears off. That

could be hours or days.”

Damin looked across the tent at them and nodded. “We have legends of

battles fought by men under a coercion. They didn’t stop attacking

until every last man was dead.”

Jenga listened to the discussion with growing alarm. “This is madness!

Isn’t there something you can do?”

“Zegarnald will be with us,” Damin said.

Jenga turned on him impatiently. “Bah! Your gods! I need practical

solutions, not flights of fancy.”

“Actually, Zegarnald might be more help than you imagine, my Lord,”

Brak said. “Coercing men in a battle is sort of breaking the rules. It

might be worth appealing to him.”

Before Jenga could answer the faint sound of a horn reached them. The

Kariens signalling their advance. Jenga turned toward the sound and

frowned.

“You speak to your damned gods, Lord Brakandaran. I have a battle to

fight.” He strode from the pavilion with Nheal close on his heels.

Damin pulled on his gauntlets and turned to them with a grin. “I’ll

see you later, my friends. Try not to get yourselves killed.”

“Be careful, Damin,” R’shiel called after him as he strode out of

the tent to his waiting mount, held by a black mailed Raider. Raising his

hand in salute, he swung into the saddle and rode at a canter towards the

coming battle.

Tarja looked at R’shiel curiously. “You and the Warlord seem to be

getting on well.”

“Jealous?”

“Should I be?”

“Oh for god’s sake!” Brak muttered impatiently.

Tarja smiled, realising how foolish he sounded. “I have to go. You take

care of her, Brak. I don’t want her anywhere near the battle.”

“I can take care of myself, thank you, Captain,” she declared. “But

I know what you’re like, Tarja, so just remember this is a battle, not

a border skirmish. You stay where you’re supposed to be and don’t go

getting heroic on me, or you’ll wish the Kariens had killed you by the

time I get through with you.”

She knew him better than he realised. Tarja had never fought in a battle

on this scale; nobody had in living memory. He would far rather be in the

thick of the fighting than standing back, issuing orders while his troops

died at his command. Even harder, it was Jenga directing the battle.

Tarja respected the Lord Defender, but he had grown used to being the one

in command. In this battle he had his orders and no leave to do anything

more.

With R’shiel’s warning ringing in his ears, Tarja walked out to his

horse. He could feel the ground trembling faintly as the Kariens

advanced. Calm settled over him like a warm cloak. It always did before a

fight. Before the bloodlust stirred in him. He glanced over his shoulder

and saw her watching him, her expression grim and her arms crossed, and

wondered if he would ever see her again.

Inexplicably, the Kariens sent their infantry to lead the attack. Rank on

rank of motley peasants marched across the border, armed with short

swords and rough wooden shields, which were painted a riot of colours to

declare the province of each man. They moved erratically, not disciplined

enough to march in unison. Tarja grimaced as he watched them, wondering

if they had been given even basic training. He glanced down the line at

the wall of Defender infantry — men who held their shields steady with

their pikes upright, like a forest of thin bare trees. The cavalry

reserves waited behind, near two thousand men, ready to move forward at

the first sign of a breach.

But it was the longbowmen who would fight this battle. Each one was

surrounded by a wall of steel that would protect him until the last man

had fallen. Buckets of arrows sat behind each man, and beside him, a

young man, drawn from the ranks of the rebels, whose job it was to ensure

the buckets never emptied.

Tarja could feel the tension building around him as the Kariens

approached, but Jenga held off giving the order to attack. Markers had

been set up on the killing field, and the Defenders waited, discipline

overriding their apprehension as the attackers neared. The Lord Defender

did not intend to waste a single arrow. Every man knew and understood

that. The war cries of the Kariens reached them long before they passed

the markers, and still they did not move.

Jenga waited until nearly half of the Kariens were past the markers

before he finally gave the signal. The air hissed as five hundred bowmen

let their arrows fly. The raw troops advancing on them were either too

inexperienced or too blinded by the coercion laid on them by their

priests to react. More than half of them made no attempt to raise their

shields against the deadly rain. Another hiss and the sky blackened as

the next volley was loosed. More Kariens fell. More arrows found their

target. The archers kept loosing their arrows, almost at a leisurely

pace. There was no need to aim. In the confined area of the killing

field, every arrow hit something. Tarja wanted to scream at the hapless

Karien horde to do something, anything, to defend themselves. But they

simply marched on, stepping over the bodies of their fallen comrades,

walking into the arms of death as if it was calling to them.

“Founders!” Nheal swore as he rode up beside Tarja. “Are they brave

— or just plain stupid?”

“You heard what Brak said about them being coerced.”

“I’m almost at the point of believing him,” Nheal admitted with a

frown. Like Jenga, he had trouble dealing with the concept of magic.

“Jenga wants you to move your men to the eastern flank. He fears the

Kariens will try to break through there.”

Tarja nodded and turned his attention back to the battlefield as the

sound of drums reached them. The infantry were almost completely

decimated, but on their heels Karien pikemen marched — five thousand or

more men, pikes held before them, moving forward like an implacable spiny

hedge. Tarja swore softly. These men were even less well armoured than

the first wave had been. Where were the knights? And the Fardohnyans?

“This is going to be ugly,” Nheal remarked as he watched them.

“I can’t understand what they hope to achieve,” Tarja agreed.

“We’ve not lost a man, yet still they come. This is insane. Who in

the Founders’ name is in charge of the Kariens?”

“Whoever he is, he appears to be on our side.”

It was a poor joke, but Nheal was called away before Tarja could tell him

so. He turned back to watching the Karien pikemen as they passed the

markers and met the shower of death sent by his archers. They kept moving

forward. Nothing could stop them, short of death.

He glanced up at the sky and realised with a start that the battle had

been going on for less than an hour, if one could call it a battle. It

was more like systematic extermination. He watched as wounded Kariens

fell atop the dead and was sickened by the sight. No bloodlust surged

through him to take the edge off his sensibilities. No battle frenzy

stole away his conscience. As he turned his horse toward his troops to

move them into position he was left with nothing but a hollow feeling of

disgust.

And still they kept coming.

Tarja was waiting on the eastern flank with his cavalry when the

Fardohnyans finally joined the battle. Although Damin had spoken of their

prowess, he saw little sign of it as they charged forward, no more

careful of the hail of arrows they rode into than the foot soldiers had

been.

The sun had climbed high in the sky but shed little warmth over the

battlefield. The Fardohnyans neared the treacherous, pot-holed field

almost at the same time as the arrows hit them. Tarja had never seen

their soldiers in battle and their speed and discipline impressed him,

although their tactical stupidity left him speechless. There were half a

thousand of them perhaps, keeping to a tight formation as they rode

toward the killing ground. Tarja watched them advancing with a frown.

They wore boiled leather breastplates and metal helms, but other than

that, were unarmoured. Their raised swords caught the rising sun like

flashes of starlight in the dim morning. Their captain rode in the van,

although Tarja could make nothing of his features, except that he had

fair hair and rode well enough to be a Hythrun. They thundered forward

past the markers, but Tarja held off a moment longer, watching their

advance closely. He did not wish to risk his own mounts on that dangerous

terrain. The fair-haired Fardohnyan captain rode through the hail as if

protected by an invisible shield, and his men, those that were still

ahorse, followed him blindly. The air was filled with the sickening

squeals of wounded horses and the cries of dying men. Damin’s Raiders

were picking off their flanks with the same careless ease they

demonstrated on the practice field shooting at melons.

“Enough of this! Charge!”

Tarja spurred Shadow forward at a gallop and cleared the trench with

ease, coming up behind the Fardohnyans. His men followed and ploughed

into their rear with swords flashing. The Fardohnyans realised too late

that they were being taken from behind. With thrust and parry, Tarja

sliced his way though the Fardohnyans, their glazed eyes registering

little more that vague surprise as he cut them down.

It took only minutes to slash his way through to their captain. The man

turned at Tarja’s cry, his expression confused. He looked as if he

wasn’t certain how he came to find himself in the middle of this

battle. But he was better trained than most, and instinct took over. He

parried Tarja’s attack with unconscious ease, although he seemed not to

have the wits about him to press home his advantage.

Tarja found himself fighting a real opponent for the first time since

entering the fray. He countered the Fardohnyan’s strike and let the man

counter-attack, turning the blow with a flick of his wrist so that his

adversary was forced to over-correct to maintain his balance. Tarja

rammed his blade into the man’s side, through the gap in his leather

armour as soon as he saw the opening, jerking the sword free as the

Fardohnyan cried out in agony.

The young captain let his sword slip from his hand, clutching his side,

blood spilling over his fingers as he toppled from his saddle. Glancing

around, Tarja was surprised to discover that most of the Fardohnyans were

down. Then the sound of a horn reached him: three long, mournful notes

calling the Karien retreat. They had given up, he realised, although the

decision puzzled him. They had won nothing, lost thousands of men, and

had not even tried to throw their knights into the battle.

“Sir!”

Tarja turned at the voice and discovered it was the Fardohnyan captain

calling to him. He dismounted and knelt down beside the man. His wound

was fatal, as Tarja knew it would be, but there was a light of

intelligence in his eyes that had been missing before. Perhaps the shock

of impending death had broken through whatever spell the priests had laid

on him.

“Captain.”

“A . . . message,” he panted through the pain, speaking in heavily

accented Medalonian. He was already pale from loss of blood. He would not

last much longer. “To . . . my sister . . .”

“Of course,” Tarja agreed, although he had no way of knowing who this

man was, let alone how to get a message to his sister in Fardohnya. But

the man was dying. It would not hurt to let him die thinking his last

words meant something.

“Treachery . . .” he gasped. “Priests . . . tricked us . . .”

“I’ll tell her,” Tarja promised as he made to stand up.

The man grabbed his arm with a final burst of desperate strength. “You

must . . . warn her . . .”

“I will,” he said soothingly. “I’ll see if I can get a letter to

her.”

The young captain shook his head. “No . . . warn her . . .”

“Warn her,” Tarja agreed. “What’s her name?”

The Fardohnyan closed his eyes and for a moment, Tarja thought he was

dead, but then his chest heaved and he coughed a stream of bright blood,

as his sword-pierced lung tried to cling to life. He muttered something,

a name Tarja could barely make out. He leaned closed as the young man

tried to speak with the last breath left in him.

“Adrina.”

The name took all his remaining strength and with a gasp, the light went

out of his unusual golden eyes.

CHAPTER 28

Adrina woke to the sounds of battle. Or perhaps it was more accurate to

say the silence woke her. The Karien camp, which was, even at its

quietest, a bustling and noisy place, was ominously still. She lay in bed

for a time, listening to the silence, wondering what it meant. As sleep

gave way to wakefulness, she sat up with a start and pushed back the

heavy embroidered curtains around the bed.

“Your Highness?”

Mikel looked up sleepily from his pallet near the brazier when he heard

her moving about. The boy had been a permanent fixture since she had

rescued him from the war council. Laetho had long replaced him as a page,

so Adrina had considerately taken him on. He adored her, although he was

obviously suffering under the misconception that she was some sort of

living saint. It suited her to let him think that. He was a veritable

fountain of information about the Medalonians and she figured she knew

more about them than any other person in the Karien camp.

The child had given her some remarkable intelligence, which she fed the

war council piecemeal to ensure her continuing presence. Sooner or later,

Cratyn was bound to give into the Dukes’ pressure to exclude her,

agreement or no agreement. Adrina was not one for relying on others when

she could do the job better herself. If all it took to ensure Mikel’s

continuing trust was letting him think she was the walking embodiment of

Karien holiness, then she would bestow her blessing on him cheerfully.

Besides, he reminded her of her youngest half-brother, Kander. Sometimes

it was nice to have somebody around who loved you, just because you were

you. She had actually grown quite fond of the boy. Tamylan, with her

usual lack of tact, had rudely accused her of using him as a replacement

for her lost dog.

“Mikel, go ask the guard why it’s so quiet,” she ordered, rubbing

the sleep from her eyes.

The boy scrambled from his pallet, pulled on his boots and disappeared

outside with a hasty bow. Adrina stretched luxuriously, rather glad she

had insisted on the huge feather bed being dragged to the front. She

could have done without the heavily embroidered star and lightning bolt

on the curtains, she thought sourly, but they did keep out the cold.

Perhaps the Overlord was looking after her. In a roundabout,

materialistic sort of way.

“They’re fighting!” Mikel burst out, running through the tent flap,

his eyes burning with excitement. “We attacked at dawn!”

Adrina frowned. She had been invited to no war council last night. Nobody

had mentioned attacking the Medalonians this morning. “Fetch Tamylan

and then find us some breakfast. I want to get dressed.”

Mikel bobbed his head and raced outside again. He obviously considered

war a grand pursuit. She wondered if he would be quite so enthusiastic

once the casualties started coming in.

Tam was quick to respond, although when she entered the tent, her

expression was grim. But she had obviously been up and about for a while.

“They left before dawn,” Tam explained, before Adrina could frame the

question. “Tristan and his men went with them.”

Adrina was stunned. “Tristan? How? He’s my captain! Cratyn can’t

order him anywhere.”

“Vonulus came for him,” Tam told her as she helped Adrina pull her

gown over her undershift. “I didn’t hear what he said to Tristan, but

it was enough to get him moving. He told me to tell you he’d report to

you tonight.”

“What in the Seven Hells could Vonulus say to him that would make him

follow Cratyn?” she wondered aloud.

“He didn’t say,” Tam shrugged. “With Vonulus just outside the

tent, I don’t think he wanted to give away my presence, but all the

troops were gathered to pray to the Overlord for hours before the

battle.”

Adrina looked at Tam curiously. “He didn’t want to betray you to

Vonulus? That’s remarkably considerate of him,” she said. Tamylan

actually blushed. “Oh Tam, please tell me you’re not falling in love

with him!”

“Don’t be absurd!” Tam scoffed, turning Adrina around with more

force than was absolutely necessary to lace her gown. “You ordered me

to become his lover. I simply do as I’m told. Slaves have a tendency to

act that way.”

Adrina looked over her shoulder. “A duty you have carried out with

great attention to detail, I see.”

Tam pulled on the laces so hard, Adrina grunted. “I am your loyal

servant, your Highness.”

“You know my father is likely to legitimise him if he fails to get an

heir, don’t you?” she asked. News had reached them in Yarnarrow that

Hablet’s eighth wife had delivered another tiresome girl child.

“He’s always been one of Hablet’s favourites and the more trouble

he gets into, the more Father likes him. Tristan could never marry you,

of course, but you could have a very rosy future as a favoured

court’esa, if you play your hand right. Quite a step up for a slave

girl.”

“You are reading far too much into this. Tristan and I . . . we are

simply doing your bidding.”

“Of course,” Adrina agreed with a smile.

For some reason the idea of Tristan and Tamylan falling in love made her

very happy. She loved Tam, as much as one could love a slave, and Tristan

was perhaps the only person in the world she loved unreservedly, with no

thought for what he could do for her, or she for him. It was the curse of

her birthright.

Adrina knew she was always going to be a stepping stone for others. Every

suitor Hablet had ever proposed had been a grasping fortune hunter,

although some had disguised it better than others. Cratyn had been the

first suitor who matched her for title or position, but even he had plans

to use her.

As a child, Adrina had prayed to Kalianah, the Goddess of Love, for a man

who would fall madly in love with her, not her position, or the wealth

she could bring him. She had realised the futility of her prayers soon

enough, once she understood that as Hablet’s eldest legitimate child,

she had no equal in Fardohnya. No equal in the world perhaps, with the

exception of the younger Prince Cratyn in Karien and the heir to the

throne in far away Hythria, who was undoubtedly as corrupt and perverted

as his uncle, the High Prince Lernen. No, her prince would never come for

her, she knew. Instead, it was a grubby line of lordlings each dreaming

of the prestige attached to making her his wife. He’d be dreaming of

the wealth, the land and the titles that Hablet would bestow on him for

taking her off his hands.

She had adroitly avoided such a fate by being a harridan. Considering how

greedy some of her would-be suitors had been it had taken quite an effort

on Adrina’s part for them to finally decide that no amount of money or

titles could compensate them for having to live with her. Eventually, the

offers had dried up. Hablet had plenty of other daughters who were much

more amenable than the dreaded Adrina.

Until Cratyn.

Until, through her own recklessness, she had left herself vulnerable.

She sighed, pleased that at least Tam had found love. Being a bastard

gave Tristan more freedom than she had ever had. And being a man. That

annoyed her even more than the fact that every man who had ever expressed

an interest in her was looking over her shoulder at the wealth and power

that came with her hand.

“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to wait until they get back,” she

said, taking the small stool so Tam could fix her hair. “Cratyn has

obviously gone out of his way to prevent me being involved in this. Would

you like to make a small wager on the reaction of the guards if I ask for

my horse, so I can watch the battle?”

“No need,” Tam replied. “They told me on the way in that you would

be keeping to your tent today.”

“He’ll pay for this,” she muttered. Her list of things Cratyn was

going to pay for was growing so long that she would need to remain

married to him for a lifetime, just to make certain he suffered

sufficiently.

Mikel arrived back before Tam could offer a reply, brimming with news at

how well the battle was going. Adrina paid him little attention. There

was no way the child could know for certain. It was his loyalty to Karien

speaking, but she let him prattle on as they ate breakfast. His mindless

chatter filled the silence and kept her mind off other things.

The day dragged on interminably. Mid-morning the Ladies Hope, Pacifica,

Grace and Chastity arrived, suggesting that they pray to the Overlord to

protect their men in battle. Adrina agreed absently. On her knees praying

to the Overlord was actually preferable to trying to engage her

ladies-in-waiting in intelligent conversation. Mikel gave her a look that

bordered on worship as she knelt. Poor child. If only he knew she was

silently asking Zegarnald to protect Tristan. And inflict a festering

wound on Cratyn, while he was at it. Preferably a horribly disfiguring

wound that offered a lingering, pain-filled death . . .

After an hour of kneeling, conversation didn’t seem such a bad idea

after all. She glanced around at the small circle of young women, at

their pious faces, and inwardly groaned. Gods, these girls are pathetic!

“Ladies, perhaps we should cease our prayers for the moment,” she

suggested. “The Overlord has a battle to watch over. I am sure he has

heard our pleas for victory this day. I think we presume much to distract

him so.”

The Ladies Hope, Pacifica, Grace and Chastity agreed with her wise words

and climbed stiffly to their feet. Adrina ordered refreshments, and as

the cold sun climbed higher and higher she listened to their boring talk

of inconsequential things — while a battle raged a few leagues away.

She could not understand how they did it.

It was late afternoon before they learnt anything useful, and the news

was not good. When the guard on the tent was changed, the newcomers spoke

of a dreadful battle, of casualties too numerous to count. Adrina

frowned, but she was unsurprised by the news. Mikel had told her of the

hours the Defenders spent training, of the extensive earthworks the

Kariens would have to breach. Defending a position was always easier than

attacking. All the Medalonians had to do was sit and wait for the Karien

forces to throw themselves over the border and pick off the attackers at

their leisure. She hoped Tristan had the sense to stay clear of the

battle. It was unlikely Cratyn would try to use her men in battle, she

reasoned. He wanted the glory of this victory for Karien and the

Overlord. It just would not do to have a bunch of heathens do the work

for him.

Just on sunset, Adrina discovered how wrong she had been. Second Lanceman

Filip, a young man assigned to her Guard, arrived at the entrance to her

tent seeking an audience. He was bloodied and exhausted, his eyes hollow,

his expression bleak. He fell to one knee, from exhaustion as much as

respect when he saw Adrina. Her heart lurched at the sight of him.

Tristan must have taken vast casualties to send a Second Lanceman to

report.

“What happened?” Fear clutched at her stomach and her throat was dry.

“It was . . . we were slaughtered, your Highness,” he told her, his

voice rasping with shock and fatigue. “The Medalonians had archers.

Thousands of them. The arrows didn’t stop falling for hours. When they

did, the rocks started falling out of the sky like hail. The priests . .

. they did something to us. It was as if . . . we just couldn’t stop,

your Highness. It was like . . . we’d lost our wits. We’d lost most

of the force before we even saw a red coat, and then they took us from

the rear.”

Adrina nodded, calling on all her reserves of strength to maintain her

regal posture. The man needed to see her strength. In truth, she wanted

to scream. “How many of the Guard were lost?”

“There’s barely thirty of us left, your Highness.”

Adrina staggered. Barely thirty left! There were five hundred men in her

Guard this morning. Cold anger overwhelmed her grief. “What exactly did

the priests do, Lanceman?”

“I couldn’t say, your Highness. We gathered on the field . . . they

prayed over us, I think. After that, it gets a bit hazy . . . The next

thing I remember for certain was the horns sounding the retreat.”

“Thank you, Lanceman. Go now and find some rest. I will commend your

report to your captain.”

The young man looked up at her with eyes full of grief. “Captain

Tristan is dead, your Highness. He died bravely, though . . . fighting a

Medalonian. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”

For a moment, Adrina was numb. She felt nothing. Saw nothing. Did

nothing. But slowly, grief crept over her like a sheath of ice that

clutched at her fingers and toes and worked its way through her body

until it settled around her heart. In the background, faintly, she heard

Tam sobbing. She even had time to notice Mikel standing near the

entrance, his eyes wide with shock.

“Has Prince Cratyn returned from the battlefield?” she asked. Her

voice was ice wrapped in anger.

“I . . . I believe so, your Highness.”

“You are dismissed, Lanceman. Tell the other Guards that I will address

them later. And tell them I honour their sacrifice and share their

grief.”

Filip rose wearily to his feet, bowed and backed out of the tent.

“Fetch my cloak, Mikel,” she said calmly. The boy nodded and hurried

to do her bidding. Adrina did not move. Her anger was like a solid,

tangible thing. Had it been a sword, she could have killed with it.

“Your Highness?” Mikel ventured, holding out her cloak. She took it

from him and swept it over her shoulders.

“See to it that Tam gets some hot tea, Mikel. She was very fond of the

captain.”

At the sound of her name, Tam looked up. She wiped her eyes and looked at

Adrina suspiciously. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere you need to concern yourself with.”

“Adrina!”

Tam’s anxious cry followed her as she strode through the camp to the

command tent. Her grief was so overwhelming that she could not breathe,

could not think. She pushed her way into the tent, ignoring the startled

looks of Lord Roache and Lord Palen. The ice shattered as her rage

flared. She marched straight up to Cratyn, pulled him out of his chair

and delivered a stinging backhanded slap across his face.

“You unbelievable, despicable bastard!” she screamed as he picked

himself up from the table, gingerly fingering a small trickle of blood

from the corner of his mouth. “What did you do to my Guard? What

evil-spawned spell did your perverted priests cast on my men? You knew

what would happen to them! You and your pathetic, craven knights sat back

and waited in their damned tin suits while my brother and his men were

slaughtered like cattle!”

Cratyn barely managed not to cower under her rage. He glanced at the two

shocked dukes, taking a step back from her before he spoke.

“The princess is distraught at the news of her captain’s death,” he

explained warily.

Adrina’s anger turned white hot. “I’m distraught? You disgusting,

impotent, little moron, don’t you realise what you’ve done?”

“In war, hard decisions are necessary, your Highness,” Lord Roache

said. “When you’ve had time to consider . . .”

“Forget your stupid war! You’ve killed one of Hablet’s sons! He was

planning to legitimise his eldest baseborn son and name him heir. You

just murdered the heir to the Fardohnyan throne!”

Oddly, her news seemed to strengthen, rather than frighten Cratyn.

“Then it is as the Overlord wills. The heir to the Fardohnyan throne

will be of Karien blood. A true believer.”

“Heir! What heir? That limp dick of yours hasn’t got the lead to

produce an heir, has it, Cretin? Is that why you want to go to war so

badly? Because a banner is the only thing you’re capable of raising?”

They must have heard the rumours, but both Roache and Palen looked

startled by the news. Cratyn, she was viciously pleased to note, was

mortified that she had exposed his impotence so brutally. She would have

severed his useless organ and marched through the camp with it mounted on

a pike at that moment, had someone given her a knife.

“Your Highness! This is not an appropriate place to discuss . . .”

“Your precious prince’s manhood? Or rather, his lack of it. Don’t

worry, Lord Palen, the prince’s impotence is no longer an issue because

I am going home to Fardohnya, where I plan to inform my father that his

son was murdered by a boy prince who defied every law the gods hold

sacred by coercing his men in battle. You can forget this damned

alliance. There will be no aid, no cannon, no invasion of southern

Medalon. You’ll be lucky if Hablet doesn’t invade Karien!”

“Attempting to return to Fardohnya would be extremely foolish, your

Highness,” Roache told her, his voice dangerous.

“Don’t you dare think you can threaten me, Lord Roache,” she

warned. “I will do as I please. I will escort my brother’s body home

where he will be laid to rest on Fardohnyan soil and my father can mourn

his loss.”

“Guards!” Roache called. Cratyn looked afraid to take his eyes from

her. She could not tell if her threats scared him. Did not care.

“Escort her Highness to her tent,” the Duke ordered as soon as the

guards appeared. “She is beside herself with grief and not aware of

what she is saying. She is not to leave her quarters unless Prince Cratyn

or I expressly order it. Is that clear?”

The guard saluted smartly and waited for Adrina. A small worm of sanity

tunnelled through her grief reminding her of where she was. It was only

then that she realised the enormity of her error. Roache was a very

dangerous man. She had forgotten that in her anger.

“Have a care, your Highness,” he advised. “It would be most

unfortunate if we had to advise your father that he had lost a daughter,

as well as a son.”

CHAPTER 29

As she was escorted back to her tent, Adrina cursed her temper. With a

few careless words she had destroyed months of hard work convincing the

Kariens she had converted to their cause. Roache’s threat was very

real. Would they tell her father she had died of grief for her lost

brother? Killed herself in despair? Blame a disease caught in the camp?

Whatever the reason, Adrina knew she had to leave this place, and the

only hope of escape was across the border into Medalon and the waiting

army of Defenders.

Adrina stopped before she entered her tent and took a deep breath. She

wanted nothing more than to throw herself down and sob uncontrollably for

the loss of her brother. The tragedy of his death staggered her. That

such a bright light could be extinguished so easily for the sake of

Karien ambition was more than she could bear. But there would be time to

grieve for Tristan later. Now was a time for clear thinking. She took

another deep breath and entered the tent, a plan half-formulated over the

last few weeks slowly taking on a firmer shape in her mind.

Tam and Mikel both leapt to their feet as she stepped inside. Tam’s

eyes were red and swollen. Mikel looked very uncomfortable. He did not

know how to deal with grieving grown-ups. For a moment, Adrina wondered

if he knew how lucky he was that his brother was still a prisoner with

the Hythrun. He would not grieve tonight as she would.

“Your Highness?” he said expectantly.

Adrina looked over her shoulder rather dramatically and waved the two of

them closer. “I have just met with Prince Cratyn,” she said in a low,

conspiratorial voice. “I have grave news.”

“About the battle?”

“Worse! There is a spy in the camp.”

Tam looked at Adrina suspiciously, but Mikel’s young face was a

portrait of shock.

“A spy!”

“Sshh!” Adrina urged. “No one must know!” She moved further into

the tent, to ensure they were out of hearing of the guards outside. “It

is the reason for the massacre today. The Medalonians knew we were

coming!” As she watched Mikel lap up every word she uttered, she had

time to think that the Medalonians would need to be blind, deaf and

completely witless not to notice an army the size of the Karien advancing

on them. “Prince Cratyn needs my help. Our help.”

Mikel straightened his shoulders manfully. “What does he want us to do,

your Highness?”

She glanced up at Tam, who was looking at her doubtfully. There would be

time to explain things later. “I have to deliver a message to my

father, the King of Fardohnya. Prince Cratyn needs my father’s cannon

to help him defeat the Medalonians.”

Mikel took her at her word. “But how?”

“We must go to Fardohnya,” she explained in a whisper. “We must

leave tonight, while both sides are still in confusion after the battle.

We will cross into Medalon and make for the Glass River. We should be

able to secure a Fardohnyan trader to see us safely back to Talabar from

there.”

“Shall I tell the guards to fetch your horse, your Highness?”

“No! Nobody must know about this, Mikel. As I said, there is a spy in

the camp. If they learn of this mission, our lives would be in danger!”

“Would be in danger?” Tam asked with a short, bitter laugh. “I’d

say they’ll be in danger anyway, traipsing through Medalon in the

middle of a war.”

Adrina rolled her eyes. She would never convince Mikel if Tam did not

support her. “I do this for my prince,” she declared. “I know there

is danger, but who else can convince my father to send the cannon? Cratyn

needs my help. How can I refuse my husband?”

Mikel laid a comforting hand on hers. “You are so brave, your Highness.

But the Overlord will be with us.”

“That gives me such strength,” she agreed sincerely. “Now you must

listen to me carefully, Mikel. Prince Cratyn and I have worked out a plan

to see us safely over the border, but it needs your assistance. Will you

help me?”

“Of course!”

“And you must guard this secret with your life,” she warned. “We do

not want the spy to learn of Prince Cratyn’s plans.”

“I cannot believe that any Karien would betray his countrymen,” Mikel

protested.

“You have been among the enemy, Mikel. You have seen how they can eat

away at a man’s faith. Not all the Overlord’s subjects are as loyal

as you.” She ruffled the child’s head fondly. “Now listen

carefully. Prince Cratyn pretended to place me under guard, so that the

spy will not note my absence. I need you to seek out a Fardohnyan

Lanceman named Filip and give him a note from me. He will see that we

have horses. The battlefield will be a busy place tonight, with both

sides looking for wounded and the camp followers picking over the dead.

We should be able to slip through unnoticed. Once we are past the

battlefield, Tam and I will pose as Hythrun court’esa returning home.

Nobody will question us if we are careful.”

“What’s a court’esa, your Highness?”

“An entertainer,” Adrina told him blandly. “They are very popular

in Hythria and Fardohnya, so nobody should think it odd.”

“I will protect you, anyway,” Mikel assured her. “I’ll not let

any harm come to you, your Highness.”

“I know, Mikel. That’s why I insisted Prince Cratyn allow you to

accompany me. You have been in the enemy camp and you speak their

language. I cannot think of a better protector.” No need to disillusion

the child and tell him she spoke Medalonian fluently.

Mikel swelled with pride. “The Overlord will protect us all!”

“I certainly hope so,” she agreed. “Now go and find some warm

clothes. It will be cold tonight. I will write the message for Filip. We

must leave as soon as it’s dark.”

As soon as the boy had left the tent, Tam turned on Adrina. “Are you

mad!”

“Probably, but it’s preferable to the alternative. Did you pack any

of my clothes from home?”

“I packed every stitch you own,” she grumbled unhappily.

“Good. Find us something to wear that would pass as a court’esa’s

costume. The more bare flesh the better. Once we reach the border,

we’ll need to look the part if we are stopped by the Hythrun.”

“And if the Defenders stop us?”

“Then we shall distract them with our feminine wiles,” she said

impatiently. “Men are men, Tam. Oh! Make sure you pack my jewellery,

too. I’m not leaving it so Cretin can sell it to finance his damned

war.”

“How do you intend to get out of here?”

“I’ll wear your clothes and leave the tent on an urgent errand for

the princess before the guard changes,” she said. “Once the new

guards are on duty, you do the same, making sure they have instructions

not to disturb me. We’ll meet Filip and Mikel on the edge of the

camp.”

“Do we have to take the boy?”

“I need him to get a message to Filip and he’s been in the

Defenders’ camp. We can leave him once we find a boat on the Glass

River.”

Tam still looked miserable, but Adrina thought her grief was still too

raw for her to object much. She wanted out of here as much as Adrina did.

“We’ll never pass as court’esa, your Highness. Even if you could

act humble enough to convince anybody you weren’t a princess born and

bred. We have no collars. The Defenders might accept the ruse, but no

Hythrun would.”

“We have collars,” she said. “Fetch my jewellery box.”

Tam did as she asked and watched curiously as Adrina unlocked the small,

beautifully carved chest. She lifted out the top tray, ignoring the

wealth that lay scattered on its velvet surface and reached into the

bottom. She lifted out two exquisitely worked necklets, one silver, the

other gold. Both were in the shape of snarling wolves, with emerald-set

eyes and a fiery line of rubies tracing their twisted spines.

“Where did you get these?” Tam breathed in astonishment.

“In Hythria. You remember when I visited Greenharbour? High Prince

Lernen attended a slave auction while we were there and invited me along

for the sport. It was an awful day. He spent the whole time complaining

about the poor quality of Hythrun slaves these days, not even bidding on

them, when two of the most beautiful young men I have ever seen were

brought to the block. They were identical twins, not more than fifteen, I

suppose. Lernen took one look at them and just had to own them. He paid a

fortune for them — said he wanted to make a gift of them to someone,

probably his nephew.

“But I knew he planned to taste the fruit before he shared it around.

Gods, but the Wolfblades are a degenerate lot.

“Anyway, Lernen insisted they ride back to the palace with us in his

carriage. He couldn’t take his eyes off them. As we were climbing out

of the carriage back at the palace, one of the boys grabbed my sleeve and

begged me for help. They looked innocent enough, but they knew what was

in store for them.” Adrina hesitated for a moment, not at all certain

she wanted to relate the rest of the tale.

“What did you do?” Tam asked.

“I gave him my knife.”

“Gods! Did Lernen find out?”

Adrina shook her head. “I saw them later that night at dinner, all

powdered and primped and ripe for the plucking. They were wearing these

collars — and not much else — and Lernen was crowing over them like a

child with a couple of new dolls to play with. The next morning they

found the boys dead in Lernen’s bed. They slit their wrists and bled to

death beside him while he slept.”

“That’s dreadful! Adrina, why didn’t you tell me about this before?

If the Hythrun realised it was your knife the boys took to Lernen’s

bed, you could have been hanged.”

“I thought of that. I claimed I lost it before dinner.”

“But how did you get the collars?”

“Lernen gave them to me. Once he’d stopped screaming and they’d

cleaned the blood off him, he sent for me. I found him sitting in his

private courtyard just staring at the collars. They were laying there on

the edge of the fountain, still stained with the blood of the boys.

Lernen asked me to get rid of them. Told me he never wanted to see them

again. I’m not sure why I’ve kept them. Maybe to remind me why I

agree with father when he says Hythria should be invaded and the

Wolfblade line destroyed.”

“What about his nephew? What was his reaction?”

“I’ve no idea,” she shrugged, fingering the gold collar idly. “I

never met him. He probably wasn’t sober enough in the entire month I

was there to present himself to me. I was never so glad to leave a place

as I was when I left Greenharbour. Until now. Leaving here is going to

feel even better.”

Tam picked up the open silver collar and studied it thoughtfully.

“Where are the keys?”

“I don’t have them. Once we put them on they’ll have to stay there

until we get home and can have them cut off. If I can put up with it, so

can you, Tam. I’d happily cross Medalon in chains if it means I never

have to lay eyes on Cretin again.”

As if to prove her point she slipped the collar around her neck and heard

it faintly snick closed, as the wolf swallowed its tail. The gold was

cold against her skin, the sensation odd. She had never wondered if

court’esa objected to being collared. They were always such beautiful

works of art. The more elaborate and expensive the collar, the more the

court’esa was worth. Tam had been born and bred a slave and her

reluctance seemed a little strange. Perhaps being nominally free since

arriving in Karien had sparked a little rebellion in her. “Put it on,

Tam. We’re running out of time.”

By the time Mikel returned, Adrina had written a short note to Filip and

packed everything she planned to take with her. Considering the style to

which she was accustomed to travelling, it was a pitiful bundle, but it

contained her riding habit, her jewels and the small, sharp Bride’s

Blade. She sent the boy on his way with the note and changed into the

costume Tam had selected. It had a thin silver bodice and a split emerald

green skirt. It left her midriff bare and pimpled with gooseflesh in the

chilly air. Over that she pulled on Tamylan’s high-necked grey woollen

tunic, and then Tam’s serviceable woollen cloak. The rest of her

belongings she wrapped in the linen bag Tam used to take her laundry to

the camp washerwomen. Tam was still dressing when she left the tent with

the hood of her cloak pulled up to shadow her face. She hurried past the

guards, who barely glanced at her. They had orders to stop the Princess

Adrina leaving. Nobody had mentioned a servant hurrying off with her

mistress’ laundry.

It was dark by the time she worked her way through the camp to rendezvous

with Filip. It had been the most nerve-racking hour of her life as she

stumbled over the uneven ground, around groups of soldiers, too bloodied

and exhausted to challenge her right to be there. By the time she slipped

away from the edge of the camp into the small copse of trees where Filip

should be waiting, she was afraid she was going to be sick. Fear was not

an emotion Adrina had much experience with, and she prayed fervently to

whatever god might be listening that she would not experience it again

for a long, long time.

“Your Highness?” Filip’s voice was a questioning whisper. She

followed the sound and was relived to find Mikel waiting with the young

Lanceman, his eyes burning with the excitement of his adventure.

“You’ve done well, Lanceman,” she said as she made out the three

dark shadows picking at the sparse dry grass between the trees. “Mikel,

go and keep an eye out for Tam.” The boy dutifully scurried off and

left her alone with Filip.

“You are leaving, your Highness?” Filip asked as he led the horses

forward. It was hard to tell from his tone whether he approved of the

idea or not.

“I’ll not be a party to this monstrous slaughter any longer,” she

told him. “Fardohnya has shed enough blood to satisfy the Kariens.”

“And what of the Guard, your Highness? When the Kariens discover you

are missing . . .” He did not need to finish the sentence. She knew

their fate as well as he did.

“I want you to cross the border tonight. Take every Fardohnyan in the

camp with you who is still breathing. If they can’t ride, tie them to

their saddles. When you reach Medalon, surrender to the Defenders.”

“Surrender?” Filip sounded horrified, but it was hard to make out his

expression in the darkness.

“The Defenders will keep you prisoner for a time, but I doubt they’ll

harm you. And you’ll eat far better there as a prisoner than as a free

man on this side of the border. Tell them your religious beliefs prevent

you from taking part in any further fighting. The Defenders have little

experience with the gods. They should believe you.”

“And what if it is the Hythrun who find us first?”

“Then tell them Zegarnald ordered you to surrender,” she told him

impatiently.

“The War God would never —”

“It doesn’t matter, Filip,” she snapped. “Just get your men away.

I would rather have you alive and in the custody of the enemy than put to

death by Cretin because I ran away. Do this for me and I will see every

one of you rewarded when we get back to Fardohnya.”

“As you command, your Highness.” He sounded reluctant, but there was

little more she could do. If they chose to disobey her, that was their

decision.

She turned sharply at the sound of scuffing feet and was relieved to find

Mikel returning with Tam. As the Karien boy watched in amazement, she

shed the cloak and tunic to reveal the Fardohnyan costume underneath.

Shivering so hard her teeth were chattering, she pulled out the fur-lined

cloak and wrapped herself in it with relief. Tam shed her own woollen

tunic to reveal a costume almost as decorative and just as flimsy as

Adrina’s.

They were court’esa now, and the collar felt cold against her skin as

she swung into the saddle and turned her mount south toward Medalon.

CHAPTER 30

Adrina’s escape from the Karien camp proved surprisingly easy. The

troops were either too stunned or too tired to challenge them, and it was

doubtful Cratyn had even thought to post sentries. They rode across the

no-man’s land between the camp and the border without incident, chilly

starlight illuminating their path.

From a distance, the battlefield looked like a surreal, alien landscape.

Dark humps littered the ground as far as the eye could see, as if mad

sappers had tunnelled the field, leaving countless mounds of black earth

in their wake. It was only as they drew nearer that Adrina realised they

were bodies, thousands of them, scattered across the landscape like

discarded, broken dolls.

The smell hit them even before they reached the fallen soldiers. The

heavy stench of blood and excrement hung in the still air, making her

gag. Shadowy figures moved among the corpses. Men looking for fallen

companions, camp followers looking for loot, women searching out missing

loved ones, grim-faced Defenders seeking dying horses, ending their

suffering with a quick sword thrust. Others searched for living bodies,

friend and foe alike, for the life they might save or the hostage they

might take. Huge bonfires on the far side of the battlefield threw a pall

of black smoke over the whole nightmarish vista.

“We’ll have to lead the horses,” Adrina said as they reached they

first of the fallen Kariens. “We can’t ride through this.”

Tamylan and Mikel complied silently and they began to pick their way

forward, holding cloaks across their faces against the smell. The ground

was treacherous, pockmarked with deep holes, dead soldiers and broken

horses. There was not a red coat among them. The Defenders had either

taken few casualties or their wounded had already been removed.

The battlefield covered a vast area. As they doggedly trudged on, hour

after hour, Adrina began to wonder if it would never end. She stumbled

along and tried not to think about the death surrounding her, or the

grief that she had damned up inside for a time when she would have the

luxury of giving it voice. Instead she pressed on, thinking only of

placing one foot in front of the other, ignoring the soldiers who reached

out to her, crying for help, or the lifeless eyes that stared accusingly

at her as she passed by. This was not her war. It was not her fault.

The night went on forever and the smoke grew thicker as they neared the

bonfires. Mikel was yawning, wiping streaming eyes, when Tamylan suddenly

gasped. Adrina looked back and discovered the slave had stopped walking.

She was staring at the fires, her expression horrified.

“What’s wrong?”

“They’re burning the dead!”

She had heard of the barbaric Medalonian practice of cremation, but had

never seen it practised. The sight disgusted her. But she needed to be

strong. Their survival depended on it.

“There are too many men to bury, Tam. Anyway, what do you care if they

cremate a few Karien corpses?”

“It’s not right!”

“No, but neither is it our concern. Now keep moving.”

Adrina tugged her horse forward and did not look back to see if Tamylan

was following.

Sometime later, they reached the first Fardohnyan corpse. It was a young

man with vaguely familiar features, although Adrina could not put a name

to him. He lay on his back, his foot still trapped in the stirrup of his

dead horse who had fallen beside him. A long, red fletched arrow was

embedded in his boiled-leather breastplate. His eyes were wide open and

he stared at the sky, as if engrossed in the strange constellations of

the northern sky.

“Oh, gods!” Tamylan breathed as she drew level with Adrina. “Lien

Korvo.”

“Was that his name? I didn’t know. I hardly knew any of them.”

“And yet they died for you.”

Adrina looked up sharply. “They didn’t die for me, Tam. They died for

Cratyn. A debt I intend to make him pay.”

Tamylan looked around with a shake of her head. “If we survive this.”

“We’ll survive.”

“The Overlord will watch over us,” Mikel added.

Adrina resisted the temptation to turn on the boy. If this was the

Overlord’s work, she wanted no part of it. But she needed the child.

They still had to get past the Defender’s camp, and he knew its layout.

“I’m sure he is, Mikel. Come on. We have to keep on.”

The closer they came to the edge of the field, the more Fardohnyan bodies

they encountered. Adrina did not look at them, afraid of what she would

see, afraid of who she would find. Tristan was here, lying dead on this

foreign plain, killed by a godless Defender. Her anger increased with

each step, divided equally between the Kariens, who had condemned her

brother to death, and the Medalonians, who had carried out the sentence.

She would have vengeance for this slaughter, although how or when she did

not know. But one day, she vowed, Karien, Medalon and even Hythria, would

pay for the life of her brother and those of her Guard.

“Here! What are you after?”

Adrina stopped and turned her head toward the voice. It was a red-coated

Defender although, as she knew nothing of their insignia, she did not

know if he was a private or a commandant.

“We were just looking for loot,” she said, in her best Medalonian.

“A girl has to look out for herself, y’know!”

“Who are you? What are your names?” the man demanded. He peered at

them suspiciously.

“We’re court’esa. From Hythria. I am Adrina, and this is Tamylan.

The boy is our servant.”

“Aye, I’ve heard of your kind. Fancy whores is all you are,” he

said, sounding a little disgusted. The man stared at the jewelled collar.

“I’d have thought that trinket ’round your neck would be enough for

you, without you needing to loot the dead, as well.”

“Don’t you touch her!” Mikel cried as the Defender reached out to

touch the collar. Adrina could have slapped the child. Now was not the

time for bravado.

The Defender laughed sourly but made no move to come any closer. “Quite

a bodyguard you ladies have. Now clear off! Lord Jenga has ordered all

the looters off the field.”

“Don’t worry, sir, that’s exactly what we planned to do.”

The Defender nodded and watched them as they pulled their mounts forward.

Mikel glared at the man defiantly, but held his tongue. Adrina’s heart

was pounding as they walked away, expecting him to call them back. She

risked a glance over her shoulder and discovered the man had moved away

towards another group of looters. She let out a breath she had not

realised she was holding and glanced down at Mikel.

“That was very noble and very foolish. In future, try to curb your

enthusiasm for protecting me.”

“But your Highness, I —”

“Don’t call me that!” she hissed. “You must call me Adrina. At

least until we are away from here. We are trying to be inconspicuous!”

“I’m sorry, your . . . Adrina.”

“That’s all right. Just be on your guard.”

“Seems a bit rough,” Tamylan said, as she trudged along beside Adrina.

“What do you mean?”

“You just told an enemy officer your real name, yet you chastise the

boy for trying to protect you.”

Adrina stared at the slave for a moment, not sure what surprised her most

— Tam’s blatant criticism or the fact that she could have been so

stupid.

“I never thought . . .”

“Not thinking is what got us into this mess,” Tam pointed out

grumpily. “First you don’t think if you can sail a ship. Then you

don’t think about threatening the Karien Crown Prince. Then you drag us

across a battlefield in the dead of night —”

“That will be enough, Tamylan. You forget yourself.”

“Not as often as you do,” the slave muttered under her breath, but

loud enough that Adrina could hear her.

It was almost dawn by the time they passed the last of the bodies, but

Adrina’s relief was short lived. At least the men on the battlefield

had been mostly dead. Now they would have to get through the Defenders

and the Hythrun who were alive and on their guard.

They swung into their saddles and moved off toward the scattered crowd

heading away from the field. With luck, they could mingle with the other

camp followers and go unobserved. A few people glanced at them enviously.

They were mounted on Fardohnyan horses, but Adrina had decided she would

claim they had rescued the beasts from the battlefield if they were

challenged.

Daylight finally turned the sky the colour of pewter as Adrina and her

companions left the battleground behind. They rode at a shambling pace

amidst the looters and the walking wounded, tired, hungry, thirsty and

emotionally drained. The war camp and the tent city lay before them, and

beyond that, another two or more weeks to the Glass River. Perhaps there,

with luck, a Fardohnyan trader would be waiting, making the most of the

profits of this war, before Hablet joined the fray and turned them into

enemies.

Nobody challenged them, or even cared about them, it seemed. The only

time anything caught the interest of the people around them was when a

man and a woman galloped past on glorious golden horses. Both were tall

in the saddle and rode with the ease of those born to ride. The young

woman wore dark leathers, much as the old tapestries depicted the

Harshini. She had a thick long braid of dark red hair, and both she and

her companion wore grim expressions. At their passing, several civilians

fell to their knees, but the pair did not notice.

She looked at Mikel, who was on the verge of falling asleep in his saddle.

“Mikel, do you know who they are?”

“Who, your . . . Adrina?”

“That man and woman who just rode by.”

Mikel looked in the direction of the rapidly dwindling figures of the

horses and shook his head. “I’m sorry, your . . . Adrina. I didn’t

see.”

“No matter.”

Adrina put the pair out of her mind and allowed herself one glance over

her shoulder before fixing her eyes forward. She did not need to be

reminded of the past hours. The images of the battlefield would stay with

her forever.

CHAPTER 31

In the cold morning light, Damin Wolfblade surveyed with disgust the

carnage that was the remnants of their first serious engagement with the

Kariens. It was not what he expected at all. The air stank of smoke and

death. Even the sky was grey with low, sullen clouds that gazed with

disapproval over the battlefield. Like Tarja, he had never faced a battle

on such a scale, and the aftermath left him strangely unsettled. Although

he could not fault the tactics of the Defenders, this had not been a real

battle. It was like killing cattle in a corral. There had been no

opportunity for personal glory, no chance to fight for the honour of the

War God. He had lost one man to injury and that through a fall. The

Defenders had lost a dozen men and perhaps fifty were injured. It had

been a thoroughly unsatisfying affair.

Lord Jenga was well pleased, though. He had faced down a numerically

superior enemy and not just prevailed, he had triumphed. The Defenders

were in a buoyant mood. The Kariens were decimated, the Fardohnyan

contingent destroyed. Of course, the Kariens still had countless men to

throw at them, but they might think twice before launching such a

suicidal frontal assault again.

Damin suspected the reason for the victory lay as much with the coercion

laid on the enemy by their own priests, as with the brilliance of the

Medalonian defence. Even when the odds were hopeless, the Kariens did not

have the wits about them to retreat. All they could do was keep moving

forward into the arms of certain death.

“My Lord.”

Damin turned to his captain wearily. He had not slept in two days and it

was starting to tell on him. “What is it, Almodavar?”

“Lord Jenga wishes to see you. There’s some disagreement over your

orders regarding the Fardohnyans.”

Damin nodded, not surprised by the news. He turned his mount and rode

toward the command pavilion at a canter. The sooner this was sorted out,

the better.

“Lord Wolfblade, is it true you ordered the Fardohnyans buried?”

Jenga demanded as soon as he appeared in the entrance. The tent was

crowded with Defenders, most of them congratulating themselves over their

victory.

“I did. They are pagans, my Lord. It is sacrilege for them to be

cremated. You may do as you wish with the Kariens, but the Fardohnyans

deserve better.”

“They fought with the Kariens,” Jenga retorted. “They deserve

nothing. In any case, I’ve not the men or the time to spare burying

anyone. I’ll have an epidemic on my hands if that field isn’t cleared

soon.”

“Then my men will bury them, my Lord. And I’ve no doubt there are

plenty of pagans in your camp who would aid us.”

Jenga snorted something unintelligible and turned to an officer seeking

his signature. He signed the document before turning back to Damin.

“Very well, bury them if you must. I’ve broken enough laws lately for

another to mean little. But do it away from here. And don’t use my

Defenders. Not that there are many who would countenance such a barbaric

practice.”

“Your respect for our religious customs is touching, my Lord.”

Jenga frowned but did not reply. Annoyed, Damin strode from the tent. His

men had fought as long and hard as the Defenders. They would not be

pleased with an order to bury nearly five hundred Fardohnyans in this

cold, hard ground.

“Damin!”

He stopped and waited as R’shiel caught up to him, surprised to find

her here. He had expected her and Brak to be long gone. “I heard what

you said to Lord Jenga. You did the right thing.”

“Then perhaps you could persuade him to lend me some assistance.”

“I doubt it. Burial is outlawed in Medalon, Damin. You’re lucky he

agreed at all.”

“I know. But sometimes I wonder about this alliance. I have more in

common with the Fardohnyans and the Kariens than I do with these people.

Were it not for the gods . . .”

“Were it not for the gods, none of us would be in this mess,” she

finished with a frown.

Not sure what she meant, Damin shrugged. “You would know better than I,

demon child.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“I’m sorry. Although I’m a little surprised to see you here. I

understood you were leaving for the Citadel.”

“I’m looking for Tarja to say goodbye. Brak and I are leaving this

morning.”

“With Garet Warner?”

She nodded. “You don’t like him much, do you?”

“Not in the least. Nor do I trust him. Be careful, R’shiel.”

She slipped her arm through his companionably and walked with him. Damin

found her easy familiarity disconcerting. This girl was a living legend;

the embodiment of a myth he had grown up with. He had never expected to

find himself counted among the demon child’s friends. When they reached

his horse R’shiel let go of his arm and patted the stallion fondly.

“What’s he thinking?” Damin asked curiously.

“He’s thinking it’s too cold to be standing around gossiping. He

wants his breakfast.”

“So do I.”

She looked at him with a shake of her head. “How can you even think of

food, at a time like this?”

“Armies fight on their stomachs, R’shiel. Starving myself won’t

bring anybody back to life.”

“I feel sick just thinking about it.”

Before he could answer her a Defender lieutenant approached them,

saluting Damin smartly before turning to R’shiel. His uniform was

grubby and soot-stained from a night collecting and burning the dead.

“Captain Tenragan said to ask you to wait for him, my Lady. He’ll be

along once he’s taken care of the last of the looters.”

“He’s wasting his time,” Damin remarked. “Looters and war go

together like sand and sea.”

The young lieutenant drew himself up and glared at him. “I understand

it’s a common practice in Hythria, my Lord. Even your court’esa

aren’t above it. In Medalon, however, such a practice is considered to

be barbaric and disrespectful.”

“This from a man who burns his dead,” Damin muttered, then he glanced

at the young man curiously. “What makes you say my court’esa aren’t

above it? There are no court’esa here.”

“Perhaps they belong to one of your men, sir, but I stopped two of them

last night. Laden down with bundles of loot they were. All dressed up

too, with those jewelled collars and dresses that left nothing to the

imagination.”

“No man of mine could afford court’esa like that. Are you certain?”

“Aye. I spent time on the southern border. I’ve seen them before.

There was no mistaking them.”

R’shiel looked at him expectantly as he pondered the news. “What’s

the matter?”

“Probably nothing. Did you get their names, Lieutenant? Where they were

from?”

The man thought for a moment. “One was called Tam-something, I think.

The other one said her name was Madina, or something like that. I

didn’t really take much notice of them once they moved on . . .”

“Which way were they headed?”

“South, with everyone else, I suppose.”

“Of course. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

He saluted again and headed toward the command pavilion.

“What’s bothering you, Damin?” R’shiel asked with a faint smile.

“That there were Hythrun court’esa looting the battlefield, or that

you don’t own them?”

“I just seems a bit strange, that’s all. Court’esa as valuable as

that don’t roam battlefields unescorted.”

“What’s all this about court’esa?” Tarja remarked as he walked up

beside R’shiel. His eyes were bloodshot, no doubt from supervising the

funeral pyres through the night, and his shoulders were slumped with

fatigue. Damin wondered for a moment if he looked as haggard.

“One of your men stopped two court’esa looting the battlefield last

night. Hythrun court’esa, complete with court collars, he claims.”

“You didn’t bring any court’esa to the front, did you?” Tarja

asked.

“No.” He shrugged. “It’s probably just your men confusing some

whores from the followers’ camp. Besides,” he added with a laugh.

“What self-respecting court’esa would call herself Madina? They

usually give themselves far more exotic names.”

“Assuming he got the name right,” R’shiel added. “She could have

said her name was Adrina, for all we know.”

Tarja’s eyes narrowed. “Adrina . . . . Damn!”

“What?”

“The Fardohnyan captain I faced yesterday. He begged me with his dying

breath to warn his sister that they’d been betrayed. In the heat of

battle, it never occurred to me . . .”

“What are you talking about?” R’shiel asked impatiently.

“Let me guess,” Damin said. “His sister’s name was Adrina?”

Tarja nodded. R’shiel looked first at Tarja and then Damin with growing

annoyance. “So?”

“Hablet’s bastards are usually sent to serve in the army as officers

once they’re old enough,” Damin explained.

“So Tarja killed one of Hablet’s bastards?” she said, throwing her

hands up. “What of it? This is war.”

“He wanted me to warn Adrina that they’d been betrayed,” Tarja

reminded her.

Damin glanced at R’shiel then turned to Tarja with a frown. “And

suddenly there are two court’esa crossing the battlefield from Karien?

Something bothers me about this. I think we should look into it.”

Tarja nodded thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should, at that. If Adrina is

attempting to send a message back to her father, and she thinks the

Kariens have betrayed her, she couldn’t risk sending the message by

normal means.”

“Well, that’s nice!” R’shiel declared. “You ask me to wait

around so you can say goodbye, then as soon as my back is turned,

you’re off chasing a couple of floozies in see-through dresses on the

off-chance they’re Fardohnyan spies.”

With a tired smile, Tarja put his arm around her and pulled her close.

“I’m only going along to keep Damin out of trouble.”

“I think you need someone to keep you both out of trouble!” she

complained unhappily. “You look terrible, by the way. Both of you.”

“Speaking of trouble, here comes your watchdog,” Damin warned, as

Brak strode across the field toward them.

R’shiel glanced at the approaching figure and then turned to Tarja.

“I have to go. Promise me you’ll take care.”

“I’ll take about as much care as you will, R’shiel,” he said, so

softly Damin could barely make out the words. Damin turned away, to give

them at least the illusion of privacy.

“It’s time we were gone, R’shiel,” Brak said when he reached them.

R’shiel drew away from Tarja with some reluctance. “I know.”

“Keep her safe, Brak, or you’ll have me to answer to.”

The Harshini laughed sourly. “You, Tarja? There’s more than a few

gods who I’d have at me, if I let anything happen to the demon child.

You’d have to line up for a chance at what was left of me, I’m

afraid.”

R’shiel frowned. “I wish you would all stop treating me like a

fragile doll. I can take care of myself, you know.”

“He’s knows that, R’shiel. Go and save us all from the Sisterhood,

while we stay here and skewer Kariens like fish in a barrel, and when you

get back we can all tell each other what heroes we’ve been.”

She smiled at Damin and leaned forward, kissing his cheek lightly. “You

are just as bad as he is. You take care of yourself, too. And don’t go

leading him astray when you find your court’esa. The captain is already

spoken for.”

“What court’esa?”

“Don’t ask, Brak. Let’s just get out of here before Garet decides

to leave without us.”

With a final kiss for Tarja and a wave for Damin, R’shiel followed Brak

to the horses he had waiting for them. He glanced at Tarja.

“Don’t worry. She is the demon child. She has forces watching over

her that you cannot imagine.”

Tarja nodded and seemed to force himself to shrug off his apprehension.

“I’m not worried. Anyway, I thought we were going to investigate some

floozy in a see-through dress?”

Damin nodded and swung into his saddle. “Meet me by the fletchers’

tent. I have to see about burying some Fardohnyans first, then we’ll

find out what two very expensive court’esa were doing looting a

battlefield full of dead Kariens in the middle of the night.”

CHAPTER 32

“What time is it, Tam?”

The slave looked up at the heavy, overcast sky and shrugged. “Breakfast

time.”

Adrina’s tummy rumbled in agreement. She was rather disgusted that she

had not thought to ask Filip to pack any food. Adrina had never had to

worry about where her next meal was coming from. It had not occurred to

her to think of such mundane things when she planned her desperate flight

from Karien. Perhaps when they reached the tents of the camp followers,

there would be a stall or a tavern where they could purchase a meal. And

supplies for the journey south. As she rode, Adrina tried to calculate

what they might need and what it would cost, but she really had no idea.

She had never had to buy her own food, either.

They had made little progress since leaving the battlefield, hemmed in as

they were by the other travellers on the makeshift road. Adrina fretted

at the delay, but knew the crowd was her best protection. Among these

peasants she was just another looter returning home from a long night

robbing the dead. Once they reached the followers’ camp and had

equipped themselves for their journey, they could make up for lost time.

She wondered if Cratyn had discovered her missing yet. Even if he had,

she realised with some relief that she was safe from him now. He could

not follow her into Medalon, and would not suspect it had been her

destination, in any case. More likely he would send troops searching the

road back toward Yarnarrow. By the time he realised where she was, she

would be in Cauthside, perhaps even on a boat, sailing the Glass River

south for home. The knowledge invigorated her and some of her exhaustion

fell away.

She was free of Karien.

Nothing would ever entice her to go back.

Adrina glanced at Tamylan and smiled encouragingly. Mikel slept in her

arms and Adrina led his riderless horse. The poor child was exhausted and

Tamylan had offered to hold him while he slept, for fear he would fall

from his saddle.

Adrina was not certain what to do with the child. He was a sweet boy, but

he was so fanatically devoted to his damned Overlord, he was liable to do

anything. She felt a twinge of guilt over her plans to abandon him.

Perhaps she could find some Medalonian peasant who would take him in. She

could pay for his keep — she had enough jewellery on her to buy him a

commission in the Defenders, for that matter.

The thunder of hooves brought her out of her musing and she glanced over

her shoulder as a dozen Hythrun Raiders rode by them with a red-coated

Defender in the lead.

Probably off to celebrate their victory, she thought sourly.

A little further on the riders slowed and then wheeled their mounts

around, heading back the way they came. With a stab of apprehension,

Adrina stared steadfastly forward, as if by refusing to look at them they

would not notice her.

At a sharp command the Raiders reined in beside her, expertly cutting her

and Tamylan out of the crowd. With no choice but to do as they indicated,

she turned her mount off the road to confront the Defender and a grubby,

unshaven Raider who wore nothing to indicate his rank.

“Ladies,” the Hythrun said as they approached. “What a pleasure to

find members of your profession out here.”

Adrina glared at him with all the withering scorn she could muster, which

was considerable. “Don’t even presume to think I would entertain the

likes of you!”

The man seemed more amused than offended by her answer. “Why not? We

have plenty of money. And that is what you’re doing out here, isn’t

it? Looking for financial advancement? There’s a dozen of us here, and

at, say ten rivets a turn, you could make quite a tidy sum.”

Adrina flushed angrily, not certain what insulted her most — that this

barbarian would dare proposition her, or that he would offer a measly ten

rivets for the privilege.

“How dare you!”

“Adrina,” Tamylan hissed beside her, warningly. Mikel stirred

sleepily.

“My deepest apologies, madam. Fifteen rivets, then, although for that

price, you’d better be good.” The dark-haired Defender who rode at

the Hythrun’s side seemed to find the exchange highly entertaining.

Adrina forced her temper down. She had to talk her way out of this.

Adopting an air of extreme disdain, she looked down her nose at the

Hythrun and the Defender, both of whom would have benefited considerably

from a bath.

“Fifteen, or fifty rivets, it makes no difference, sir. I am a bound

court’esa. I am not at liberty to accommodate you. As you can see, I

wear a collar.”

“So you do,” the Hythrun said, as if noticing it for the first time.

“A wolf collar, at that. Am I to understand that you are the property

of House Wolfblade?”

“Naturally,” Adrina agreed, with a bad feeling it was a mistake to

admit such a thing. These mercenaries worked for House Wolfblade. They

might take such an admission as proof that they were entitled to her

services.

“I don’t recall Lord Wolfblade bringing any court’esa to the front,

do you, Captain?”

“I’m sure I would have noticed,” the Defender agreed laconically.

“Perhaps we should take them to him?”

Adrina blanched at the thought. She did not want anything to do with

Lernen Wolfblade’s degenerate nephew. “No thank you. We can find our

own way.”

Mikel woke and wiggled around in Tamylan’s arms to stare open-mouthed

at the Hythrun surrounding them. Adrina threw him a warning glance,

hoping the child would have the sense to remain silent.

“But we insist,” the Hythrun said, with a dangerous smile. “Lord

Wolfblade will be most anxious to see you. He’s been a long time out

here in the field and these Medalonian women are all dogs.”

“My Lady . . .” Mikel whispered urgently. She ignored him.

“Thank you, but no. Now get away with you! I’m sure Lord Wolfblade

didn’t send you out here to harass innocent people going about their

business. I will be speaking to him about this, I can assure you!”

“Your Highness!” Mikel’s whisper was verging on panic-stricken.

“You know his lordship then?” the captain asked.

“Of course, you fool! Now get out of my way or Lord Wolfblade will have

you whipped!” Adrina did not know if that was the case, but it seemed a

fair assumption, based on what she knew of the family.

“Your Highness! That is Lord Wolfblade!” Mikel cried.

Adrina suddenly felt faint.

Her mouth went dry as Damin Wolfblade rode up beside her, so close his

stirrup touched hers. He was nothing like the powdered courtier she

imagined. He was big and dirty and unshaven and looked meaner than King

Jasnoff’s most vicious hunting hound.

For a fleeting moment, she wished she had never left Karien.

Damin Wolfblade looked at her closely. He did not look surprised to

discover her identity. She realised with despair that they had suspected

all along who she was. That nonsense about ten rivets a turn was

obviously his misguided idea of a joke.

“Your Highness.” He bowed with surprising grace, but it was the short

bow of an equal, not a mere Warlord greeting a royal princess.

“Lord Wolfblade.” Adrina marvelled at how steady she sounded.

“Tarja, allow me to introduce Her Serene Highness, Princess Adrina of

Fardohnya, or is it Her Royal Highness, Princess Adrina of Karien, these

days? It’s so hard to keep track of these things.”

“Move away from me, sir,” she said in a voice that was colder than

the Fourth Hell.

Wolfblade smiled. “What do you think, Tarja? Will we get more by

selling her back to the Kariens or her father?”

“I’ll kill you if you touch her!” Mikel screamed.

“You!” The Defender glared at the child and Mikel cowered under his

scrutiny. “Founders, how did you get here, boy? I thought we’d seen

the last of you!”

“You coward! How dare you pick on a helpless child! As for you,” she

added witheringly to the Warlord, “I refuse to be your hostage!”

“You refuse to be my hostage? I don’t recall asking your permission,

your Highness.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, sir. I am a Fardohnyan princess of

royal blood!”

“Quite a step up from a court’esa,” the Defender remarked, not in

the least impressed by her declaration.

This was not going well at all. She could not afford to be a hostage. The

first thing they would do was send a message to Cratyn demanding the gods

alone knew what in return for her release. At that moment, Adrina did not

care if the war raged on for another hundred years.

She was not going back to Karien.

“I refuse to be your hostage, my Lord, because I am seeking asylum,”

she announced, the plan formulating in her mind as she spoke.

The Warlord made no effort to hide his astonishment, or his disbelief.

“Asylum?”

“But, your Highness . . .” Mikel began with a horrified gasp.

“Be quiet, child!”

“You expect me to believe you are running away?”

“I am not running away, my Lord, I am altering the terms of the

Karien-Fardohnyan Treaty. The Kariens have not kept their side of the

bargain, therefore I do not feel compelled to keep mine.”

“I’d call that running away,” Tarja chuckled.

Damin Wolfblade shook his head, clearly not believing a word she said.

“And what is it you want in return for asylum, your Highness?”

“Safe passage to Fardohnya in a manner befitting my station.”

“Is that all?” Tarja asked with a sceptical laugh.

“Safe passage to Fardohnya? So you can get together with your father

and stir up even more trouble? I don’t think so, your Highness. Do we

look that foolish?”

“You question my word, sir? How dare you! I am a princess!”

“You’re Hablet’s daughter,” he corrected. “That makes every

word you utter suspect.”

She was going to have to put this man in his place, sooner rather than

later. “I will not sit here and be insulted by a barbarian! I insist

you take me to the Lord Defender this minute, so that I may present my

case to someone with a better understanding of protocol than a savage,

such as yourself!”

Damin Wolfblade laughed at her. Adrina loftily ignored him and turned to

Tarja Tenragan.

“The boy is under my protection and so is my slave. They will remain

with me, so that I may have some basic level of service. You will agree

to consult me regarding any offer of ransom made on my behalf. And under

no circumstances, will I agree to return to Karien. Is that quite

clear?”

Her list of demands seemed to startle him. Wolfblade exchanged a glance

with the Medalonian before turning to her. “You may keep your slave,

your Highness. As for the boy, his fate will be up to Captain Tenragan.”

“And the rest of my demands?”

The Warlord laughed. “Demands? You are our prisoner, your Highness.

You’re not at liberty to make demands. But I’ll promise you one

thing. Give us any trouble at all, and I will see that you learn what it

is to wear the collar of a bound court’esa. Is that quite clear?” He

turned his horse away from her before she could frame a suitable retort.

“Put the boy on his own horse. He’s old enough to ride without a

nursemaid.”

A Raider rode forward and snatched Mikel from Tamylan’s arms. Other

hands took the reins of her mount, leaving her nothing to do but cling to

the pommel as, surrounded by the Hythrun, she rode toward a crumbling

ruin that must be their command post.

Adrina chewed on her bottom lip and wondered if she’d done the right

thing, admitting she was trying to get home. Damin Wolfblade clearly did

not believe her, but Tarja Tenragan was hard to read. Perhaps he would

champion her cause? Surely the Medalonians would see the benefit in

letting her go? Her arrival in Talabar was bound to destroy the treaty.

On the other hand, returning her to Karien would be almost as effective.

They could demand any number of concessions from Cratyn. She stared at

the backs of the two men in whose hands her fate now rested, and realised

her only protection lay in making them want to shield her from Cratyn’s

wrath.

Adrina realised that she was going to have to change her tune.

She was going to have to be nice.

She wondered, for a moment, if she remembered how.

CHAPTER 33

“What in the name of the Founders are we supposed to do with her?”

Jenga paced the hall, hands clasped behind his back, his brow furrowed

with concern. He had hoped for sleep on his return to the Keep. He had

not planned on the discovery that Tarja and Damin had captured a

court’esa who turned out to be the Crown Princess of Karien.

“My suggestion is that whatever you do, you do it quickly. You don’t

want her around causing trouble, my Lord, and believe me, she will cause

trouble.” Damin spoke from the heart, never more certain of anything.

“She’s well guarded,” Tarja pointed out.

Damin laughed sceptically. “Then make sure you change them often. In a

week, she’ll have every man she comes in contact with eating out of her

hand. A week after that they’ll be helping her escape. It’s a good

thing we searched her saddlebags. There’s enough here to buy more than

a few men’s souls.” He glanced at the fortune in jewellery scattered

on the rough wooden table. The blue diamond alone would feed a small

village for a year.

“You claimed she was a shrew,” Jenga said, stopping his pacing for a

moment to glance at the gems. The torches painted dark shadows over his

lined face.

“She is,” Damin agreed. “But she’s also as sharp as a new sword.

Now we’ve deprived her of her purchasing power, she’ll resort to more

direct methods. She’s court’esa trained. That may not mean much here

in Medalon, but trust me, it makes her more dangerous than you can

possibly imagine.”

“What do you mean, court’esa trained?” Tarja asked. “She’s a

princess.”

“Your definition of a court’esa and ours is very different, Tarja.

What you call court’esa in Medalon are merely common whores. In

Fardohnya and Hythria, they are highly trained specialists, worth a small

fortune to those who can afford them. Adrina was probably given her first

one around the age of sixteen. He would have been a skilled musician, an

artist maybe or a linguist. But first and foremost, his job would have

been to make Adrina more valuable as a wife by teaching her the art of

giving pleasure in the marriage bed.”

“So our princess is a whore?” Tarja asked with a grin.

Damin shook his head impatiently. “You’re missing the point. She’s

Hablet’s daughter. She’s been trained by the very best and if she

thinks it will help her cause, she’ll use every skill at her disposal

to get her own way. And in case you hadn’t noticed, she’s not exactly

hard to look at. If you don’t believe me, go up there now and spend an

hour in her company.”

“No thanks, I’ve seen all of Her Serene Highness I want to.”

“You two can argue the lady’s finer points some other time,” Jenga

snapped. “Right now, I have to decide what to do with her.”

“We could ransom her back to Cratyn,” Tarja suggested. “Surely he

will sue for peace if it means the return of his wife.”

“I’m not so sure,” Damin said with a shake of his head. “She

seemed very determined not to go back to Karien. And if that Fardohnyan

you killed was to be believed, then the Kariens have betrayed them.”

“But Adrina never got the message. There has to be another reason she

left.”

“What of Hablet?” Jenga asked. “Perhaps knowing his daughter is our

hostage will stay his hand?”

Damin shrugged. “He’s a treacherous bastard. He could just as easily

abandon her to her fate as try to get her back.” He smiled sourly.

“We’ve more chance of trading the jewellery, I fear.”

“Maybe we should consult her Highness on the matter?” Tarja

suggested. “She did, after all, demand to be informed of any

negotiations regarding her ransom.”

“You jest, surely,” Jenga said.

“If only he was joking,” Damin sighed.

“Well, I’ll leave it up to you, Lord Wolfblade. You captured her, so

I’m making her your responsibility. You may use whatever men you need

to keep her guarded, but I don’t have time for this distraction. Give

me your recommendation when you’ve decided what to do. And put those

gems somewhere safe. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m going to

bed.”

Damin watched the Lord Defender leave with an unfamiliar feeling of

despair. He turned to Tarja, who seemed more amused than concerned. The

captain wrapped the jewels in their velvet cover and tucked them into his

belt.

“You’ve a fortune there, you know.” Damin finished his wine with a

grimace and then glared at Tarja. “Don’t look at me like that, you

have no idea what she’s like.”

“Oh, I got an inkling today. You’re welcome to her.”

Damin rose from his seat by the fireplace and poured himself another cup

of wine. He drank it in a gulp.

“She tried to kill my uncle, you know.”

“Adrina?”

Damin nodded. “Hablet sent her to Greenharbour for Lernen’s birthday

a couple of years ago — the same year you were recalled to the Citadel,

as I remember. Adrina had obviously been well briefed about my uncle’s

various weaknesses before she arrived and she pandered to them very

effectively. She dragged him along to the slave auction and coaxed him

into buying a pair of twin boys. The cunning little bitch even made the

boys ride back to the palace in his carriage, no doubt hoping to whet his

appetite. That night they slit their wrists in my uncle’s bed and bled

to death while he slept. The blade they used was Adrina’s table knife.

She must have slipped it to them in the carriage. I wonder how she sleeps

knowing they killed themselves rather than do as she demanded.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t go to war with Fardohnya over an attempt

on the High Prince’s life.”

Damin shrugged and poured another cup of wine. “Nothing definite could

be proved. I was out hunting that day, and didn’t return until late,

but I was told Adrina claimed at dinner that she had lost her knife. We

could never connect the boys to her afterwards, and we tried every avenue

of investigation. In the end, we had no choice but to let the matter

drop.” He swallowed the wine and thumped the cup down on the table.

“You know what really irks me?”

“What?”

“That bitch and her slave are wearing the collars Lernen gave those two

dead boys. I’d recognise them anywhere. Lernen and I had quite an

argument over their cost. It’s how my mother met her gem merchant,

incidentally. Adrina no doubt kept them as a souvenir.”

Tarja frowned, as if he could not conceive of anything so callous. “So

take them back.”

“No, I think I’ll leave them right where they are for now. Another

thing you may not understand about Fardohnyans and Hythrun, Tarja, is

that for a noblewoman to be collared like a slave is the worst kind of

insult. Her Serene Highness could well do with a little humiliation.

Anyway, she thinks I need a key to open them. I can keep her collared for

quite some time, while I’m waiting for the keys to arrive from

Hythria.”

“Have you sent for them?”

“No need. There’s a concealed clasp. But the idea that her good

behaviour will earn her release might keep her tractable for a time.”

“I could always offer to dismember her slave,” Tarja suggested with a

grin. “It worked on the Karien boy.”

“Adrina would probably tell you to go right ahead and then ask if she

could watch,” he predicted sourly. “Speaking of the boy, he is your

responsibility. I don’t want him anywhere near her. He’d probably run

one of us through if she asked him.”

Tarja nodded, his expression suddenly glum. “I miss R’shiel already.

She seemed to be able to get through to the child. And I’d be happier

if Mahina were here to deal with Adrina.”

“So would I,” Damin agreed. He poured a cup of wine then poured

another for Tarja and pushed it across the table to him. “Here. If

I’m going to get drunk, then you’d better join me. It has been a

thoroughly unsatisfactory day. That battle was as glorious as a cattle

cull.”

Tarja took the wine and sipped it as Damin downed his in a gulp. They

were silent for a while, only the crackling fire and the hissing torches

disturbing the silence. Damin filled his cup again.

Tarja glanced at him curiously. “You said it was common practice among

Hythrun and Fardohnyan nobility to have their sons and daughters trained

by court’esa. Does that mean you were?”

“Absolutely!” Damin could feel the wine making his head spin. It was

a rough blend, too young to be drunk with such determination. He drank it

anyway. “Her name was Reyna. I was fifteen when she came to

Krakandar.”

“It beats fumbling around in the stables with a nervous Probate, I

suppose.”

“Having never fumbled around in a stable with a nervous Probate, I’m

not in a position to comment on the comparison, but I imagine you’re

correct. Drink up, Captain. I’m getting very drunk here and you

haven’t finished your first cup.”

“Perhaps you should get some sleep, Damin. It’s been a long day.”

“Yes, mother.”

“I only meant —”

“I know what you meant.” He studied the bottom of his cup for a

moment. “You know, we call rough wine like this ‘Fardohnyan

courage’ in Hythria.”

Tarja smiled. “We call it Hythrun courage.”

“I shall ignore such a heinous insult, Captain, because I like you.”

Suddenly, he hurled the cup at the fireplace where it shattered into

thousands of clay shards. “Dammit! Why couldn’t she stay on her own

side of the border?”

“You really should get to bed, Damin. You’re drunk and you’re not

thinking straight.”

“I’ll grant you that I’m drunk, Tarja,” he conceded. “But as

for thinking straight, I’ve never been surer. Shall we pay her Highness

a visit?”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“All the more reason to wake her up. Her Royal Sereneness tried to kill

my uncle and she allied herself with the Kariens. She sent her men to be

slaughtered and then fled the scene of her crime like a cur in the night.

I intend to rattle that bitch until her teeth come loose.”

Ignoring Tarja’s pleas for reason, Damin took the crumbling stairs to

the chambers so recently vacated by Joyhinia, two at a time. Voices

filtered up to him, as someone entered the hall at a run. Damin ignored

them, his eyes focused, (as much as they could focus in his present

state), on the door at the end of the landing, guarded by two red-coated

Defenders. He had no clear idea what he would say to Her Serene Highness,

but he was going to say something, by the gods!

“Damin!”

Tarja’s voice held an edge of urgency that made him pause just before

he reached the door. He leaned over the balustrade and looked down into

the torchlit hall.

“Forget the princess! The Fardohnyans have surrendered!”

Sobriety returned quickly as the cold night air caught Damin unawares.

The camp surrounding the Keep was surprisingly busy, considering the

lateness of the hour. Men normally well abed by now were sitting in small

groups discussing the battle, dissecting its every nuance with varying

degrees of expertise, depending on how much ale they had consumed. Morale

in the camp was high. Nobody had expected to weather the first attack

with so few casualties. Laughter and the off-tune baritone of men singing

victory songs filled the air. Fires blazed with little thought to the

fuel they were consuming. Thunder rattled in the distance and a light

rain had fallen while he was in the Keep, dampening the dusty ground.

Soon enough, these men would be forced to take shelter. There would be no

frost tonight with this cloud cover, but if it got much colder it would

snow, which should slow the Kariens down somewhat.

This morning’s battle had been a desperate attempt to break the

Medalonian defences before winter set in. Damin was rather proud of

himself for working that out. Maybe he wasn’t as drunk as he thought.

The young man in command of the Fardohnyans was a Second Lanceman named

Filip. He wore an expression of defeat along with his battle-stained

uniform. His eyes were dull, and his exhaustion seemed to be warring with

an emotion that it took Damin a little time to identify: self-loathing.

The thirty or so Fardohnyans stood in a loose group, surrounded by

Defenders, their torches hissing as the occasional tardy raindrop

vanished into the flames.

“Lord Wolfblade.” The Fardohnyan bowed low, obviously relieved to see

someone who might speak his language. The Defenders who had taken their

surrender had disarmed the men behind him. A few were wounded and four

lay on the wet ground, too seriously injured to stand. Tarja, who always

seemed much better organised when it came to these things, ordered the

wounded removed to the Infirmary Tent and the sleek Fardohnyan steeds

moved to the corrals, leaving Damin to deal with the prisoners.

“I’ve seen many a strange sight in my time, Lanceman,” he said in

the young man’s native tongue, “but Fardohnyans surrendering is not

among them.”

The lad’s expression clouded. Surrender did not sit well with him.

“We were ordered to surrender, my Lord.”

“What did he say?” Tarja asked, coming to stand beside him.

“He says they were ordered to surrender.”

“By whom?”

“Who ordered you to surrender?” he asked in Fardohnyan.

Filip hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at the men behind him before

answering, rather reluctantly. “Princess Adrina, my Lord.”

Tarja did not need that translated. “Ask him why.”

Damin turned to Tarja impatiently. “You don’t think I might have

thought to ask that by myself?”

“Sorry.”

“Did her Highness give a reason?”

The Fardohnyan shrugged. “She was beside herself with grief, my Lord.

She said she did not want any more Fardohnyan blood shed for Karien.”

“Pity she didn’t decide that before she sent her men to be

slaughtered,” he muttered as he turned to Tarja and translated the

young soldier’s words.

“Grief for whom?” Tarja asked, his sobriety allowing more clarity of

thought than Damin was capable of.

“Captain Tristan, my Lord,” Filip replied when Damin translated the

question. “The captain was the princess’s half-brother. They were

very close.”

“And where is her Highness now?” He was curious to discover if this

surrender was part of a plan, or if the young soldier was an innocent

pawn in some devious game that Adrina was playing. Damin desperately

wished his head was clearer.

“With her husband, of course!” Damin would have known he was lying,

even if Adrina was not currently being held in the Keep behind them.

“I see.” He turned to Tarja questioningly. “What do you want to do

with them?”

“That’ll be up to Jenga. For now, I suggest we find some place to

hold them until morning.” Thunder rumbled louder as another storm

rolled in. Tarja glanced up at the sky with a frown. “Put them in the

Keep. They’ll be out of the rain, at least. We can make more permanent

arrangements tomorrow.”

Tarja began issuing orders to his men. Damin watched them being herded

toward the Keep, wondering about Adrina’s paradoxical behaviour. The

woman had cold-bloodedly plotted the murder of the Hythrun High Prince,

yet she’d ordered the remainder of her troops to surrender, rather than

see them come to harm. Suddenly he was very glad that he had not made it

to the princess’s door.

He had a feeling the only way to face Her Serene Highness, Adrina of

Fardohnya, and survive, was stone cold sober.

CHAPTER 34

Although discovery by the Medalonians had been a risk, Adrina had not

really expected it, and was therefore unprepared for her sudden change of

circumstances.

For two days, she paced her prison cell impatiently, waiting for

something to happen. Meals were delivered regularly by silent,

grim-looking Defenders, but they refused to answer her questions. A wan,

desperate smile — the precursor to establishing a rapport with her

guards — was a wasted effort. Each shift was made up of different men

entirely, and once they had left she never saw them again. Nor was

Tamylan allowed to leave the chamber, although the slave did not seem

nearly as bothered by captivity as her mistress. The waiting began to

wear on Adrina’s nerves, and she found herself reassessing the

intelligence of her captors. They were smarter than she had given them

credit for.

The only advantage her isolation provided was the chance to consolidate

her plans to deal with the Medalonians. Her first problem, she

acknowledged readily, was Damin Wolfblade. She had always imagined him to

be something of a dandy, powdered and spoilt, as used to having his every

whim indulged as his uncle was. She had known he was a Warlord, of

course, but she had pictured him as a figurehead. A gloriously armoured

fop who sat astride his decorative stallion while others did the work for

him. That assessment had been wildly inaccurate. He was a damn sight more

ambitious than his uncle, and all together too certain of his place in

the world. But he was still a man, she reminded herself, and a Wolfblade

at that. The family was too inherently degenerate for the differences to

be more than skin deep.

Tarja Tenragan, on the other hand, had been a pleasant surprise.

Dark-haired, handsome and remarkably well mannered, his worst fault, she

decided, was his attitude to poor Mikel. He obviously commanded a great

deal of respect in the camp, and his opinion would carry a lot of weight

with the Lord Defender when it came time to decide her fate. If she could

engineer a meeting with him alone, she was certain she could entice him

to see things her way. She might even enjoy it.

There were good reasons for avoiding such a dangerous game with Damin

Wolfblade. He was a prince of Hythria, for one thing, and while it was

perfectly acceptable to entertain oneself with the lower classes,

frivolous liaisons between members of the nobility were frowned upon.

Such a complication between the heir to the Hythrun throne and the

Fardohnyan King’s eldest daughter did not bear thinking about. The most

compelling reason, however, was that while Tarja might be seduced by her

court’esa-trained skills, Damin would more than likely see straight

through them. He probably had a court’esa as a nursemaid.

No, she would not play that game. She would pick the easier target. If

only someone would please put the target where she could reach it . . .

Adrina plotted and planned and rehearsed her story a thousand times, but

day after day she was left alone with nothing but Tamylan and her own

anxiety for company.

By the time they finally came for her, Adrina was seething. Nothing was

going according to plan. She had been locked up, her possessions stolen,

her demands ignored and her imagination had had time to devise all sorts

of dreadful fates in store for her. When finally a sergeant opened the

door, without knocking, to escort her downstairs, she turned on him,

fully prepared to give him a piece of her mind.

“I demand to see someone in authority!”

“Certainly, your Highness,” the man replied calmly, although he did

not bow. Hardly surprising. These Medalonian peasants had no experience

with royalty. “I’m here to take you to Lord Wolfblade.”

“I want to see the Lord Defender!”

“That will be up to Lord Wolfblade, your Highness. You’d better wear

this. It’s raining and you’ll ruin that fur.”

Adrina snatched the plain, but serviceable woollen cloak from the man and

threw it over her shoulders. She still wore the flimsy court’esa

costume and it was ill suited to the bitterly cold chamber. The fur cloak

she had brought with her from Karien was the only thing that had kept her

from freezing to death.

“If Lord Wolfblade had any manners he would come to me!”

The man smiled, as if her posturing amused him and led the way down into

the main hall. Two more Defenders fell in behind as they crossed the hall

and stepped outside into a torrential downpour. Even wrapped in the

Defender’s cloak, Adrina was drenched in seconds.

She stumbled along beside the Defenders as they walked through the camp,

her sodden skirts hampering her steps. The slave collar was cold against

her skin and her hair was plastered to her head, the braid slapping wetly

against her back with every step. The hem of her skirt was splattered

with mud and she was shivering uncontrollably by the time they reached

the edge of the neatly laid out Defender’s tents and crossed the open

ground between the two camps. She squinted through the rain, trying to

pick out any tent that looked as if it belonged to a prince, but there

were no banners flying, no obvious declarations of rank. When they

finally reached their destination, it proved to be a plain tent, larger

than those surrounding it, but bearing nothing to indicate its occupant

was of noble blood.

“Wait here,” the Defender ordered as he stepped inside, leaving

Adrina standing in the rain.

Adrina fumed, but did as she was told, certain this little expedition was

nothing more than an attempt to humiliate her. For the first time in

months Adrina found there was someone she hated more than Cratyn.

“Your Highness.” The sergeant reappeared and held back the tent flap

for her. Adrina stepped through, glaring at the man to make certain he

was aware of her displeasure. The man smiled in return and left her alone

with the Warlord.

Damin Wolfblade sat at a small desk, writing something that seemed to

take all his concentration. Adrina waited, dripping onto the thick carpet

that covered the floor of the tent and looked around. An inviting brazier

stood in the centre of the tent and she itched to step closer, but

refused to give him the satisfaction. A thick tapestry, of exquisite

Hythrun geometrical design, divided the tent in two, concealing the

sleeping quarters. Besides the writing desk there was a large table

covered in maps against the far wall, and near the brazier, a pile of

thick cushions surrounding a small, low table. The Hythrun were fond of

sitting on the floor.

She turned her attention to the Warlord then and tried to study him

without being obvious. He was a typical Hythrun: tall, blond and well

muscled from hours spent in the saddle. But that was the limit of her

favourable impressions. He had the distinctive Wolfblade profile and an

air about him that reeked of arrogance.

He looked up finally and frowned. He apparently had as low an opinion of

her, as she had of him. “Your Highness.”

“My Lord.”

He put down his quill and stood up. “I’m sorry. Is it raining?

Please, give me that cloak. You must be freezing.”

Is it raining? She could barely hear herself think over the downpour

pounding on the taut, oiled canopy. She shed the cloak, dropping it on

the floor behind her, hoping it ruined his damned carpet, and stepped

closer to the brazier. Adrina found herself looking up at him. That was

disconcerting. She had been able to look Cratyn in the eye.

“Don’t take me for a fool, my Lord. You probably waited until it was

pouring before you sent for me! You might find such mindless games

amusing, but I merely find them a sign of your inability to grasp the

finer points of courtesy regarding the treatment of prisoners of rank.”

Damin looked her up and down, making her very aware of the flimsy, sodden

outfit, then shrugged. “I suppose it won’t serve my purpose if you

catch pneumonia and die.” He pushed back the tapestry dividing the tent

and pulled a woollen shirt and trousers from a trunk. “Get out of that

ridiculous costume. It ill suits a woman of your rank, in any case. You

can get changed in there.”

Adrina snatched the clothes from him and walked behind the tapestry. She

peeled off her wet skirts, deliberately dropping them on the centre of

the bed before emerging into the main part of the tent. Her shivering

stopped once she was wrapped in the warm shirt, and although it was

clean, the faint smell of him lingered on it. The golden collar was icy

around her throat.

“Please, sit down.”

Adrina did as he suggested, taking the cushion closest to the fire. Steam

rose off her hair as the brazier warmed her. Damin offered her a cup of

mulled wine, which she stared at warily.

“It’s not poisoned. We’ve already established that it won’t serve

my cause for you to die.”

She took the cup and sipped the wine, the welcome warmth flooding through

her. “Your gallantry is overwhelming, sir.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Adrina. I’m being practical, not

gallant.”

“You will address me in a manner befitting my station, my Lord. I did

not give you leave to address me so informally.”

Damin lowered himself onto the cushions opposite with surprising grace

for one so tall. “I’ll address you any way I please, madam. You’ll

find few in this camp who care about your station. Your only value at

present is your worth as a hostage. That requires that I keep you alive.

It does not require me to bow and scrape and cater to your every idiotic

whim.”

“In Fardohnya, good manners are not considered an ‘idiotic

whim’,” she pointed out frostily.

“I’ll bear that in mind when I next visit Fardohnya. In the meantime,

I suggest your curb your tendency to think every person you meet is

beneath you. The Medalonians have little patience with nobility. They

judge people by their actions, not an accident of birth.”

“Ah! And that’s what you’re doing here, I suppose? You so impressed

these atheist peasants with your heroic actions that they could not wait

to welcome you into the fold?”

“What I’m doing here is not the issue. The question is, what are you

doing here, your Highness.”

“I was going home.”

“You were betraying the Kariens?”

“Don’t be absurd. It is simply that . . . there are a number of

conditions of the Karien–Fardohnyan Treaty that have not been met to my

satisfaction.”

“Call it what you like, your Highness, I imagine Cratyn will consider

it treason.” Damin drank his wine thoughtfully. “That’s what they

call this place you know — Treason Keep. Rather appropriate, don’t

you think?”

Nice, Adrina reminded herself. I have to be nice. He’ll send me back to

Karien in a heartbeat unless I can convince him to protect me.

“I . . . I cannot return to Karien, my Lord.” She lowered her eyes as

she spoke and made sure she added a touching catch to her voice.

“Why not?”

“My life there was intolerable.”

“So you fled to Medalon dressed as a court’esa, accompanied by

nothing more than a slave and a child?”

“I just wanted to escape. I didn’t really stop to think.” Now that

was the truest thing she’d ever said. If she’d stopped to think, she

wouldn’t be in this predicament.

He obviously didn’t believe a word she said. “There are those who

think this alliance is merely a ruse, that your father is simply aiding

the Kariens so he can cross into Medalon and then turn south into

Hythria.”

“Well, if he is, it’s news to me.” Adrina sipped her wine to hide

her alarm. Was Hablet’s treacherous nature so famous that a Hythrun

could read him so easily? She composed her features before continuing.

“The Defenders don’t have the troops to fight a war on two fronts. If

you release me immediately, when I reach Talabar, I will speak to my

father. I should be able to stay his hand.”

“Perhaps,” Damin said doubtfully.

Adrina wasn’t sure what else she could do to convince him. “I’ve no

love for Karien, my Lord. I just want to go home.”

“Does Cratyn know you were planning to leave him?”

“No. After I discovered what had happened to my troops I made some

rather foolish threats. It was then that I decided I should leave.”

“Are you with child?”

“Of course not! What a stupid question!”

“Oh? If you were with child, and Cratyn has his eye on your father’s

throne, you might simply be taking the shortest route home, to ensure the

child is born on Fardohnyan soil.”

Damn him! Where had he gotten that idea? How could some ill-bred warlord

from a thousand leagues away see things so clearly?

“Cratyn had some . . . difficulty . . . in fulfilling his conjugal

duties.”

To her surprise, he laughed with genuine humour. “Poor Cratyn. An

inexperienced Karien princeling is no match for a court’esa-trained

Fardohnyan princess.”

“No match at all, I fear.”

For a fraction of a second, they were not enemies, but conspirators,

sharing laughter at the expense of a hated adversary. The moment lasted

just long enough for an uncomfortable silence to descend between them.

“I don’t trust you, Adrina. You’re trying to play both ends against

the middle. You claim to be running home, yet a week ago you were

standing at Cratyn’s side, throwing your troops into battle for him.

You are allied in marriage with Karien on one hand, while offering to

hold back your father’s troops with the other. You expect me to believe

Cratyn doesn’t know where you are. I know he’s inexperienced, but

nobody is that stupid. Your story is so full of holes I could use it as a

fishing net.”

“Perhaps the intricacies of politics are beyond you, my Lord,” she

suggested with saccharine sweetness, forcibly hiding her annoyance. Her

tale had sounded quite reasonable when she’d tried it out on Tamylan.

She never expected a Hythrun to have even a basic grasp of politics.

“I understand you better than you think. You’re Hablet’s daughter.

Treachery has been bred into you.”

“Don’t make the mistake of judging me by my father.”

“I’m not likely to. I have a feeling you are far more dangerous.”

For some contrary reason, his comment pleased her. “You can’t keep me

here forever, my Lord. Eventually you will have to release me.”

“Not until I’m good and ready, your Highness. And not until I can see

a profit in it.”

“I do not intend to sit here and wait upon your mercenary pleasures, my

Lord,” she retorted, silently cursing her temper. Be nice.

“I suggest you rethink your position, your Highness. Right now, you can

wait on my mercenary pleasures, or you can go back to your husband.

Neither prospect bothers me unduly.”

Adrina did not answer. She sipped her wine to hide her expression, afraid

that Damin Wolfblade meant exactly what he said.

Nice, she said silently. I have to be nice to him.

“I have asked for your protection, my Lord,” she said with a demure

smile. “Is that too much to ask?”

“The Kariens are prepared to go to war over the death of an Envoy, your

Highness. I hate to think what they’ll do over their crown princess.”

“But you could protect me,” she suggested with wide-eyed admiration.

In her experience, there were few men who could resist a woman who

believed in him so ardently.

Damin Wolfblade was apparently one of them.

“Protect you? And while we’re protecting you from the wrath of the

Kariens, your Highness, who’s going to protect us from you?”

CHAPTER 35

Mounted on sorcerer-bred Hythrun horses, R’shiel and her companions

reached the small village of Lilyvale in time for dinner on the first

day. Joyhinia, Mahina and Affiana rode in a covered wagon, one Garet

suggested they replace with something more auspicious as they neared the

Citadel. Although the wagon slowed them a little, Joyhinia was incapable

of sitting a horse safely, so they sacrificed speed for the assurance

that the First Sister would reach the Citadel in one piece.

R’shiel rode with Brak for most of the way, letting the horse set its

own pace as she listened to him explain the dangers of drawing on her

power to bend others to her will. If he was trying to scare her, he

succeeded, but he said nothing to change her mind. There simply wasn’t

enough time to reach the Citadel and convince the Quorum to accept

Joyhinia’s resignation and Mahina’s appointment any other way.

Garet Warner rode with them for a time. He had, somewhat reluctantly

R’shiel thought, agreed with her plan, despite Tarja’s objections.

The discussion regarding this trip to the Citadel, held hastily and

heatedly as the Medalonians prepared for the coming battle, had been

strained. R’shiel was fairly certain that if she had waited until after

the battle, Jenga and Mahina would have objected, and certainly Tarja,

with Brak’s assistance, would have found any number of ways to prevent

it. As it was, everyone was so distracted by the knowledge that the

Kariens were on the move that her desperate plan was spared close

scrutiny.

“The gods’ power is the power of all things natural,” Brak was

saying, sounding just like Korandellan. “It’s at its most effective

when used to enhance a natural occurrence.”

“A convenient way of getting around the facts,” Garet said.

“The gods are a natural force, Commandant.”

“So anything can happen, and you blame a god for your misfortune.

Don’t you people have free will?”

Brak appeared to be enjoying the conversation with the atheist Defender.

He seemed to forget about R’shiel. “Kalianah can make two people fall

in love, but not against their will. Dacendaran can encourage a thief to

steal, but he could not easily make a thief of an honest man.”

“You truly are adept at seeing miracles in the mist,” Garet remarked.

R’shiel listened to the men and realised Brak had not forgotten about

her at all. He was trying to remind her of the dangers of what she was

planning to do. The gods could amplify a yearning or bring about an event

that might occur eventually without their help, but to use their power to

force an unnatural event was akin to swimming upstream against the river

of magic. In doing so, all the slime and filth that had sunk to the

bottom of the river was stirred up and brought to the surface. That was

why she had been nauseous when she felt the Karien priests working their

coercion. She noticed Garet’s sceptical expression and turned to him.

“You don’t believe any of this, do you Commandant?”

“I believe that you believe every word. I never cease to be astonished

at the facility of humans to rationalise perfectly natural events and

award them divinity.”

“You’ve seen demons, yet you refuse to believe in them,” Brak

pointed out. “Isn’t that your way of rationalising away something you

don’t understand?”

“I’ve seen creatures I cannot explain and illusions that are

masterful, but that is hardly enough to turn me into a pagan. Watch even

a moderately talented illusionist in the markets of the Citadel and you

will be convinced that a woman can be cut in two and then put together

again. Believing a thing doesn’t make it real.”

“Yet you’re going to help us,” R’shiel said. “If you think this

is just trickery, why bother?”

“My decision is based on logic, not faith, R’shiel. Medalon is facing

an enemy that the Sisterhood is not in a position to deal with. I support

Lord Jenga because we are more likely to survive with him in charge than

a committee of selfish women grasping for their own political survival.”

R’shiel frowned, but Brak seemed more than satisfied with the

commandant’s answer. “Assuming we succeed, how soon can the rest of

the Defenders be mobilised?”

“Fairly quickly,” Garet assured him. “I’ll get things moving in

anticipation of your success at the Gathering. If you achieve your goal,

I can have the first of them under way in a matter of hours.”

“And if we fail?” R’shiel asked.

“Then I will turn those same men on you and claim I was simply playing

along with you to gain your confidence and learn your plans,” he

replied calmly.

“No wonder Joyhinia always thought you were dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” he shrugged. “I doubt that, R’shiel. But I am a

survivor, and all the heathen trickery in the world cannot alter that.”

Garet kicked his horse forward to the head of their small column, leaving

R’shiel to stare after him thoughtfully.

“Now there’s a rare creature,” Brak remarked.

“What do you mean?”

“I think Garet Warner is the only truly honest human I have ever met.”

It was mid afternoon some days later when Dacendaran appeared. They were

traversing the open plain, on a road that slowly wound its way south

towards Cauthside, and the ferry that would take them across the Glass

River. The day was overcast and chilly, with the sharp smell of impending

rain hanging in the still air. R’shiel, with Brak and Garet on her

heels, had ridden ahead of the wagon. The weather was making Wind Dancer

nervous and she wanted to give the mare a chance to stretch her legs.

She found Dace waiting by the side of the road, sitting cross-legged atop

a large grey boulder. He waved as she neared him, his fair hair tousled,

his motley clothing as mismatched and ill-fitting as R’shiel had ever

seen it.

The God of Thieves had not been much in evidence while R’shiel was at

Sanctuary. There was little amusement in those peaceful, hallowed halls

for a god who thrived on larceny. Dacendaran preferred the company of

humans. Although she knew he was a god — could sense it now that she

knew what to look for — she found it hard to think of him as anything

but the impudent lad who had befriended her in the Grimfield. She smiled

as she reached the boulder, genuinely pleased to see him.

“Dace! What are you doing here?”

“I came to see how you were faring out in the big wide world. Hello,

Brakandaran.” Brak reined beside her followed by Garet who glared at

the boy suspiciously. The wagon and its attendant guards were still some

way back.

“Dacendaran.”

“Who’s that?” Dace asked, pointing at Garet.

“Commandant Garet Warner, meet Dacendaran, the God of Thieves,”

R’shiel said, smiling at Garet’s expression.

“This is one of your gods?”

Dace clapped his hands delightedly. “He’s an atheist!”

“And you shouldn’t be here,” Brak scolded. “Go away, Dace.”

“But I want to help! There are noble deeds afoot and I want to be a

part of them!”

“If you really want to do something noble, go steal a few of

Xaphista’s believers,” Brak suggested. “You are not going anywhere

near the Citadel with us.”

Dace frowned. “Brakandaran, at some point in the past few centuries,

someone must have mentioned that mortals do not dictate to the gods. I

will go where I please!”

“Will someone please explain who this child really is?” Garet

demanded.

“Ah, how I do like a non-believer!”

“Dace, listen to Brak, please,” R’shiel pleaded. “Do something to

annoy Xaphista if you must help, but there is nothing you can do here.”

The god sighed melodramatically. “I suppose. I’m obviously not wanted

here.”

“Stop being such a baby,” R’shiel said.

The god grinned. “I make a poor substitute for the God of Guilt,

don’t I?”

“The God of what?” Garet asked incredulously.

Even Brak smiled. “Commandant. I suggest you either ignore this entire

exchange or start believing in the Primal gods.”

“I think I’ll ignore it,” he said with a frown. He turned his mount

and rode back toward the wagon.

“Did I upset him?” Dace asked innocently.

“No more than you usually upset people,” Brak said. “Why did you

let him see you?”

“All humans should have the opportunity to look upon a god every now

and then. It’s an honour.”

“Not when they don’t believe you exist,” R’shiel pointed out.

“Well, now that he’s seen me, he’ll have to believe in me, won’t

he?”

“Don’t count on it,” Brak warned.

“You always look on the dark side of things, Brakandaran. I was going

to give you some news, but now I’m not so sure. You’re bound to think

the worst.”

“What news?”

“I’m really not certain that I should . . .”

“Dace,” R’shiel cut in impatiently. “Stop teasing. If you have

something important to tell us, then out with it!”

The god pouted. “You have been spending far too much time with

Brakandaran, R’shiel. You’re beginning to sound just like him.”

“Come on, R’shiel,” Brak said, gathering up his reins as he glanced

over his shoulder at the approaching wagon. “He obviously has nothing

important to tell us, and the others will be here any moment. Goodbye,

Divine One.”

“Xaphista has believers in the Citadel!” the god blurted out.

R’shiel stared at Dace with concern. “Believers? Who?”

“I don’t know,” Dace shrugged. “All I know is that the Citadel

can feel them and he doesn’t like it one bit!”

Confused, R’shiel turned to Brak for an explanation. “What does he

mean? He speaks as though the Citadel is alive.”

“It is, sort of,” Brak answered before turning to Dace. “Has

anything happened yet?”

“No. You know what he’s like. It takes him a century just to remember

his own name. But he can feel Xaphista’s taint and he’s not happy

about it.”

Brak nodded slowly. R’shiel had absolutely no idea what they were

talking about.

“Brak, has this got something to do with the power in the Citadel that

Dranymire spoke of?”

Before he could answer, the wagon creaked to a stop behind them. Garet

rode forward and frowned at Dace.

“I see your god is still with us. Are you two planning to sit here in

the middle of the road blocking the way, or can we proceed? In case you

hadn’t noticed, it’s going to rain soon. I’d like to reach Malacky

before then.”

“These atheists really are an impatient lot, aren’t they?”

Dacendaran remarked loftily. With that, he vanished, leaving Garet wide

eyed.

R’shiel looked at Garet and wondered how the commandant would explain

Dace’s sudden disappearance to himself, but after a moment’s stunned

silence, he waved his men and the wagon forward as if absolutely nothing

untoward had happened.

PART 3

THE POLITICS OF SEDUCTION

CHAPTER 36

Mikel was separated from the princess and placed in the custody of the

Defenders’ Master of Horse, a small, slender man with dark hair and an

affection for the creatures in his charge which bordered on obsession.

Captain Hadly had endless patience with his horses and none at all for

defiant Karien boys. When one of Lord Wolfblade’s Raiders delivered him

into Hadly’s care, he had glanced at the note Tarja had hastily

scribbled then looked disdainfully at Mikel.

“Captain Tenragan says you are to be placed in my care. He says that if

you try to escape, or give me any bother at all, I am to inform him

immediately. He also says to remind you about your brother. Do you know

what he means?”

Mikel nodded sullenly. He had hoped Tarja might forget about Jaymes.

“Good, because I’ve no time to waste on infants. I’ve damned near

two thousand horses here, boy, and now there’s the Fardohnyan mounts to

take care of. Go find Sergeant Monthay. He’ll find something useful for

you to do.”

With little choice in the matter, he did as he was told.

Besides being sick with worry over the princess, Mikel was desperate to

discover his brother’s fate, but there seemed little chance here among

the horses. The Hythrun mounts were corralled away from the Medalonian

horses — something to do with the purity of the Hythrun breed that

Mikel didn’t really understand — so there was no chance to question

anyone about the Karien boy they held prisoner. Sergeant Monthay set him

to distributing hay, an endless task with so vast a herd. He spent all

day lugging haybales from the cart into the corrals, then running to

catch up as Monthay moved the wagon on to the next enclosure. It was

backbreaking work, but it kept him from thinking too much, and at night

he collapsed into the bedroll Monthay had found for him in the tack tent,

asleep almost before his head hit the saddle he used for a pillow.

On the fourth day of his captivity, the rain cleared and the weather grew

even colder. The sharp smell of snow lingered on the wind and Hadly

fretted at the lack of protection for his horses. He had commandeered a

large force of workers from the followers’ camp and had them erecting

canvas covered shelters in the corrals in anticipation of the coming

inclement weather.

Mikel shivered as he went about his chores. Monthay was anxious to finish

for the day and get back to the warmth of his tent. It was almost midday

when they reached the corral where the workers were tying canvas over

another sapling framework. The cold sun did nothing to warm the day.

There was a small fire burning just outside the corral, and several women

were doling out hot soup as the workers took a break from their labour.

Monthay glanced at Mikel, ordered him to keep working, and went to join

them.

He lugged another bale from the cart and dragged it along the ground

toward the corral, cursing Medalonians in general, and Monthay in

particular. He muttered a prayer to the Overlord, asking his god to

strike down the men enjoying the hot soup with dysentery. It seemed only

fitting.

“Xaphista’s far too busy to answer, you know.”

Mikel looked up and discovered a boy of about fifteen sitting on the top

rail of the corral. He was dressed in an odd collection of clothes that

looked like cast-offs from some bygone era. Mikel was not aware that he

had spoken aloud.

“You should not speak the name of Xaphista. You’re an unbeliever.”

“Not at all! I know Xaphista personally! Can’t say that I speak to

him much myself, mind you, but he does exist.”

Mikel straightened and stared at the youth, a little surprised to hear

such an admission from an atheist. He supposed the boy was one of the

workers erecting the shelters.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“Then leave me alone.” He grabbed the twine holding the bale together

and grunted with the effort of dragging it over the rough ground towards

the corral.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

The fair-haired youth laughed. “That bale is near as big as you are!”

“Then why don’t you help me?”

“Ah, now that would mean work. I don’t do work.”

Mikel let go of the bale and glared at him. “What do you do, then?”

“I’m a thief.”

The news did not surprise Mikel. The lad looked dishonest. “Thievery is

a sin.”

“Don’t be absurd! Who told you that? Ah! Xaphista did, I suppose.

Cheeky sod.”

“You shouldn’t blaspheme! That’s a sin too!”

“There is no such thing as sin . . . what’s your name?”

“Mikel.”

“Well, Mikel, let me put your mind at ease. There is no such thing as

sin. A thief is not doing something wrong, he is honouring Dacendaran,

the God of Thieves.”

“There is only one true god!” Mikel insisted.

The boy frowned and jumped off the rail. “You really believe that,

don’t you? Are all Kariens like you?”

“Yes! Now go away and leave me alone!” Mikel made to reach for the

bale, but the youth sat himself down on it and looked at him closely.

“Mikel, the only reason Xaphista invented the concept of sin was to

stop his believers honouring the other gods.”

“There are no other gods!”

“I can see I’m going to have to educate you, young man.” The youth

sighed heavily, then suddenly brightened. “I know, I shall become your

new best friend and lead you to the truth about the Primal gods!”

“I already know the truth. Xaphista is the Overlord.”

“Xaphista is a pompous old windbag, actually, and I shall delight in

stealing you from him.”

“Come on, boy! We’ll still be here at midnight at this rate! Get a

move on!”

Mikel started as Monthay yelled at him. He turned back to the boy sitting

on the bale and was even more startled to discover he was gone.

“Don’t just stand there talking to yourself like a fool,” Monthay

scolded as he drew near. “Go get some soup, but be quick about it.”

Mikel ran towards the fire and the enticing smell of the hot soup,

wondering where the youth had gone so abruptly. Then he remembered his

rash prayer and hoped that the Overlord had not heard his request about

the dysentery.

Mid-afternoon, two Defenders appeared in the corrals and told Monthay

that Captain Tenragan wanted to see the Karien boy. Monthay muttered a

curse and surrendered him reluctantly, glancing at the hay still to be

distributed. The two Defenders took Mikel into custody and walked him

back toward the Keep. They said nothing, even to each other, leaving

Mikel plenty of time to imagine the worst.

When they reached the old keep, they took him into the main hall where

Tarja was waiting near the huge fireplace. Damin Wolfblade was sitting at

the table, stabbing the tabletop with his dagger as if something vexed

him. Captain Almodavar stood near Tarja and next to him, to Mikel’s

astonishment, was his brother.

“Jaymes!”

Mikel ran the length of the hall, skidding to a halt a few steps from his

brother, taking a quick inventory to check he had all his fingers. Jaymes

grinned and crossed the small distance between them, hugging his younger

brother warmly.

“They told me you were back, but I wanted to see for myself!”

“Oh Jaymes! I’ve been so worried about you! Are you well? Have they

harmed you?”

“Of course not!” Jaymes laughed. “I’m the one who’s been

worrying about you! What happened when you went back to Lord Laetho?”

Mikel glanced at the men and then back at Jaymes. His brother was taller,

as if he had grown from a boy into a young man while in captivity. He

looked well; much too well for a prisoner. “I’ll tell you later.”

“There won’t be a later, lad,” Almodavar warned. “Jaymes has work

to do.”

“He’s right. I have to get back. My training keeps me pretty busy.

But I’ll try to see you now and then, if I can get away.”

“Training?”

“I’m learning to be a soldier.”

Mikel took a step backwards. “With the Hythrun?”

“Of course, with the Hythrun.”

“You’re a traitor?”

“I warned you,” Damin muttered to no one in particular, stabbing the

table to punctuate his words.

Jaymes sighed. “It’s not like that, Mikel . . .”

“Have you turned from the Overlord, too? Do you worship the Primal gods

now? How could you?”

“The Overlord? What do I care about the Overlord! I want to be a

soldier, Mikel! I can’t ever be a knight in Karien. I’m a commoner.

Good for nothing but a pikeman. But the Hythrun don’t care about that.

They judge men by their ability, not who their father is.”

“Our father is the Duke of Kirkland’s Third Steward!”

“Which is worth shit, and you know it!”

Tears of anger and betrayal clouded Mikel’s vision. He could not

believe what he was hearing.

“What have you done to him?” he demanded of Tarja, although the

Medalonian had not had charge of his brother. Tarja had, however, been

responsible for most of his woes these past few months so it seemed

reasonable to blame him for this, too.

“Your brother made his own choice, boy.”

“You’ve done something to him! Jaymes would never betray Karien! He

would never renounce the Overlord!”

“Grow up, Mikel,” Jaymes sighed. “The Overlord doesn’t care about

the likes of you and me. He’s the God of Lords and Princes. All he ever

did for us was make us work for them. You believe in his generosity if

you must, but I plan to follow those who can teach me what I want to

learn.” Jaymes turned to the Warlord and bowed. “May I be excused,

now, my Lord?”

“You can go.”

Jaymes glanced at Mikel and shook his head. “I’m sorry, little

brother . . .”

Mikel refused to look at him. “I have no brother.”

“Maybe when you’re older, Mikel, you’ll understand.”

He turned his back as Jaymes and the Hythrun captain walked the length of

the hall. When he heard the door shut, he wiped his eyes and looked up at

Tarja.

“Can I go, too?”

“No, you may not. You’re going to tell us about the princess.”

Jaymes’ betrayal was suddenly forgotten. He glared at Tarja, drawing

himself up to his full height. “If you have harmed one hair on her head

. . .”

“Oh for the god’s sake, child, settle down!” Damin snapped. “Your

precious princess is fine.”

“I shall not betray my Lady!”

“Nobody is asking you to,” Tarja pointed out reasonably. “We just

want to know how you came to be in her company.”

“I was appointed her page. By Prince Cratyn himself!”

“I see. That’s quite a position of trust.”

“Prince Cratyn trusts me.”

“He must trust you a great deal, to ask you to escort her Highness

through Medalon when your nation is at war with us.”

Mikel was still young enough that flattery, even from a man he despised,

made his heart swell proudly. “Prince Cratyn knew that I would not

betray him. No spy . . .”

“Spy?” Damin asked, glancing up from the tabletop. “What spy?”

Mikel took a step backwards, frowning warily. “I said nothing about a

spy.”

Damin looked at Tarja and shrugged. “Send him back to the horses,

Tarja. Adrina has already told us everything we want to know. She was

trying to escape to Fardohnya to get away from Cratyn and stop her father

joining in the war.”

“That’s a lie!” Mikel shouted, horrified that they would think such

a thing of the noble princess. “You’re making that up!”

“Not at all,” Tarja told him. “Adrina told us everything.”

“You must have tortured her!”

“If you call mulled wine and a warm fire torture,” Damin said with a

faint smile, “Quite the opportunist, your princess, Mikel. She changes

sides more often than most people change their clothes.”

“Princess Adrina is the most noble, pious, beautiful woman in the whole

world! She’s brave, too!”

“Brave?” Tarja scoffed. “She was running away.”

“She was not! She was going to see her father to get him to send the

cannon! So that you would all die!”

Tarja and Damin glanced at each other as Mikel realised what he had

blurted out. He wanted to cry. He wished the cold flagstones would open

up and swallow him whole. First Jaymes had betrayed him.

Now he had betrayed Adrina.

CHAPTER 37

“Who do you believe? The boy or the princess?” Jenga paced the

hearth, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Gray daylight flooded the hall but

the air was crisp, even this close to the fire.

Damin shrugged. “She’s lying. She’s heading for Talabar to bring

her father’s cannon into the war. She’s not running away.”

Tarja nodded his agreement. “I believe the boy is telling the truth,

but it’s the truth your princess fed him. She could hardly announce her

intention to run away.” He was sitting in front of the inadequate

blaze, warming the soles of his boots, obviously pleased that the

decision about what to do with Adrina was not his to make.

“Will you stop calling her my princess!”

Tarja grinned. “We’ll she’s your problem. And you’re always

telling me how much better you understand the Fardohnyan nobility than us

poor peasants here in Medalon . . .”

“Very funny.”

“I was merely trying to point out that —”

“Enough, Tarja,” Jenga cut in wearily. “Lord Wolfblade, would it be

fair to say that you really have no idea what she is doing here?”

Damin nodded. “That would be fair.”

“And we’ve had no emissaries from the Kariens seeking her out.”

“I’d be surprised if we did,” Tarja said. “If she’s on the run,

the last place Cratyn would look for her is Medalon.”

“And if she’s telling the truth, then he needs to pretend that

nothing is amiss,” Jenga agreed.

“You know, we’d get a lot more out of Her Serene Highness if she

thought we believed her.”

“The rack and a red hot poker would do me just as well,” Damin

muttered. Jenga threw him an annoyed look before turning to Tarja.

“Explain.”

“Perhaps, if her status was one of honoured guest rather than prisoner,

she might let something slip.”

“She won’t let anything slip. She’s too smart for that.” Damin

glared at Tarja, not liking the direction this conversation was heading.

“Maybe,” Jenga mused. “What are you suggesting exactly?”

“Release her. Give her the freedom of the camp. We should ask for

something to prove her story, of course. Some piece of intelligence we

can easily verify, as a gesture of good will. And we’d have to put a

guard on her — there’s no telling what she’d get up to on her own,

but we can claim it’s for her protection. We can’t let her get her

hands on her jewels, either, but there is no reason why she shouldn’t

think we believe her.”

“If we believed her, we’d send her back to Fardohnya,” Damin

pointed out. “She won’t fall for it.”

“Oh, yes, she will. Because you, my Lord, are going to start acting as

if she’s an ally, not your sworn enemy.”

“The hell I will!”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Tarja?” Jenga said. “How would that

help?”

Tarja sighed patiently. “As Damin keeps reminding us, she’s a very

smart girl. But she never got the message from her brother and she knows

nothing of the Hythrun Raiders stationed in Bordertown. If we release

her, at least conditionally, and our Warlord here can keep a civil tongue

in his head, she’ll come to believe we need her help in holding back

her father’s troops. I’m not saying she’ll believe us right away,

but if we act as if we think she’s on our side, even if she’s lying,

she has to play along with it.”

“So you think she may end up betraying herself, simply to maintain the

illusion of cooperation?”

“Relax your vigilance for more than a heartbeat, and she’ll slip a

knife between your ribs,” Damin warned.

“Ah, but she’s your princess, remember?” Tarja said with a grin.

“I don’t plan on getting that close.”

Damin glared at Tarja. “Nice plan, my friend, but in case you hadn’t

noticed there’s a war going on out there. I have too much to do to

waste time playing games of intrigue with a Fardohnyan princess. The

Kariens could attack again at any moment.”

Jenga shook his head confidently. “Not likely. They’ve still not

recovered from the last battle and it will snow any day.”

“Besides, your troops seem to get along very nicely without you,”

Tarja added, taking far too much pleasure in Damin’s misery.

“Almodavar coped quite well while you were off consulting your god for

nearly a month.”

Damin considered that an entirely unfair argument. “It’s not the same

thing. My men knew I was gone to consult with the gods. They’re not

likely to be nearly as understanding if they think I’m neglecting them

for a woman.”

“I disagree,” Jenga remarked with a rare smile. “From what I’ve

seen of your men, Damin, they’d give that just as much credence.”

Damin chose to ignore that one. “It won’t work.”

“Of course it’ll work,” Tarja assured him. “Just pray to one of

your gods.”

Damin gave the captain a withering glare. “We don’t actually have a

god of Bloody Stupid Ideas, Tarja.”

Damin did not bother knocking. He ordered the guards to open the door to

Adrina’s chamber and marched in unannounced. He was a little

disappointed to discover Adrina and her slave sitting on the pallet that

served as a bed, apparently engaged in nothing more sinister than idle

chatter, their legs covered by a blanket to ward off the cold. Adrina

still wore the shirt he had given her in his tent, and someone had given

the slave something warmer to wear as well. The women looked up as he

entered.

“Out!” he ordered the slave. She responded to the authority in his

voice without thinking and scurried from the room, leaving them alone.

Adrina did not move. He was quite impressed with the way she managed to

look down on him, even though she was sitting and he was standing.

“You have the manners of a barbarian.”

“You seem to bring out the worst in me, your Highness.”

Surprisingly, Adrina smiled. “I have a feeling I’ve not seen anything

closely resembling your worst, Lord Wolfblade. What do you have there?”

She pointed at the sack he carried which he placed on the bed beside her.

“Jenga ordered your things returned to you. He thought you might be

more comfortable in your own clothes.”

“That was considerate of him,” she remarked as she felt around inside

the bag. “However, my jewellery seems to be missing.”

“The Lord Defender was concerned about such valuable property laying

about unguarded. He will keep your jewels for now. For safe keeping, of

course.”

“Of course,” she echoed sceptically. “Am I to assume this sudden

desire to see to my welfare means you have come to a decision about me?”

“In a manner of speaking. Although I, for one, don’t believe a word

of your unlikely tale.” It wouldn’t do to completely change his tune.

She would see through that in an instant. “The Medalonians,

unfortunately, are much more naive. Jenga believes your story and has

ordered that you be treated as an honoured guest from now on.”

“Then I am to be released?” Damin could detect the glimmer of hope in

her voice.

“I said they were naive, your Highness, not stupid. The Lord Defender

wants proof. Once he is convinced, then he will endeavour to have you

returned to Fardohnya. In return for an assurance from King Hablet that

he won’t step foot outside his own borders, naturally.”

“And if my father refuses such an assurance?”

“Then you’d best learn to like Medalonian cooking, your Highness,

because you won’t be going anywhere without it.”

Adrina thought for a moment, but Damin could not tell what was going on

behind that lovely face. She was like some exotic piece of coral that

grew on the reefs south of Greenharbour — glorious to look at, deadly

to touch.

“What sort of proof does he require?” she asked eventually.

“Information. Something he can corroborate from another source.”

Adrina nodded. “I’m not certain I know anything of strategic value,

my Lord, but I will try to think of something.”

“Just let the guards outside know, when you think of it. They’ll see

the message gets to the Lord Defender.”

He gave her a short bow, out of politeness rather than respect, and

turned to leave, a little surprised that he had managed to remain so calm.

“My Lord?”

He turned back. “Was there something else?”

“May I leave this chamber, now that I’m a guest, as opposed to a

prisoner?”

“Only under escort, I’m afraid. You are in the middle of a war camp,

your Highness. The Lord Defender would not wish any harm to come to

you.”

“You wouldn’t mind a bit, though, would you?” She met his eye

evenly, her gaze a blatant challenge. Damin almost let his desire to

strangle this woman get the better of him, before he swallowed his

annoyance and forced himself to smile.

“I am also a guest here, Adrina, and I’m compelled to abide by the

wishes of my hosts. The Lord Defender wishes to see you treated well, and

I will see that you are. But don’t mistake my cooperation for weakness.

If I can prove you are lying, I will cheerfully slit your throat

myself.”

If his declaration frightened her, she gave no sign. Her gaze never

wavered; her expression did not change. “I find your honesty a

refreshing change in a Wolfblade, my Lord. Perhaps there is hope for your

family yet.”

“Unlike the Fardohnyan Royal Family, we Wolfblades strive for quality,

not quantity.” Damin almost enjoyed her refusal to cower in the face of

his unveiled threat.

Adrina’s eyes glittered; they were quite a remarkable shade of green.

“Ah, quality. Is that what you call it? One can only hope your striving

for quality has been more successful in your case than it has been in

your uncle’s.”

Damin was far too aware of his uncle’s peculiarities for her barb to

have much impact, but he admired her courage. You did not trade insults

with a Hythrun Warlord, or impugn the character of the High Prince,

unless you were very, very sure of yourself. Then she unconsciously

touched her hand to the glittering wolf collar, reminding him sharply of

her true nature. His momentary admiration withered and died in an instant.

“Perhaps, if you live long enough you’ll find out, your Highness.”

He turned from her again, unsure how much longer he could keep his temper.

“I’d like to get out of here. Out of this keep. I want to go

riding.”

Damin stopped with his hand on the latch. “I’ll see what I can

arrange.”

“And I want this collar off.”

He shrugged. “It will take time, your Highness. I don’t make a habit

of carrying court collars and their keys to war.”

“Not even for your own court’esa?”

“I don’t make a habit of bringing court’esa to war, either.”

She smiled maliciously. “I suppose you hardly need them, with all these

big handsome soldiers around.”

He was across the room, his hands around her throat, before he realised

what he was doing. The collar was warm to the touch, and ironically, was

the only thing stopping him from squeezing the life out of her, there and

then.

“Don’t push me too far, Adrina! I could kill you for even having

possession of this collar!”

“Get . . . your . . . hands . . . off . . . me!” Her voice was fury

coated in ice.

He let her go with a shove and strode from the room, shaking with anger,

slamming the door behind him.

Tarja was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. “How did it

go?”

“Wonderful!” he growled as he walked past without stopping.

“So you didn’t try to kill her, then?” Tarja called after him with

a laugh.

“Only once.”

It took Tarja a few moments to realise he wasn’t joking.

CHAPTER 38

The next time Mikel met Dace, he had a little girl with him. She was a

pretty little thing and looked to be about five or six. She had bare feet

and wore nothing but a flimsy, sleeveless shift, despite the cold,

although she hardly seemed to notice the weather. The child examined him

with a slight frown then looked up at the older boy.

“He’s so sad!”

“What do you expect?”

Mikel glared at the pair, annoyed that they spoke as if he wasn’t

there. “What are you doing here? Have you come to steal something?”

Dace grinned. “In a manner of speaking. This is Kali. She’s my

sister.”

The little girl smiled up at him. “Do you love me?”

“I don’t even know you!” Mikel retorted, a little taken aback by

the odd question.

She sighed. “Oh well, once you get to know me, you’ll love me then.

Everybody does.”

Mikel frowned and wondered what sort of home this odd brother and sister

came from, that Dace would proudly claim to be a thief and Kali would

expect everyone to love her on sight. He glanced around, expecting

Monthay to yell at him, but the sergeant was talking to another Defender

and seemed oblivious to the fact that Mikel had stopped to talk to the

children.

Dace noticed the direction of his gaze and grinned. “Don’t worry

about him.”

“Easy enough for you to say,” Mikel grumbled.

“Did you want to come and play with us?” Kali asked.

“I can’t. I’m a prisoner.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. I’m a prisoner of war.”

“But you’re just a little boy!” Kali sounded quite upset. She

turned to Dace and tugged on his sleeve. “Go and make that man in the

red coat let him go. For the afternoon at least. Then we can have some

fun.”

Dace pulled a face at her. “I don’t do that sort of stuff.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Think of it as stealing him away,

Dace.”

“Oh, well if you put it like that,” the older boy said with a grin.

“That’s easy.”

Almost as soon as he spoke, Monthay suddenly turned to Mikel.

“Hey! Boy! Take the afternoon off. I don’t want to see you until

dinner time!”

Startled, Mikel looked at the children with wide eyes. “How did you do

that?”

“Magic,” Dace replied. “Come on!” The boy began to walk away, his

sister at his side. “What shall we do, Kali?”

Mikel hesitated for a moment, then ran to catch up.

“I don’t know. Did you want to visit with your friends?”

“I have no friends here,” Mikel told her glumly as he fell into step

beside them.

“What about your brother?” Dace asked. “Isn’t he with the

Hythrun, or something?”

“How did you know . . .” he began, then he remembered what Jaymes had

become and shook his head. “I have no brother.”

Kali looked up at him curiously. “Why are you lying?”

“I’m not lying.”

“Yes, you are!” she insisted. “We should have brought Jakerlon,”

she added to her brother.

“Well, if I’d known he was a liar, I would have,” Dace replied.

“Who is Jakerlon?”

“The God of Liars,” Kali explained, giving him an odd look. “He

doesn’t know much, does he?”

“That’s Xaphista for you,” Dace shrugged. “He pretends the rest

of us don’t even exist.”

“What do you know about Xaphista?”

“We know lots about Xaphista,” Kali announced stiffly. “We know

he’s a bully.”

“And arrogant.”

“And rude! You wouldn’t believe how rude he can be!”

“Stop it! You mustn’t say such things! The Overlord will strike you

down!”

“Not likely,” Dace laughed. Then he glanced at Mikel and noticed his

distress. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to get so upset, you know. He

really isn’t listening to us. He’s got far too many problems to care

what we’re saying about him.”

“Serves him right,” Kali said. “If he wasn’t so busy trying to

rule the world he’d have time to listen to his believers instead of

ignoring them.”

Mikel stopped walking, unable to tolerate their blasphemy any longer.

“Stop it! You have no idea what you’re talking about! The Overlord

loves us. He listens to every prayer!”

“Ah, but does he answer them?” Dace asked.

“Of course, He does!”

“Very well, prove it,” Kali said.

“How?

The little girl thought for a moment. “I’ve a better idea. I’ll

prove he doesn’t listen. Did you pray to the Overlord to watch over you

during the war?”

“Yes.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Mikel couldn’t immediately think of an answer to that one.

Kali laughed at his hesitation. “There! What did I tell you?”

“The Overlord works in mysterious ways,” he retorted, falling back on

a favourite saying of the priests. “He has a reason for everything He

does!”

“Nonsense!” Dace scoffed. “You’re here because Xaphista hasn’t

the time to spare for one insignificant little boy. Your brother has the

right of it, although he shows a distinct lack of sense by choosing to

follow Zegarnald. Still, Zeggie never was that discerning — any soul

who wants to pick up a sword will usually do for him.”

“Jaymes is now a follower of Zegarnald?” Mikel asked in horror.

Kali looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I thought you didn’t have a

brother?”

“Leave him alone, Kali. Come on, we were going to find something to do.

Did you want to learn how to be a thief?”

“No!”

“Why don’t we pay Tarja a visit?” Kali suggested. “He’s your

friend, Dace, and he owes me a big favour, although he doesn’t know it

yet.”

“I hate Tarja,” Mikel muttered. Kali and Dace both turned to stare at

him.

“But why?” Kali asked. “He’s really nice. Well, for a

non-believer, at any rate, even though he knows the gods exist. I think

he just hasn’t decided who he should worship yet.”

“Well, it won’t be you,” Dace said. “Not when he finds out what

you did.”

“Oh? And I suppose you think he’ll follow you? Just because you met

him first?”

Mikel looked from brother to sister in complete confusion. “What are

you talking about?”

They abruptly stopped arguing and smiled at him guilelessly.

“Nothing,” Dace shrugged.

“I know, let’s go visit Adrina!” Kali suggested brightly. “You

like her don’t you, Mikel?”

“Of course I like her! She’s the most noble princess in the whole

world!” The prospect of seeing the princess raised Mikel’s spirits

considerably, although he could not imagine how these two could arrange

to get anywhere near the closely guarded keep. “And besides, she’s a

true believer,” he added, just to remind these pagans who had the most

worthy god.

“Adrina? Believe in the Overlord? What rubbish!” Kali laughed

delightedly at the very idea. “She follows Kalianah, the Goddess of

Love. She used to pray to the Goddess all the time.”

“Used to,” Mikel pointed out triumphantly. “Now she prays to

Xaphista.”

“No,” Kali said with a sorrowful sigh. “I think she just gave up.

It’s hard to find love when your father is so powerful. I always meant

to find someone nice for her when she was old enough, but then she

stopped asking. I wonder why?”

“What do you mean, you were going to find someone for her?” Mikel

asked. “The princess is married! She’s in love with Prince Cratyn!”

“Don’t be silly! Of course she’s not in love with him.”

“How do you know?”

Kali pouted. “I just do, that’s all.”

“Why don’t you just ask her?” Dace said, pointing towards the

corrals.

Their walk had taken them past the Medalonian corrals and closer to the

enclosures where the beautiful Hythrun horses were mustered. Unlike the

Medalonians, each Hythrun was responsible for his own mount and every

morning the Raiders would come to the corrals to feed their mounts, groom

them and talk to them as if the horses could understand every word. There

were no ramshackle canvas-covered shelters here. The Hythrun had actually

built stables, which were almost completed, on the other side of the

field. Mikel had heard Hadly complaining about the waste of precious

timber, while staring wistfully in the direction of the sturdy Hythrun

stalls.

Mikel followed Dace’s pointing finger and spied Adrina, mounted on a

Hythrun steed, in the company of the Warlord. Damin Wolfblade was talking

to the foreman in charge of the construction team, and Adrina sat

patiently beside him, waiting for him to finish. She was dressed in her

dark blue riding habit, her long fur cloak draped over her shoulders. She

sat astride her horse, rather than sidesaddle, as was proper for a lady.

She looked remarkably well, and when the Warlord turned and spoke to her,

she nodded and replied with a faint smile. The foreman bowed to the

princess and returned to his duties. Adrina and Damin wheeled their

mounts around and headed south at a canter.

“He’d better not hurt her,” Mikel muttered, to himself as much as

his companions.

“He won’t,” Kali assured him. “Pity he’s one of Zeggie’s

favourites . . .”

“Don’t even think about it Kali,” Dace warned. “He’d be so mad

at you if you did anything.”

“I know. But they do make a nice couple.”

“Kali . . .”

“Oh, don’t worry Dace, I’m not that silly.” She turned to Mikel

and smiled brightly. “Your princess seems to be enjoying herself.

You’d think she’d be a prisoner too, if she believed in the

Overlord.”

Mikel had been thinking the same thing. He watched the riders as they

dwindled into the distance, saw them pick up the pace until they were

galloping across the plain. The faint sound of Adrina’s laughter

lingered on the breeze. His heart constricted as he watched her. She was

his princess. She was married to Prince Cratyn. She shouldn’t be out

riding alone with a man like Damin Wolfblade.

And she damned well shouldn’t act like she was enjoying it, either.

CHAPTER 39

Adrina gave the sorcerer-bred mount its head, relishing the feel of the

cold wind in her face and the sure-footed beast beneath her, unable to

stifle the laugh of sheer joy that escaped her as the horse thundered

across the plain. She’d heard tales of the fabled breed, had seen them

when she visited Greenharbour, but until Damin Wolfblade had first taken

her riding a week ago, she had never been allowed close to one. She

suspected Damin had provided her with a Hythrun mount, rather than her

own Fardohnyan steed, to intimidate her. Adrina had taken to riding the

notoriously difficult breed like a Hythrun born and bred.

Their first outing had been a strained affair. Damin was still angry with

her and she was in no mood to put up with such an unpredictable brute.

Three hours in the saddle had done much to ease the tension. Horses were

a safe subject and Damin appeared genuinely impressed by her ability.

They had finished the day not quite friends, but at least on speaking

terms.

Since then Damin had taken her out every day, and for the most part he

was tolerable company. He usually allowed her to accompany him as he did

a round of the vast camp, taking care of the myriad problems that cropped

up in the course of the day with remarkable patience. Twice Tarja had

accompanied them for part of their ride. He treated Adrina with respect

but kept glancing at Damin as if something amused him greatly. It was

proving onerous to be civil to Damin Wolfblade on a continuing basis.

Tarja was a much more likely prospect.

Mindful of her need to learn as much as possible about him, she decided

to question Damin. Her tactful and entirely innocent question regarding

Tarja’s marital status had Damin roaring with laughter.

“Don’t waste your time even thinking about it!”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she declared loftily.

“Oh yes you do! I know exactly what you’re thinking. He’s young and

good looking, in a position of authority, and you think he’ll be no

match for your court’esa trained powers of seduction.”

“I thought no such thing!”

“Trust me, Adrina, nothing you could offer Tarja Tenragan could compare

with what he’s already got.”

“You think I couldn’t steal him away from some rustic Medalonian

peasant girl?” Adrina was insulted at the mere thought.

“I think you couldn’t steal him away from the Harshini demon child,

your Highness.”

Adrina stared at him. “The demon child?”

“In the flesh. And rather nice looking flesh it is too.”

“I don’t believe you! The Harshini are gone. The demon child is just

a legend!”

“The demon child is very real, Adrina. Her name is R’shiel té Ortyn,

and she left the camp the same day you arrived. She’ll be back in a few

weeks. You should find it an enlightening experience, meeting someone who

is not in awe of you.”

Adrina was tempted to comment that he didn’t seem to be particularly in

awe of her, either. But she held her tongue and wondered why, if the

Harshini really had returned, the demon child would be fighting on the

side of atheist Medalon.

Her plans for Tarja having met an unexpected hitch, Adrina turned her

attention, somewhat reluctantly, to Damin Wolfblade. The more she saw of

him, the more she realised she had misjudged him badly, a fact she found

worrying.

He was not a younger version of his uncle. Nor was he a spoilt,

figurehead Warlord. He was intelligent, surprisingly well educated, far

too astute for her liking, and obviously enjoyed the respect of his men

and the Defenders in equal measure. Not a man to underestimate. She

needed to learn as much as she could about the Hythrun prince. She needed

to discover what he liked, what he loathed, whom he admired and whom he

despised, and, more importantly, why he was angry with her.

That she had done something to enrage him was obvious. The day he came to

her room to announce she was to be given the freedom of the camp, he had

come close to killing her. Her snide remarks had not been enough to

provoke such a reaction. She had seen enough of him since that day to

know that he was generally even-tempered, at least around everybody else.

But nothing she had done since her capture warranted the anger she felt

simmering in him, even when he was making an effort to be civil. It

puzzled her. Until she discovered its source, she had no hope of escaping

this place.

They rode far south of the camp, toward a distant line of trees. She

wondered what would happen if she turned her horse and tried to make a

break for it, then glanced at Damin. He would run her down in a heartbeat

and the fragile trust she had fostered among her captors would be

destroyed. She sighed and let her mare follow Damin’s stallion.

They slowed to a walk as they entered the small copse of thin poplars.

There were stumps littered about, the crude result of the Defenders’

need for shelter for their horses. The thick carpet of fallen leaves

muffled their horses’ hooves and the sound of running water was the

only thing that disturbed the silence. Adrina rode up beside Damin,

assuming an air of nonchalance. It was time to start working out what

made this man who he was, and she was never going to do that arguing with

him. Be nice, she reminded herself.

“It must be hard for you, being Lernen’s Heir.”

He shrugged. “It can be a little trying.”

“You’re not much like him.”

He turned and looked at her. “Gods! Was that a compliment?”

She smiled. “Actually, I think it was. I must be slipping.”

Damin laughed. The first genuine laugh she had heard from him since their

embarrassing conversation about Tarja. “Don’t worry Adrina, we’re

alone. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

His laugh was infectious. She began to understand what others saw in him.

He was very hard to dislike in this mood. It made him doubly dangerous.

“Do you miss your family? So far from home?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted, which surprised her a little. “Medalon

can be . . . trying at times, too.”

“I miss my family.” Perhaps empathy would work where sarcasm had

failed.

“From what I hear, there’s quite a lot of them to miss.”

“My father is prolific, if nothing else. Do you have brothers and

sisters?”

“In abundance. Although not quite as many as you can claim. You met my

half-sister in Greenharbour, I believe.”

“Did I?”

“She’s the High Arrion.”

“Kalan is your sister?” She wondered why that nosy little toad,

Lecter Turon, had never mentioned that the leader of the powerful Hythrun

Sorcerers’ Collective was the High Prince’s niece. “I didn’t

know.”

“She’s a couple of years younger than me. My father was killed in a

border raid when I was only a year old, and my mother remarried with

something close to indecent haste. Even more indecent when you count the

months from the wedding date until Kalan’s and Narvell’s arrival,”

he added with a grin.

“Narvell?”

“Kalan and Narvell are twins.”

“You mean your mother had a lover while she was married to your

father?” The idea did not shock her — many noblewomen took lovers —

but she was a little surprised that Damin seemed so complacent.

“She probably had several. It was an arranged marriage — Lernen’s

idea — and there was little affection between them.”

“My father made an offer for the Princess Marla once.”

“I know. I think that’s why he married her to my father, just to

annoy Hablet.”

“My father still hasn’t forgiven Lernen for that,” Adrina remarked.

“And you wonder why I don’t trust you?”

She was sorry she ever brought the subject up. Now was not the time to

remind Damin of the conflict between their monarchs. She ignored the

remark and smiled brightly. “You were telling me about your sister.”

Damin looked at her oddly for a moment then continued his tale.

“Kalan’s father was the Warlord of Elasapine’s son. He and mother

returned to Elasapine after they married, leaving Kalan, Narvell and me

in Krakandar. He died a couple of years later. But Marla kept finding

husbands — and losing them. Every few years she would breeze in,

introduce us to our latest stepbrother or stepsister, then vanish again

for years at a time. I think Almodavar raised us more than Marla did.”

“That’s dreadful!”

“On the contrary, I had a wonderful childhood. We had a whole palace to

play in, no parents to interfere and a staff that we chose ourselves for

the most part.”

“You chose the staff? The children?”

“It was more a process of elimination,” he laughed. “If we didn’t

like somebody we had ways of getting rid of them. Half a dozen children

can be very inventive when the need arises.”

With a twinge of envy, Adrina recalled her own closely guarded childhood

in the nursery of Hablet’s court in Talabar. Such freedom was almost

beyond her ability to comprehend.

“Did your mother not fear for you? Alone like that?”

“We weren’t alone. Almodavar was my father’s closest friend and

some of the people in Krakandar have been there since my grandfather’s

time.”

“You’re lucky. At least you knew your mother. Hablet had my mother

beheaded.”

It was Damin’s turn to look startled. “Why?”

“My mother was his first wife; a princess from Lanipoor, from a very

ancient and noble line. He never loved her — he only married her for

the prestige she brought him — and her very large dowry. He loved a

court’esa, a Hythrun actually, named Welenara. She and my mother fell

pregnant within days of each other. It was bad enough that my mother had

to endure Welenara so blatantly carrying Hablet’s child, but then, to

add insult to injury, it was Welenara who produced a son, while the best

my mother could do was a daughter. She was rather put out, by all

accounts. When Tristan was only a week old, she hired an assassin to

poison him and his mother. The assassin failed, my father learnt of the

attempt and had her beheaded.” Adrina shut her mouth abruptly, stunned

that she had told him so much. She was supposed to be trying to draw him

out, not regale him with her life story. She never discussed her mother

with anyone. It was a forbidden subject around Hablet.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Pity is the last thing I need from you, my Lord.”

Her sudden change of mood had him shaking his head, but he said nothing.

He rode on a little further and then dismounted beside a leaf-strewn

pool. There was steam rising off the still water and the air tasted

faintly of sulphur. Adrina dismounted beside him and looked around in

surprise.

“The water’s hot!”

“Almost too hot to swim in,” he agreed. “It’s a thermal spring.

The timber cutters discovered it. I hear Lord Jenga has already had an

approach from some enterprising soul who wants to build a tavern here.

For medicinal purposes, of course.”

“Of course,” Adrina agreed. She knelt down, peeled off her riding

glove and dipped her hand into the pool, snatching it out quickly as the

water seared her cold fingers.

“Your brother Tristan was killed in battle, wasn’t he?” Damin asked

behind her.

Adrina stilled warily. How had he known that? “Yes.”

“And that’s the reason you ran away?”

She stood up and turned to face him. “One of them.”

“I see,” he said thoughtfully. He was standing by his horse, a good

five paces from her, but she still felt as if he was crowding her. “So

the Karien boy was lying. You weren’t trying to sneak through Medalon

to ask your father for his cannon.”

Mikel was lucky he was nowhere in reach at that moment. Adrina could have

cheerfully strangled the little brat. “He’s a child. I told him that

to keep him quiet. He would have run straight to Cratyn if he thought I

was leaving for any other reason.”

Damin gathered up his reins and swung into his saddle. “I’m curious.

Why did you order your troops to surrender?”

“Cratyn would have executed them when he discovered I’d left. I

couldn’t think of anything else.”

He nodded, as if she had confirmed something he already knew. “A noble

gesture, your Highness. Not something I would have expected from someone

like you.”

Adrina remounted, glaring at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But he didn’t answer her. He nudged his horse forward leaving her to

ponder his words. She had a feeling that if she could figure out what he

meant, she would understand the reason he despised her so much.

Still, she had made progress. It was the first conversation of substance

they had ever had that hadn’t ended with him threatening to send her

back to Karien. Or to kill her.

CHAPTER 40

Adrina woke with a start, aware that something was different, although

she could not pinpoint exactly what it was. She was sweating, her palms

moist, her heart pounding. She had dreamt again, the same nightmare that

had plagued her since she had left Karien — that Cratyn had found her,

dragged her back across the border and forced her to dine with him on a

meal that frequently turned out to be her dead dog. With a shudder, she

pushed the memory away. It was a stupid dream. She refused to be cowed by

an over-active imagination.

The chamber was filled with grey light — and silence. It reminded her

of waking in the Karien camp the morning of the battle. The air had that

same eerie quality, the same stillness, the same feeling of anticipation.

Cautiously, she climbed out of bed. Shivering in the icy chamber, Adrina

snatched up her cloak from the bed where it served as an extra blanket

and threw it over her shoulders. She walked to the arrow-slit window and

looked out, but as far as she could make out, the world had turned white.

It took her a moment to realise what she was seeing.

When it hit her, she gasped, and hurriedly dressed in her riding habit,

ignoring Tam’s sleepy question from the other pallet in the corner of

the room. She pulled on her boots and was out the door, startling the

guards with her sudden appearance. Running past them, down the stairs and

through the deserted hall, she jerked open the heavy door to the Keep and

stepped out into a wonderland.

There were a number of mounted Defenders in the yard and the men on the

wall-walk stamped their feet against the cold, but Adrina took no notice

of them. She hurried to the gate and looked out over the snow-covered

camp in astonishment. The landscape had completely changed. Where there

had been the panoply of war yesterday was now a silent, white vista as

far as the eye could see. It was barely dawn and the soldiers were only

just beginning to rouse. Thin smoke rose from the cookfires. The vast

plain had been transformed from a war camp into a thing of beauty.

“You’ve not seen snow before, have you?”

Adrina turned at the voice to find Tarja riding up behind her with a

sergeant and a number of troopers in tow. He dismounted, amused by the

expression on her face.

“It’s . . . glorious!”

“Well, it is for now. Give it a few hours and most of this will have

turned into slush,” he warned with a wave of his arm. “It’s too

warm for it to last long and too early in the year for a decent fall.”

“Oh,” she said in disappointment.

Tarja seemed to take pity on her. “Would you like to take a good look

while it’s still in all it’s pristine glory?”

“Don’t you have something better to do?”

“I’ve got plenty to do, but nothing that can’t wait. Besides,

It’s Founder’s Day. It’s supposed to be a holiday.” The

red-coated Defender hurried forward. “Sergeant! Her Highness would like

to borrow your horse. Tell Hadly I’ve been delayed then go find some

breakfast. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

The man saluted and retrieved his mount for Adrina, holding it for her

while she mounted. Tarja swung into his saddle and walked his horse

forward.

“Ready?”

“This is very noble of you, Captain.”

They moved off at a slow walk, letting the horses pick their own way

through the camp.

“Being noble is vastly preferable to discussing the riveting topic of

horse feed with Hadly, your Highness.”

She smiled at him, wondering if Damin had lied to her about Tarja. He

seemed anxious for her company. Maybe he was feeling the loss of the

absent demon child. A lonely man was a vulnerable one.

“Well, I still think you’re being noble, Captain. You have rare good

manners.”

“For a Medalonian?” he teased.

“That wasn’t what I meant. I just meant that compared to some people

around here . . .”

Tarja laughed. “Ah! You speak of our Warlord. I thought you two were

starting to get along quite well.”

Adrina frowned and reminded herself that this man was Damin’s friend.

It would be inadvisable to tell him what she really thought of the

Hythrun.

“Lord Wolfblade can be tolerable, when he’s not trying to be

abrasive.”

He looked at her oddly. “Well, you can’t really blame him, can you?

Not after what you did.”

“What did I do?”

He refused to answer her question. Instead, he kicked his horse into a

canter.

“Captain!” she called as she raced after him. “I believe that

statement demands an explanation!”

“The sun will be fully up soon,” he remarked as she caught up with

him, admiring the scenery with determination. “Most of the snow will be

melted by midday.” They had ridden past the northern edge of the camp

and crossed into the deserted training grounds.

“Don’t ignore my question! What did you mean by, ‘not after what I

did’?”

He glanced at her and shrugged. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said

that. It’s none of my business. You and Damin should sort out things

between yourselves.”

“I’d be happy to,” she snapped. “If I had any idea what you were

talking about!”

“You really don’t know?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I did!”

Tarja reined in his mount and turned to face her. “He claims you tried

to kill the High Prince of Hythria.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

Tarja shrugged. “I’m just telling you what he told me. He said you

hired some boys to do the job, but they killed themselves rather than

carry out your orders.”

Adrina felt her fury rising like a volcano. All her plans to be nice

evaporated in the face of such a terrible accusation. “That arrogant,

lying . . .”

“I take it you have a somewhat different opinion?”

“How dare that . . . that . . . degenerate . . . even think such a

thing! Let me tell you about your pet Warlord, Captain! He’s a savage,

unfeeling monster who doesn’t deserve to breathe! I never tried to kill

his damned uncle, although I wish I had! I gave those boys my knife to

spare them from the twisted lust of a depraved old man.”

Tarja was taken aback by her fury, but seemed determined to believe his

friend’s version rather than hers. “Yet you kept the collars as a

souvenir. Why?”

“To remind myself why his whole damned family should be destroyed!”

He frowned, then suddenly wheeled his horse around. “Come on, there’s

something I want to show you.”

He led her north toward the battlefield. Adrina urged her horse to

follow, wishing for a sorcerer-bred mount, rather than this sturdy, but

uninspiring beast. She no longer felt the cold. Her anger warmed her

better than any cloak, better than any fire. As they neared the

snow-covered mangonels, he veered right, away from the field. The

soldiers manning the front paid them little attention as they rode by,

their attention focused on what lay north of the border. This was the

closest she had come to the border since escaping from Karien and she

allowed herself a moment to wonder what Cratyn was doing. He and that

damned Hythrun would have made quite a pair.

Tarja led her east, away from the field until they reached a low stone

wall that encircled a large snow covered mound. Adrina looked about in

puzzlement.

“You brought me here to show me this?”

“It’s a grave.”

“Whose grave?”

“Your Fardohnyans. The men who died on the battlefield.”

Adrina swallowed an uncomfortable lump in her throat. It was so big. Had

there been so many? She wiped away bitter tears that suddenly stung her

eyes.

“I thought Medalonians cremated their dead?”

“We do. Burial is illegal in Medalon but Damin refused to allow the

Fardohnyans to be cremated. He had his own men dig the grave. He buried

them with their weapons, to honour your War God. Your captain was buried

separately because he was of royal blood.”

“Tristan! Where? Where did they bury him?”

Tarja pointed to a small rock cairn on the southern side of the mound.

Adrina flew from the saddle and ran to it, no longer caring if Tarja saw

her crying.

Tristan! Oh, Tristan!

Tarja dismounted and followed her slowly, leading her mount with his. He

waited patiently as she knelt by the cairn, not caring that her knees

were being soaked by the snow, her face in her hands, as she let go of

the grief she had so tightly controlled until now. She sobbed until her

throat was raw. She sobbed until she had no more tears to shed.

Finally, she had no idea how long, she sat back on her heels and wiped

her eyes, the scabbed over wound of her grief lanced and washed clean by

her tears. It was then that she noticed the position of the cairn in

relation to the mound. It was facing southwest. Toward Fardohnya.

“They buried him facing home.”

“That’s your savage, unfeeling monster for you.”

She turned and looked at him sharply. “Don’t try to tell me this

proves anything! Cratyn is the most devout man that ever lived, but it

doesn’t stop him from being a bastard!” She sniffed inelegantly and

climbed to her feet. “I’ll grant you I’m surprised, but it hardly

makes Wolfblade a saint.”

“Perhaps not,” he conceded. “But I think you do him an injustice.”

“I’m the one falsely accused of attempted murder.”

“Then take it up with Damin, your Highness,” Tarja said wearily.

“We should be getting back. Hadly’s waiting for me.”

He handed her the reins of her borrowed horse before swinging into his

own saddle. Adrina stared at the mound for a moment, marking the place in

her memory, before mounting the dun gelding.

“How did my brother die?”

Tarja hesitated for a moment before he answered. “He died in battle,

your Highness. Isn’t that all you need to know?”

“I want to know who killed him.”

“To what purpose?”

Tarja’s reluctance to give her a straight answer made her suspicious.

“It was Wolfblade, wasn’t it? That’s why you’re looking so

uncomfortable. Damin Wolfblade killed my brother then buried him here as

some sort of barbaric boast, so he could come and gloat over his grave.”

“No,” Tarja replied, looking even more discomforted. “Damin

didn’t kill your brother.”

“How can you be certain?” she demanded. “You said yourself, he died

in battle. How do you know this burial mound isn’t some sick Hythrun

ritual to mock the dead? How do you —”

“He died by my hand, Adrina.”

His admission stunned her into silence. He met her accusing eyes with

genuine regret.

“I’m sorry, Adrina. But this is war and he was trying to kill me at

the time. If it’s any comfort, his last thoughts were of you.”

Tarja gathered up his reins and turned his mount toward the camp. She

stared at his retreating back wishing she could somehow take vengeance on

this man who had robbed her of her beloved brother. But she had not

expected this. Not his confession, nor the pain it had cost him to make

it. Confused and troubled, Adrina followed Tarja back to the camp in

silence, not even seeing the glorious snow-covered plain.

When they reached Treason Keep Tarja helped her dismount without a word

and turned to lead her horse away.

“Tarja?”

He looked at her over his shoulder.

“Why did you tell me? Why not let me think someone else had killed

him?”

“A Defender is honour-bound to speak the truth, your Highness.”

“You could have said nothing.”

“I could have,” he agreed. “But you are determined to think the

worst of Lord Wolfblade. We could have sued for peace weeks ago. Were it

up to me or the Lord Defender, you would have been ransomed back to your

husband the day we found you. Damin is the only thing standing between

you and the husband you seem so determined to desert. It didn’t seem

right to let you blame him for that too.”

Tarja led the horses away and left her standing there. She wondered for a

moment why she felt no burning urge to avenge Tristan. The man who killed

him was right here, within reach.

Then the reason came to her. It was not Tarja who was responsible for

Tristan’s death. He may have wielded the blade, but it was Cratyn who

had killed him. Cratyn and his sick priests.

Cratyn was the one who would pay.

CHAPTER 41

The news that the First Sister was on her way home caused a flurry of

activity in the Citadel. Everyone seemed intent on sprucing up their own

little patch of the city and even the Defenders were not immune. Loclon

found himself facing an empty arena day after day, as the cadets were

called away to other duties. Learning swordcraft was all very well, but

the First Sister was due and she was bound to insist on an inspection.

One had to get one’s priorities right.

Left to his own devices, Loclon sought amusement in the Blue Bull, but

even that worthy establishment was suffering the effects of the First

Sister’s impending return. There was nobody drinking in the tavern and

the benches were stacked on the tabletops as fresh rushes were laid out.

Loclon slammed the door in annoyance and headed back to his rooms.

When he arrived back at Mistress Longreaves’ Boarding House he

discovered a note pinned to his door. He looked around before opening it,

but at this time of day, the hall was deserted. I want to see you, the

note said. It was unsigned, but he needed no name to know who had sent

it. He went into his room, threw the note on the fire, and exchanged his

red jacket for a nondescript brown one. It would not do to be seen

entering Mistress Heaner’s in broad daylight in his uniform.

Lork opened the door for him and stood back to let him enter. He pointed

wordlessly to the hall. Loclon frowned. He did not like meeting Mistress

Heaner in the basement; did not like to be reminded that he was serving

the Overlord.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he discovered Mistress Heaner

was not alone. The narrow altar was ablaze, the symbol of Xaphista

glittering malignantly in the candlelight. The old woman was on her

knees, chanting softly. Beside her was a man wearing a brown cassock, his

tonsured head so polished it reflected the candles. How in the name of

the Founders had a Karien priest managed to get into the city? He waited

as they finished their prayers and the priest helped the old woman to her

feet before retrieving his jewelled staff from the altar. Mistress Heaner

studied him with predatory eyes and turned to her companion.

“This is the man I spoke of. Captain Loclon, this is Garanus.”

Loclon nodded warily in the direction of the priest, then looked at

Mistress Heaner. “You said you wanted to see me. I can come back later

when you’re not busy.”

“It was I who sent for you,” the priest said. His voice was accented

and oddly rasping, as if his throat had been burned. He laid the staff

gently on Loclon’s shoulder, waiting for a moment before withdrawing it

with a faint nod of satisfaction. “Mistress Heaner tells me you have

something of a history with the demon child.”

At the mention of R’shiel, Loclon’s doubts vanished. “Do you know

where she is?”

The priest nodded. “She will be here within a day. She accompanies the

First Sister.”

Loclon burned with the heat of his need. “Then I will kill her as soon

as she arrives.” Kill her, yes, but slowly and oh- so-painfully — and

only after she begs for mercy.

“You will do no such thing!” the priest snapped.

“Isn’t she destined to destroy your god? I’d have thought killing

her would be the first thing you’d want.”

“She was created to destroy him, Captain. That’s not the same thing

as destiny. The demon child lacks commitment. She has not accepted the

task, or she would be heading for Karien, not the Citadel.”

“So . . . what . . . you think you can turn her to your cause?”

“Xaphista is the one true god,” Mistress Heaner reminded him. “The

demon child will become his ally and destroy the Primal gods. He has

decreed that it will be so.”

Loclon thought it unwise to point out the flaw in her argument. If

Xaphista really was the only god, then who had created the demon child?

And if the Primal gods did not exist, as the Overlord claimed, what need

for someone to destroy them?

“Your task will be to bring her to us,” Garanus explained. Then he

added with a slight frown, “Whole and unharmed, Captain.”

“I was promised vengeance.”

“And vengeance you shall have,” the priest assured him. “Once the

demon child has embraced the Overlord, she will turn on our enemies, and

yours, and destroy them.”

That wasn’t quite what Loclon had in mind. “What did you want me to

do?”

“You will be taking part in the Founder’s Day Parade, yes?”

He nodded. Nobody got out of that duty.

“The First Sister will arrive towards the end of the parade. She has no

doubt timed the event to maximise the impact of her return.”

“The First Sister is fond of making an entrance,” Mistress Heaner

added scornfully.

“You will assign yourself to her party and stay close to her.”

“Assign myself? You don’t know much about the Defenders, Priest. One

doesn’t assign oneself to anything.”

“If you are nearby when she arrives, and volunteer for the duty, I am

sure you can manage something.”

“And what about R’shiel?”

“It is likely you will not recognise her. She may be using a glamour to

conceal her identity. But that is not your concern. There is a man with

her. A Harshini half-breed named Brakandaran. You must kill him.”

He shrugged. “And then what?”

“Once you have brought proof that Brakandaran is dead, we will discuss

the best way to handle R’shiel.”

Loclon was not very happy with the arrangement. “Are you sure you know

who you’re dealing with? There is no best way to handle R’shiel.

She’s a murderous bitch.”

“The demon child can be controlled, Captain. Her strength is also her

weakness.” He reached inside his cassock and withdrew a thin silver

choker with a jewelled clasp in the shape of the star and lightning bolt

of the Overlord. “This will ensure her cooperation.”

“You think she’s going to change sides for that little trinket?” he

scoffed.

“With this ‘little trinket’, as you call it,” the priest informed

him with a malicious smile, “the demon child will do anything you want

of her. The more she tries to use her power to fight it, the worse it

will be for her.”

Loclon took the choker and examined it thoughtfully.

“She’ll do anything, you say?”

The priest nodded. “Anything.”

Founder’s Day dawned overcast and dull, with low clouds threatening

rain and a cold, blustery wind that groped through any gap in clothing

with chill fingers. The crowd was thick around Francil’s Hall as the

citizens gathered for a glimpse of the returning First Sister, but their

mood was subdued. It was too cold to stand around waiting and as the

parade passed by; many thoughts were turned to the bonfires and the warm

food waiting in the Amphitheatre. If she did not arrive soon, hunger was

likely to win out over curiosity.

Loclon had volunteered for crowd duty, rather than riding in the parade.

He had managed to get himself placed in command of the guards around the

Hall and was well positioned on the steps, just below Sister Harith and

the remainder of the Quorum. Thunder rumbled overhead and the clouds

seemed low enough to touch. Loclon fretted at the time it was taking the

noisy floats to move down the street. There was no sign of the First

Sister.

The last float was rounding the corner of the Administration Hall when

the skies opened. The Quorum hurriedly moved back under the shelter of

the entrance to the Hall while the crowd dived for whatever cover they

could find. Many simply turned and fled, running with cloaks held over

their heads to escape the downpour. Loclon stayed at his post, drenched

by the icy rain, barely even noticing it in his impatience. Where is she?

There was a moment of anticipation as the crowd waited, but the rain was

a significant deterrent. If the First Sister’s carriage did not arrive

soon, there would be nobody left to greet her. Loclon watched the crowd

thin with dismay. He had hoped to get to the half-breed in the crush, but

soon there would be nobody left but him. He glanced at his men who looked

desperate to find shelter, warning them with a look, of the consequences

should anybody presume to break ranks. Sister Harith and the Quorum were

conferring under the meagre eaves of the Hall. With another glance down

the street in the direction of the Main Gate, they vanished inside.

The departure of the Quorum signalled the end of the festivities as far

as the rest of the citizens were concerned. Within minutes the street was

all but deserted and Loclon no longer had an excuse to keep his men

standing in the rain. He muttered a curse and turned to dismiss them as

the First Sister’s retinue arrived.

His men hastily stood to attention as the outriders appeared, followed by

a closed carriage with the shutters pulled tight against the downpour.

Loclon could feel his heart beating faster as the carriage drew to a

halt, waiting to catch sight of her. His hand caressed the hilt of his

knife, ready to draw it in an instant to kill the half-breed. He had no

fear of the consequences. Once a dead Harshini lay at the First

Sister’s feet, he would be a hero.

“Loclon! What in the name of the Founders are you doing out in this!

Get those men out of here!”

He started at the anger in Garet Warner’s voice.

“We were waiting for the First Sister, sir! To see if we could be of

any assistance!”

The commandant was as sodden as Loclon as he dismounted, but he didn’t

seem bothered by it. “Don’t be absurd! The First Sister has her own

men. Dismiss your men, Captain.”

“But sir . . .”

“I said, dismiss your men!”

Loclon did as he was ordered and watched helplessly as Joyhinia’s guard

gathered around the carriage to help the First Sister down. One of them

held a cloak over her head, to shield her from the rain as another sister

disembarked. Although the deluge obscured his vision, Loclon could have

sworn it was Mahina Cortanen. He waited for a moment longer, but a

dark-haired woman and Lord Draco seemed to be the only other passengers.

He looked about desperately, but there was no sign of R’shiel, or the

half-breed he was supposed to kill. The First Sister was hurried inside

and the remainder of the Defenders headed gratefully for the stables with

the carriage and the horses.

Loclon stood in the rain, cursing softly.

Where is she?

CHAPTER 42

Brak and R’shiel waited in the shelter of the gatehouse for the better

part of an hour before following the First Sister into the Citadel. Brak

had drawn a glamour over them and their horses, so that the guards

sheltering from the rain did not notice their presence. It did not make

them invisible, but the guards’attention slid off them like water off

an oiled cape. R’shiel braided and unbraided her reins nervously as the

rain hammered down and they waited on Bhren, the God of Storms, to finish

the task R’shiel had asked of him.

Brak had never had much luck communicating with the Storm God. Bhren was

a solitary spirit with cares on a global scale. The insignificant

problems of humans seldom touched him. But he had come when Lorandranek

had called him and had responded just as promptly when his daughter had

asked his help. Brak glanced at the water sheeting down from the low

clouds, then looked at R’shiel with concern.

“You did tell him we just wanted a storm, didn’t you, not a global

catastrophe?”

“It’ll stop soon,” she assured him, although she did not sound

convinced.

The rain had been Lord Draco’s idea, conceived five nights ago in

Cauthside while they waited on the ferry to take them across the Glass

River. Their method of gaining entrance into the Citadel, without

Joyhinia being immediately overwhelmed by the long list of people who

required an audience with her, had been a matter for hot debate.

Garet Warner insisted that if Joyhinia was thought to be sneaking back

into the Citadel, suspicions would be immediately aroused. She had to

enter in a manner befitting her station. It was expected. But they could

not risk someone speaking to Joyhinia. Her response was likely to be a

childish giggle. And they certainly could not risk her in front of a

crowd.

R’shiel had wanted to use the demon meld, but even Dranymire had

baulked at that suggestion. The demons had been practising their meld,

but it took a lot out of them and the Gathering was still to be faced.

Brak had suggested a glamour, but that did not solve the problem of

Joyhinia being seen publicly. A glamour would conceal her and that

brought them back to the problem of sneaking into the Citadel.

It was Draco who had remarked that it was a pity they couldn’t arrange

for it to be raining. No matter how important the personage, nobody would

hang about, cold and wet, for a glimpse of the First Sister — and

neither would they expect the First Sister to stand about waving to them.

R’shiel had glanced at Brak with that dangerous light her in eyes that

he was coming to associate with the demon child having an idea he knew he

wouldn’t like.

“You could ask Bhren.”

“The Storm God is not like Dacendaran, R’shiel. He spends little time

worrying about the Harshini, and even less time thinking about humans.

The only Harshini I knew who could get any sense out of him was

Lorandranek.” He regretted saying it the moment he uttered the words.

“Maybe I could ask him?”

“Ask who, what?” Garet demanded.

“Ask the God of Storms to make it rain the day we arrive at the

Citadel.”

Garet stared at her for a moment then shook his head. “I don’t want

to know about this.” He rose from the table in the Heart and Hearth

tavern and took the stairs to his room two at a time.

Draco watched him go and then turned back to Brak and R’shiel. “He is

uncomfortable with your gods.”

“And you’re not?” R’shiel shot back. She did not like Draco.

Tarja’s father had been Joyhinia’s creature for thirty years. He had

ordered the murder of R’shiel’s family and the village where she was

born, and he had been quite prepared to put his own son, R’shiel, and

three hundred rebels to the sword at Joyhinia’s command. But the man

reeked of regret. In many ways he was like Lord Jenga — honourable to

the point of foolishness. One mistake had set him on a path so far from

his original destination that he was almost completely lost. The man was

trying to claw his way back, to somehow make amends, but neither Tarja

nor R’shiel was ready to forgive him. Brak trusted him more than Garet

Warner. Garet had his own agenda. All Draco wanted was redemption.

“I’ve seen enough to believe your gods exist, R’shiel, although I

do not worship them.”

“You’re more adept at turning on your own kind, you mean,”

R’shiel snarled. Brak laid a restraining hand on her arm.

“Stop trying to pick a fight, R’shiel.”

Surprisingly, she did as he asked. Deliberately excluding Draco she

turned to him questioningly. “How do I speak to Bhren?”

“Very carefully,” Brak had replied, only half jokingly.

“See, I told you it would stop!”

Brak forced his attention back to the present to discover the rain had

eased to a light drizzle. “Thank you, Divine One,” he said under his

breath, although it was unlikely that Bhren was listening.

“We should get moving,” R’shiel advised, glancing warily at the

guards. Brak nodded and followed her into the street, still holding the

glamour tightly around them.

It was nearly two hundred years since Brak had been in the Citadel, and

the changes wrought in that time depressed him. Once this had been his

home, before the Sisterhood had snatched it from the Harshini. As a

child, he had played with demons among the vast gardens that were now

replaced by cluttered housing. He had gone exploring in the ancient woods

surrounding the Citadel that had long been cleared to meet the voracious

human appetite for firewood and lumber. Humans had obliterated all the

beauty of the Citadel, all the elegant hallmarks of Harshini

architecture. Only the temples and the Halls of Residence remained of the

original city, but they too had been corrupted, their artwork painted

over, their graceful lines distorted by later additions to their

structures. Brak was glad the Harshini could not see the Citadel now. It

would bruise their souls to see what had been done to their home.

“I can feel it,” R’shiel breathed in wonder. “I can feel the

Citadel.”

“He’s reacting to your presence.”

She frowned, trying to reach out with senses not yet mature enough to

identify what she was experiencing. The Citadel was welcoming her home,

just as it had watched over her for most of her life. Until now, she had

not been aware of the power that enabled her to feel his presence.

“I thought only gods could tell what I am?”

“The spirit of the Citadel is a god,” Brak explained. “An

Incidental god, not a Primal god, but a god nonetheless.”

“You mean he’s like Xaphista? He’s a demon that grew powerful

enough to call himself a god?”

“No, the Citadel is unique. He came into being as the complex was

built. He is the essence of the place. Its soul if you like.”

R’shiel digested the information silently as they approached the Temple

of the Gods. Brak did not know what the humans called it now, but once it

had been the centre of Harshini life — the place where any god, no

matter how powerful or insignificant, could be called into being. He had

played with gods and demons in that Temple, back in a time when life held

a great deal of promise. Back in the days before he understood what it

was to be half-human. Back in the days before he had killed Lorandranek.

“What did Dranymire mean about the Harshini needing access to the

Citadel to protect themselves?”

“You can’t kill a Harshini here, R’shiel. The Citadel won’t

permit it.”

She looked at him, her violet eyes wide with astonishment. “You’re

kidding?”

“No. But don’t get too exited. That protection doesn’t extend to

half-bloods. You and I are just as mortal as anybody else, here.”

“So if the Harshini could come back to the Citadel, they would be safe

from the Kariens? Even if they cross the border?”

“It’s the only protection they have, other than remaining hidden.

Their inability to kill is painfully real, R’shiel. There’s a story I

heard once about the First Purge. A mob of humans attacked a Harshini

family trying to flee the carnage. They raped the women, butchered the

children and then handed the last Harshini standing a sword. They knelt

in front of him and offered him their exposed throats, taunting him to

kill them. He dropped the sword and threw himself on the ground, hoping

they would take his life too. He couldn’t ask them to do it, the

prohibition against violence includes suicide.” He did not realise how

cold his voice had become until R’shiel looked at him with genuine

concern.

“It’s not just a story, is it, Brak?” she asked softly.

“No.”

“What happened?”

“We arrived too late to save him. But the humans who attacked them

never lived long enough to gloat about their deeds.”

“You killed them? How, if the Harshini can’t kill?”

“There were a lot more half-bloods in those days. Before the

Sisterhood, mixed marriages were not that uncommon. We were young and

hot-headed and didn’t take the Purge lying down.”

R’shiel thought about that for a moment. “Where are the other

half-bloods now?”

“One half-blood was more dangerous to the Sisterhood than a dozen pure

Harshini. They made a special effort to eradicate us.” They had ridden

past the Hall of the Gods without stopping. Brak was very sorry he had

ever mentioned the First Purge. Although centuries old, the memories

still burned like acid.

“You’re the only one left.”

“Until you came along.”

R’shiel did not ask anything further on the subject, for which Brak was

grateful. He glanced at the low, grey sky and realised that R’shiel had

been correct in her assertion that rain would force the Gathering indoors

and that the Hall was the only other possible venue.

She was still insisting they coerce the Gathering into accepting

Joyhinia, but Brak had held off showing her how to do it, until the last

possible moment, hoping she would change her mind. He lacked the power

himself, to coerce a large group of people, but he knew the technique,

although working it left him sick to his stomach. Since her stay at

Sanctuary, under the careful guidance of Korandellan and her Harshini

tutors, R’shiel had learnt much about her ability. But she was still a

babe-in-arms by Harshini standards. A babe who was acquiring knowledge

she lacked the judgment to use wisely, at a frightening rate. So

frightening that Brak found himself being very careful about what he did

in her presence.

She had come a long way since Shananara had tried to teach her simply how

to touch her power. That day by the Glass River, more than a year ago,

seemed to be part of a much more distant past.

If the Citadel’s desecration had cut him to the core, then Tavern

Street was like rubbing salt into the wound. The whole cluttered street,

which had once been a wide, tree-lined avenue, wore an aura of shoddy

greed. With the rain, the feast in the Amphitheatre had been washed out

and the tables laden with food had been moved to the verandahs outside

the taverns. The street was packed with people venturing out into the

fading drizzle to avail themselves of the Sisterhood’s generosity. Red

coats mingled with grey-robed Probates, green-robed Novices and the more

varied colours worn by ordinary people. There were only a few blue

Sisters in sight. Most of them had chosen to stay indoors, rather than

fight the crush in the rain. Of the white-robed Sisters of the Quorum,

there was no sign at all.

“Isn’t there somewhere else we can go?” Brak asked, eyeing the

crowd uneasily. They had planned to take rooms in a tavern close to the

Hall of the Gods and stay out of sight until the Gathering at sundown.

“But we were supposed to meet Affiana here.”

“She’ll wait for us.”

R’shiel thought for a moment then nodded. “The Amphitheatre will be

deserted with the food moved down here. The caverns should be quiet

enough.”

R’shiel turned her horse and led the way, although Brak could have

found his way blindfolded. The caverns had been stables once, built to

house the ancestors of the Hythrun sorcerer-bred horses. They rode into

the torch-lit tunnel and dismounted, leading their horses deep into the

caverns where they were unlikely to be disturbed. Brak looked around the

empty, hollow rooms with a sharp sense of loss.

He shook off the feeling and turned to R’shiel. “Are you sure you

want to do this?”

“There’s no other way, Brak.” The darkness hid her expression, but

it could not hide her excitement. Since returning to the world of humans,

the differences between the demon child and mere mortals were more

evident each day. Those differences were beginning to make her feel a

little too superior for Brak’s comfort. He could remember feeling the

same way, when he was her age, and he discovered how much his power set

him apart. But that kind of arrogance was dangerous to R’shiel and

everyone around her. She needed to be brought down a peg or two, as he

had been, and soon.

“What you want to do is wrong, you understand that, don’t you?”

“It is necessary.”

“Are you prepared for the consequences?”

“What consequences?” For the first time, she didn’t sound quite so

certain.

“Coercing humans is easy, R’shiel,” he explained. “People do it

to each other all the time. They don’t use the same sort of power as we

do, but they have other methods which work just as well.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“You remember when you were fighting with the rebellion? I saw you

coerce those young hot-heads any number of times and you didn’t know

anything about the Harshini power you had access to. Tarja convinced

three hundred rebels to attack a full Company of Defenders in Testra with

nothing more than rhetoric. Every mother who cajoles her child into

eating stewed turnips is using coercion.”

“What’s your point, Brak?”

“The point is that you could bully the heathens into fighting because,

deep down, they wanted to. Every rebel who attacked Testra at Tarja’s

behest secretly dreamt of victory. Even the child who eventually succumbs

to the stewed turnips has hunger giving him a push. Coercing people to

act against their will, is an entirely different matter. You have to get

past their natural inclinations and then force them to move in a

different direction. You are robbing them of any vestige of free will,

and free will is something that runs so deep in the human soul it’s

like trying to get the Glass River to flow backwards.”

“You think I don’t have the power to do it?” she asked, sounding

rather alarmed. “The Karien priests can do it.”

“R’shiel, you could level a mountain if the mood took you. Your power

is not the issue. As for the Kariens priests, their ability is an

abomination. Remember that Xaphista was a demon once. During their

initiation ceremony they drink his blood. And it’s not some slaughtered

animal’s blood they’re drinking either, it really is Xaphista’s.

The blood links them to their god in the same way we’re linked to our

demons. Through that link they can call on his strength to weave the

coercion.”

“But the link must be pretty tenuous,” she said. “Where did they

get the power to coerce a whole army?”

“Individually they’re weak, but as a group they can be devastating.”

“You’re not worried I’ll start worshipping the Overlord, are

you?” she asked with a grin.

Brak could have slapped her for being so flippant. She wasn’t listening

at all. “It’s what will happen to these people afterwards, that

worries me. If you coerce them into believing Joyhinia wishes to retire

in favour of Mahina, then that’s exactly what they’ll do. But

tomorrow, or the week after, or a year from now, when you’re not around

to suppress their natural feelings, they will begin to wonder why.

They’ll know they’ve been tricked. Mahina’s reign is likely to be

even shorter than the last time. One dissenting voice will turn into two,

which will turn into ten which will turn into an avalanche.”

“I’ve already told you, we’ll send the most likely dissenters away

. . .”

He shook his head in exasperation. “It won’t matter. You have no way

of knowing who is susceptible and who isn’t. The ones you think most

likely to object may take to the coercion like it was mother’s milk.

But there will be others, people you don’t even suspect, for whom the

coercion will last less than a day. There will be nearly a thousand

Sisters in that Hall, R’shiel. You can’t watch them all.”

“Then we’ll do something to keep them quiet. It only has to last long

enough for Mahina to issue the orders sending the rest of the Defenders

to the front. She can resign after that and they can hold another

election —”

“Do what?” Brak cut in.

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Maybe if they all got sick, or

something . . .”

“You mean you’d create an epidemic just to keep the Sisters

occupied?”

“I suppose. Nothing serious, just something that keeps them close to

the garderobes for a few days.”

“I see. And when this epidemic spreads to the general population, as it

will, what of the young, too weak to fight it? The old, too frail to

withstand it? Are you ready to kill innocent people to keep your coercion

from falling apart?”

“Then what do you suggest we do? We have to get the rest of the

Defenders to the border!”

“Fine. Have Joyhinia issue the order. Have her resign, too, if you

must, but the more complex the coercion, the more chance there is of it

blowing up in your face.”

“But we need Mahina in charge.”

“Then put her in charge, but let her take control herself. If you

impose an artificial control, the results could be catastrophic. Trust

her to know what she’s doing. She got caught out once. I don’t think

she’ll be so foolish this time.”

“What are you suggesting? That we get through the Gathering and then

walk away?”

“Actually, I was thinking of running, not walking. One of the hallmarks

of maturity for a Harshini is knowing when not to use your power,

R’shiel.”

“I’m not Harshini. Not completely.”

“You’re not completely human, either, but that’s no excuse for

acting like an idiot. Consequences, R’shiel. I ask you again. Are you

prepared for the consequences?”

She was silent for a moment, considering her answer carefully.

“The consequences of not acting are liable to be worse,” she said

finally.

“You don’t know that for certain.”

“No,” she agreed, then she sighed. “Alright, I’ll grant you that

letting Mahina establish control in her own right is probably safer than

imposing it artificially. But I will have to coerce them into accepting

her appointment at the Gathering.”

“And then we leave?”

“I suppose.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting outside the Hall with our horses. It’s too

damned dangerous for you here R’shiel.”

“Dangerous? Compared to what? The border, where there’s a war going

on?” She smiled wearily at him. “Show me how it’s done, Brak.

We’re running out of time.”

Brak silently admitted defeat. He had done all he could to deter her,

short of refusing her the knowledge outright. But she had felt it once

before, the night before the battle. If he did not instruct her properly,

he knew that she would simply try to copy what the Kariens priests had

done, and the result might be disastrous.

The irony was, using simple human tactics, she was coercing him into

showing her something he thought far too dangerous for her to learn. At

least she had agreed to leave, once the deed was done. Brak couldn’t

put his finger on it, but he had a feeling of impending danger and it had

been growing steadily stronger ever since he had entered the Citadel.

He wished the Citadel was easier to read, easier to understand. He could

feel its anxiety and it was making him very nervous.

CHAPTER 43

Loclon waited until almost sundown before finally accepting that

R’shiel and her half-breed companion were not going to appear. Cold,

wet and thoroughly disgusted, he made his way to the Blue Bull tavern to

meet with Garanus and report his lack of success.

Loclon had thought the tavern an odd choice for a meeting place. It was

far too public for his liking, and a Karien priest would stand out like a

red-coated Defender in a snowstorm. Garanus had shrugged off his

concerns. He had private rooms available, he said, and had paid the

tavern keeper well to ensure her silence. Besides, it was Founder’s Day

and the Citadel was full of strangers. A few more would barely rate a

mention.

The rain had dwindled to a light drizzle about an hour after the First

Sister arrived and had completely stopped an hour or so after that. Not

wishing to be seen defying Garet Warner’s orders, he had paid an urchin

to watch Francil’s Hall, and another to keep an eye on the Main Gate.

It had proved a waste of good coin. Nobody even remotely fitting

R’shiel’s description had entered the Citadel since the parade. She

had either arrived early, or the priest was wrong.

Tavern Street was still crowded when he arrived, the revellers determined

to get full value from the public holiday, particularly now the rain had

stopped, although the air was bitterly cold and many of the party-goers

stood hugging the small fires that lined the street. He pushed through

them impatiently into the crowded taproom of the Blue Bull, where he

spied Lork standing guard outside the door to one of the private dining

rooms. The big man wore an expression that turned away the curious,

simply by its ferocity. When he reached the door, Lork barred his way

with a low snarl.

“I’m expected,” he said. Lork glared at him for a moment before

dropping his thick arm. Loclon opened the door and pushed past him.

He froze in shock as the door snicked shut behind him. He was expecting

Mistress Heaner and Garanus to be waiting for him, not five more Karien

priests and a tall man with hooded eyes, who by his bearing just had to

be a Karien nobleman, despite his unremarkable clothing.

“Ah, Captain,” Garanus said, looking up at the sound of the door

closing. “You bring us good news, I trust?”

For a fleeting moment, Loclon wanted to run. This was getting out of

hand. His desire to see R’shiel suffer had not included treason. He had

been able to convince himself for months that his association with

Mistress Heaner was simply a ploy. He had made himself believe that

information he passed on was not critical, that he was using them rather

than the other way around. Confronted with incontrovertible proof of

Karien involvement at the highest level, what was left of his conscience

gave a dying cry of protest. He ignored it.

“Your information was wrong. R’shiel was not with the First Sister.”

The Karien Lord glanced at Garanus, frowning. “You claimed you could

feel her.”

“I could,” Garanus assured him. He glanced at the other priests, who

nodded in agreement. Their tonsured heads and pale skin made it hard to

tell one from the other. “We all could. Our captain here may have

missed them, but the glamour the demon child and her lackey wove to

conceal themselves is like a beacon to those of us who are close to the

Overlord. Trust me, Lord Terbolt, she is here.”

Loclon studied Terbolt guardedly. The name meant nothing to him, he had

little interest in Karien politics, but he was bound to be a personage of

some note. A man whose good will he needed to foster if he was to

continue on this path.

“They must have arrived earlier, before the parade.”

Garanus shrugged. “When they arrived is not important. The fact that

they are here is all that counts.”

“So what now? I can hardly kill this half-breed if I can’t find

him.”

Lord Terbolt nodded in agreement. “Nor can we expose this ungodly

Harshini alliance with the Sisterhood, with either of them on the loose.

Can’t you use your . . . powers, or whatever it is that you do,

Garanus, to track them down?”

“What Harshini alliance?” Loclon asked, before the priest had a

chance to answer.

Lord Terbolt turned to him. “The Sisterhood has been secretly allied

with the Harshini for years, Captain. The demon child was raised under

their protection. Now they have openly allied with the Hythrun, and the

Harshini, whom the Sisterhood claims have been extinct for more than a

century, begin to reveal themselves once more. We already have reports of

Harshini appearing again in Greenharbour. Before long, they will overrun

the entire continent with their insidious heathen gods. We are here to

put a stop to it.”

Loclon wasn’t sure that he believed the Karien, but it made sense.

Until she had run away with Tarja, R’shiel had been training for the

Sisterhood. Her mother was the First Sister. The thought that his career

had been destroyed by a Harshini bitch who was secretly working to

destroy Medalon burned like acid in his gullet.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I think we should pay a visit to the First Sister,” Terbolt said.

The Sister’s Hall was all but deserted. Every Blue Sister in the

Citadel was heading for the Gathering. Getting past the guards was easy.

Loclon knew the effect a barked order had on men conditioned to follow

their officers without question. He and Gawn had led Lord Terbolt, his

priests, and the silent Lork to the main residential wing of the

Sister’s Hall quite openly. With their heads covered by hooded cloaks,

and their staffs hidden in their folds, the Kariens looked as ordinary as

any other visitors to the Citadel.

Gawn’s inclusion was not part of Loclon’s original plan. The captain

had appeared on the verandah of the Blue Bull as they were leaving,

looking for some entertainment with a willing Probate. Now that he was a

widower, he spent a great deal of his off duty hours entertaining willing

Probates. They were safer than tavern-keepers’ daughters. As a rule, if

you impregnated one, you were not required to marry her.

Gawn’s eyes had widened at the sight of Loclon’s companions, but he

was even further along the road of treason than Loclon, these days. He

acted as if he really did believe all that nonsense about the Overlord. A

thing made easier, no doubt, by the fact that the Overlord had answered

his prayers and his slut of a wife lay buried these past few weeks, dead

from a fatal dose of heckleweed that she unfortunately mistook for

seasoning. Loclon had grabbed his arm and dragged him along, explaining

the situation in a low voice as they made their way towards the

Sister’s Hall. Gawn had fallen in with them willingly.

The guards at the entrance were easily dealt with. One did not question a

captain without very good cause. The men on the upper levels were just as

efficiently disposed of. Loclon ordered them downstairs, accusing them of

hiding inside the building to escape the cold. The men saluted sharply

and hurried outside.

The guards in the hall outside the First Sister’s apartments were a

different matter. These were Garet Warner’s men. Loclon could order

them about until he turned green without any noticeable effect. He

stopped just out of sight on the landing of the broad, carpeted staircase

and motioned the Kariens to silence.

“What do you think, Gawn?”

“I think we’re going to have to fight,” the captain replied softly.

“There is no need to fight,” Terbolt informed them in a low voice.

“Lork, take care of it.”

Before Loclon could protest, the big man stepped into the hall and walked

towards the two Defenders standing either side of the First Sister’s

door. The men looked up at his approach, hands on the hilts of their

swords as they challenged him. Lork did not answer them. He just kept

walking. As soon as he was in reach of the Defenders, who, by this time,

had begun to draw their weapons, he grabbed a man with each of his

plate-sized hands and smashed their heads together so hard Loclon could

hear their skulls cracking. He hurried forward as the men collapsed at

Lork’s feet.

“You fool! You’ve killed them!” he hissed.

“They were agents of evil,” Garanus announced as he came up behind

them with Lord Terbolt and the other priests. “Their deaths will please

the Overlord.”

“Well, they won’t please anyone around here! We have to get the

bodies out of sight!”

“We can move them inside,” Terbolt said, turning to face the

bronze-sheathed door. “Should we knock?”

Gawn muttered something as the Karien pounded on the door. It was opened

a few moments later by Lord Draco, who took in the fallen guards and the

tonsured priests with a glance, reaching for his sword with a speed that

belied his age. Lord Setenton was prepared, however. He plunged his

dagger into Draco’s breast while the older man’s blade was still in

its scabbard. The Duke of Setenton shoved him backward into the room.

Draco slid off the blade and collapsed on the expensive patterned rug,

his red jacket darkening with blood. He cried out an unintelligible

warning but there was nobody around to heed it.

Loclon stood frozen in shock, as Lork dragged the bodies of the guards

into the room and locked the door behind him. They had killed two

Defenders. They had killed the Spear of the First Sister.

He was damned whichever way he looked at it.

“Find the First Sister,” Terbolt ordered. The priests spread out,

checking the numerous doors that led off the main hall of the First

Sister’s apartments. Loclon stared at Draco who lay groaning softly,

hand clutched uselessly over his punctured chest.

“Finish him, Captain,” Terbolt ordered brusquely. “His moaning

offends me.”

“But he’s . . .” Loclon began uncertainly.

“I’ll do it,” Gawn offered, drawing his sword. He walked to where

Draco lay dying and barely even hesitated as he plunged the blade into

him, over and over again. Draco was long dead before he stopped.

Loclon watched Gawn mutilating Lord Draco and discovered, somewhat to his

embarrassment, that rather than repulse him, the smell of the blood was

arousing him. He turned away to hide the evidence of his excitement.

“Can’t bear to watch, eh?”

Loclon composed himself before turning back, trying to sound nonchalant.

“A bit excessive, don’t you think?”

Gawn shrugged. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Pleased? To watch you hack an old man to death?”

“He’s not just an old man, Loclon. I thought you knew. Lord Draco is

Tarja Tenragan’s father.”

Before that startling news had time to register, one of the priests cried

out from a room up the hall. They hurried to the door and pushed their

way through.

Across the threshold lay the body of a statuesque middle-aged woman,

blood pooling beneath the knife wound in her chest. Her dark hair

partially covered her face, but could not hide the startled look in her

dead eyes. Loclon stepped over the body and stared, open-mouthed at the

sight before him.

They had found the First Sister.

She was sitting on the floor, dressed in a simple grey tunic, her long,

grey streaked hair undone and hanging limply over her shoulders. In her

hands was a tattered rag doll with one eye missing. She was rocking back

and forth, humming tunelessly.

Joyhinia Tenragan, the most ruthless First Sister in living memory, the

woman who had ordered a Purge that had killed thousands of Medalonians,

looked up as they crowded in her room and smiled at them.

“Do you want to play with dolly?” she said.

CHAPTER 44

Since befriending Dace, Mikel rarely spent a full day among the horses.

Whenever Dace appeared, Sergeant Monthay would suddenly turn to Mikel and

dismiss him, along with the warning that he did not expect to see him

again until dinnertime. Mikel had no idea why Dace had that effect on the

Medalonian and finally decided to stop questioning his good fortune.

Perhaps it was the Overlord’s way of sparing him a life of forced

labour.

Sometimes, Kali would join her brother on their daily jaunts. Every time

he saw the barefooted little girl, she would stare at him closely and

demand, ‘Do you love me?”

Mikel thought it the strangest question, and it seemed to annoy Dace too,

but he had begun answering yes, simply because Kali would sulk if he

answered any other way. An answer in the affirmative left her beaming for

the rest of the day. She would hold his hand, and smile at him a lot, and

not say blasphemous things about the Overlord, which Mikel found

something of a relief.

Dace pouted a lot when Kali was with them, and he argued with her all the

time. But he seemed incapable of refusing her anything. If Kali had been

his sister, Mikel thought, he would have ordered her to stay at home and

expected her to comply. These Medalonians really did lack the proper

understanding of the place of a female.

When Dace and Mikel were alone, they spent hours exploring the Medalonian

camp. They were never challenged by the Defenders, never asked what they

were doing, never in trouble. The followers’ camp was even more

interesting. Dace had a knack for smiling at people so charmingly that

they never thought to question his right to be there. Mikel had no

success trying to emulate his companion’s winning smile. The one time

he had tried it on a Defender, hoping to sneak into the Keep to find out

how the princess was faring, the Defenders on guard had sent him packing

with a blistering reprimand.

Of course, one had to be on their guard around Dace. He was always trying

to coax Mikel into stealing things. He did not seem to care what Mikel

stole, just that he stole something. Its value was irrelevant, it was the

act that mattered. But Mikel had been true to his faith and had not

fallen to the dangerous charms of his new friend. If anything, he felt he

was a positive influence on the young thief and was certain that he had

saved the youth from sinning on more than one occasion.

Today however, Dace had finally suggested they steal something that even

Mikel could not resist.

There was, according to Dace, a blue swallow’s nest in the tower of the

old keep. The mother swallow must have gotten her seasons mixed up

because it was almost winter, and the chicks would die if they hatched at

this time of year. Dace’s noble plan was to steal the eggs from the

nest and take them somewhere warmer, where they could incubate safely.

Once hatched, they could dig up worms for the chicks and nurse them

through the bitter weather. By spring, they would be ready to make it on

their own and the boys could release them.

Try as he might, Mikel could find no fault with Dace’s plan. Saving the

chicks from a freezing death was a good deed, and brave too, when one

considered where the nest was located. Although Dace insisted on calling

their rescue mission “stealing” he joined in the escapade willingly.

His enthusiasm pleased the young thief enormously. He acted almost as

happy as his sister Kali, the first time that he had agreed he really did

love her.

Strange people, these Medalonians.

“How are we going to get into the Keep?” Mikel demanded as he hurried

alongside Dace toward the old fort. Dace had been disturbingly vague on

that point. The ground was slushy underfoot from a light snowfall the

night before which had turned to mud almost as soon as the sun touched

it. Mikel hated this Medalonian weather. He fervently wished it would

snow properly, like it did in Yarnarrow or Kirkland, not this

half-hearted mucky stuff that fell from the skies every few days with no

other purpose than to make everything muddy and damp.

“They change the guard just before sundown,” Dace explained.

“We’ll sneak in then.”

Mikel had not been inside Treason Keep since the day he had been

interrogated by Tarja and Lord Wolfblade. He tried hard not to think of

that day. The memories still hurt too much for him to be able to recall

them willingly. Even the Keep’s unofficial name seemed to taunt him.

“But aren’t there guards on the tower?”

“Lord Jenga says it’s too dangerous up there and not worth repairing.

The guards stay on the wall-walk. Once we get inside, we’ll be fine.”

Mikel could hardly question such a confident assurance, so he trudged

alongside the thief and prayed to the Overlord that Dace was right.

“Besides,” Dace added cheerily, “It’s Founder’s Day. Lord Jenga

declared a holiday. There won’t be many guards on duty.”

“What’s Founder’s Day?”

“It’s when the Medalonians celebrate the day they stole Medalon from

the Harshini.” Dace suddenly stopped walking and grinned at Mikel.

“Now that was an interesting time, let me tell you! The others were

steaming mad. Of course, a theft on that scale made me stronger than

Zegarnald for a time, but then the Sisterhood launched their purge and

the fighting started and I went back to being just plain old me. It was

fun for a while, though.”

“Dace, what are you talking about?”

The thief shrugged. “Nothing. Come on, we’d better hurry. It’s

almost sundown and we won’t be able see the nest in the dark.”

Shaking his head, Mikel hurried after Dace. The boy had a habit of

wandering off like that. It was very disconcerting.

As Dace predicted, they were not challenged as they passed through the

gate into the Keep. The Defenders barely even glanced at them. Mikel

followed as he walked boldly across the muddy yard to the dangerously

crumbling steps that led to the tower. As they carefully climbed the

broken stairs, Mikel understood why Lord Jenga had condemned the tower.

The masonry wobbled under even his slight weight.

The sun appeared to be resting on the steep peaks of the Sanctuary

Mountains as they reached the top of the tower. It was a blocky, square

structure but the merlons had crumbled and in one corner there was

nothing but a pile of fallen rubble, almost as tall as Mikel. It was to

the pile that Dace led him, squeezing in through the narrow opening

between the rubble and the wall. It smelled musty in the tiny cave formed

by the ruined masonry, but the mother swallow had picked her location

well. The nest was protected from the wind and from the eye of any roving

hawk looking for an easy meal.

“See! Five eggs!” Dace declared.

“I can’t see a thing!” he complained. It was so dark inside the

little cavern he could only make out Dace from his glittering eyes.

“Look, it’s over . . .”

“Sshhh!” Mikel froze as the sound of footsteps reached him. He turned

slightly, so he could see outside.

It was Princess Adrina. He bit back a cry of surprise as a man joined her

on the tower. The Hythrun Warlord’s profile was sharp against the

setting sun.

“I trust you have a reason for this perilous expedition?” the

princess demanded as she turned to stare out over the plain.

“I thought you might enjoy the view, your Highness.”

Damin Wolfblade really should learn to speak to the princess with more

respect.

“It’s lovely. Can we go now?”

“Tell me what you see.”

“I see nothing, and I’m freezing. Is this really necessary?”

“You see nothing,” Damin repeated thoughtfully. “Interesting,

don’t you think?”

“You find nothing interesting? Well, that’s hardly surprising for a

man of your limited intellect.”

Mikel grinned in the darkness of his hidey-hole. That’s telling him!

“Adrina, a few leagues from here, your husband’s army sits and waits.

They do nothing. They don’t attack. They don’t train. They don’t

even run away. They just sit there, waiting for something. I want to know

what they’re waiting for.”

Adrina turned north, her expression puzzled. Rather than the biting

retort Mikel was expecting, she shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Were they planning something, before you left? Something that would

account for their willingness to hold an army of that size immobile for

so long?”

“I’d tell you if I knew. Their war council did little more than

argue, and you’ve already seen their idea of battle. The Dukes of

Karien are not renowned for their tactical genius. When you have

countless troops to throw into battle it isn’t really necessary.”

Mikel wasn’t sure he believed what he was hearing. They sounded so . .

. friendly.

“Could one of the Dukes have advised him to wait?”

“Lord Roache may have,” Adrina shrugged.

“What did the Duke of Setenton advise?”

“Lord Terbolt? He’s not there. He sent his brother Ciril in his

place.”

The warlord frowned. “Terbolt isn’t there? He’s Jasnoff’s most

trusted commander. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. Cratyn didn’t seem surprised by his absence, though.

Perhaps Jasnoff had other plans for him.”

“What other plans?” Damin asked, the concern in his voice obvious

even to Mikel.

“I was permitted to join their war council rather begrudgingly, my

Lord. They weren’t in the habit of discussing anything of import while

I was present.”

Damin laughed softly. “Not an unwise precaution, in light of recent

events.”

Adrina turned on the Warlord. “That remark was uncalled for, my Lord.”

Damin sighed. “That’s right, I forgot. You aren’t committing

treason, you just want to be free.”

“Free! Get this damned collar off my neck, then I might remember what

the word means!”

As Damin moved closer to her, Mikel wanted to leap to the defence of his

princess, but Dace held him back.

“No!” the thief whispered.

Burning with frustration and not at all certain why he remained hidden,

Mikel turned back to watch, thinking the Warlord was much too close to

the princess to be proper.

Damin was fingering the golden collar Adrina wore with surprisingly

gentle fingers. It reflected the setting sun, making the wolf’s ruby

eyes glitter malignantly. Adrina’s rigid posture betrayed more than she

imagined.

“What would you give to be free, Adrina?” he asked softly.

“Unhand me, sir!”

Damin dropped his hand. “I can see why your marriage was never

consummated, your Highness.”

Mikel swallowed a horrified gasp. He knew what “consummated” meant.

Adrina laughed. She sounded genuinely amused. “You don’t like me

much, do you? Is that why you take so much pleasure from tormenting me?”

“Ah, now there’s the tragedy, your Highness. If you weren’t such a

treacherous, conniving little bitch, I’d probably be quite taken with

you.”

Adrina turned away from him, to study the red streaked clouds. The sun

was almost completely set. “You presume to know an awful lot about me,

considering the short time of our acquaintance, Damin Wolfblade. How much

is your own opinion, and how much is hearsay, I wonder?”

“I make my own judgments. I’ve no need to listen to hearsay.”

“I beg to differ, my Lord,” she retorted, turning to face him. “You

told Captain Tenragan I tried to kill the High Prince. You weren’t

there. How could you possibly know what happened, unless you listened to

hearsay?”

“He told you that, did he?”

“Yes, and it’s a damned lie! I did no such thing! Your uncle is a

perverted monster, and if those boys would rather die than let him touch

them, I don’t blame them!”

“So you did give them the knife?”

“Yes!”

Damin was silent for a moment. “Why did you take the collars?”

“I didn’t take them. Lernen gave them to me. I kept them as a

remembrance of two children destroyed by a debauched old man. Somebody

owed them that much.”

He took a step back from her. “It’s cold, your Highness, and I know

how anxious you are to return indoors. Shall we go?”

Adrina planted her hands on her hips angrily. “That’s it? No apology?

No admission that you were wrong? How dare you, sir!”

The Warlord shrugged. “For all I know, you’re lying about that, just

as you lie about everything else.”

“I am not lying!”

Damin closed the gap between them with frightening speed. “Then prove

it, Adrina. Tell me the truth! Why did you leave Karien?” Although he

was looming over her, Adrina held her ground. Mikel watched helplessly,

wanting to kill Damin Wolfblade almost as much as he wanted to stay

hidden and watch this strange scene unfold.

“I’ve told you a thousand times! I left because Cratyn is a

miserable, cowardly, little cretin! The day we were married he hit me and

called me a Fardohnyan whore and told me all he wanted was a Karien heir

to my father’s throne. It went downhill from there.”

Tears misted Mikel’s eyes to hear such words coming from his princess.

She is lying to protect herself, he reasoned anxiously.

She walked to the other side of the small tower and leaned against the

crumbling merlons, turning her back to the Warlord. The darkness was

settling rapidly, making her features hard to distinguish.

“Was it that bad?” Damin asked, in a surprisingly sympathetic voice.

“Worse than you could possibly imagine. The bastards even killed my

dog.”

She’s making it up, Mikel told himself, over and over. She’s making

it up.

“Does your father know what it was like?”

“Even if he did, he wouldn’t care. Hablet has his own plans.”

“To invade Hythria, no doubt.” Adrina looked around sharply, but

Damin smiled. “Don’t worry, Adrina. I won’t overtax your ability to

admit the truth any further, this night. Your father’s worst fault is

his predicability. His plans are easy enough to fathom. It’s the

Kariens who have me worried at the moment.”

“I told you, I don’t know what they have planned.”

“And oddly enough, I believe you. Come on. The sun has set. If we stay

up here much longer they’ll be able to decorate their damned

Founder’s Day banquet with a couple of ice statues.”

He held out his hand to help her down and, to Mikel’s disgust, she

accepted it. But she halted at the top of the steps and leaned toward him

in a most unladylike manner. “Tarja showed me the graves, Damin. That

was a noble thing to do for an enemy.”

“Careful, your Highness, you might actually get me believing there’s

a heart hidden beneath that rather impressive bosom.”

She snatched her hand from his angrily. “You are an intolerable

bastard! I was trying to be gracious!”

“Gracious?” he laughed softly. “That wide-eyed look? Those slightly

parted lips? That eloquent sigh? What’s next? ‘Oh Damin, won’t you

please let me go’? Gods Adrina! I’ve been around court’esa-trained

noblewomen all my life. You’ll have to do better than that.”

“You flatter yourself, my Lord,” Adrina said, her voice colder than

the rapidly darkening night. “In the unlikely event I ever turn my

skills on you, you won’t even know what hit you, until you lay

whimpering at my feet, begging for more!”

“Don’t try playing that game with me, Adrina. You might find the

rules a little different this far from Fardohnya.”

“Rules?” she laughed softly, savagely. “In this game, my Lord,

there are no rules.”

Adrina vanished from Mikel’s sight as she descended the stairs,

followed closely by Damin. Mikel’s breath came out in a rush and he

discovered he was trembling. He wished he could make sense of even half

of what he had seen and heard. The princess must be very upset to lie

about Prince Cratyn like that. What were they doing to her?

“Psst!”

Mikel glanced in the direction of the thief who sat squashed in the dark

cavern.

“What?”

“You have to steal the eggs!”

Annoyed, Mikel reached in and snatched the fragile speckled eggs from the

nest.

“There! Satisfied?”

Dace nodded, grinning broadly. “You have honoured the God of Thieves.”

“If you say so,” he agreed distractedly. It was a measure of his

distress that he did not bother to correct the youth. Normally such a

statement received a sharp denial of the existence of any other god.

“Your soul belongs to me now, Mikel,” Dace said, sounding enormously

satisfied with himself.

“My soul belongs to the Overlord,” he replied mechanically.

“That’s what you think,” the God of Thieves smirked.

CHAPTER 45

The Medalonians celebrated Founder’s Day with a degree of abandonment

that Adrina considered rather inappropriate for men in the middle of a

war. Admittedly, there wasn’t much of a war going on at present, so

they might as well take this opportunity to enjoy themselves. Even the

Hythrun Raiders joined in as if it were a festival of the gods. They

didn’t care much for Founder’s Day, she suspected, but they weren’t

going to ignore an excuse for a party. There was precious little else to

do. One senseless battle and now Cratyn was sitting on the other side of

the border with his vast army doing precisely nothing.

The hall was filled with people, as Jenga had declared an open house and

many of the officers whose wives and lovers were in the followers’ camp

had brought their women to the party. Someone had managed to find a

quantity of blue linen and had made a hopeful attempt to decorate the

crumbling walls, but there had not been enough to go around. The

decorations had a forlorn, unfinished look. The only source of heat was

the abundant torches and the huge fireplace near the far end, but the

heat of so many bodies pressed together seemed to take the chill off the

air.

There were quite a few court’esa present as well, although Adrina

thought the term a rather misguided one, when applied to these ill-bred,

uneducated whores, whose only feature in common with real court’esa was

their willingness to trade sexual favours for coin. A small band of

musicians was playing in the corner, enlisted men mostly, whose skill

with an instrument had got them invited to the officers’ party. They

weren’t bad either, considering their first calling was killing people

and musicianship was merely a secondary talent.

With his hand on her elbow, Damin guided Adrina through the crush towards

Lord Jenga, who stood by the stairs that led up to her quarters, talking

to Tarja Tenragan.

Adrina studied him curiously. She had never been able to crack that calm

certitude, even when he admitted to killing her brother. And it was not

for lack of trying. The captain showed no interest in her — or any

other woman present, she noted, slightly mollified. Perhaps Damin was

right. Perhaps there was nothing any woman here could offer him that

compared with what he already had.

“I’m so glad you could join us, your Highness,” Lord Jenga said as

they approached.

“I wasn’t aware that I was given a choice in the matter, my Lord.

Good evening, Captain.”

“Your Highness. Damin.”

“I thought you’d be taking part in the festivities, Captain. I’m

sure there are any number of young ladies here who would be delighted to

keep you company.”

Tarja shook his head with a faint smile. “I’m sure there are, your

Highness, if I was willing to spend the coin and didn’t mind what

diseases I caught. May I get you some wine?”

“Thank you,” Adrina replied, a little startled by his blunt answer.

Damin caught her look and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “You

deserved that.”

She glared at him for a moment then turned to Lord Jenga. “So what is

this party in honour of, my Lord?”

“Founder’s Day, your Highness. It’s the day we celebrate the

foundation of the Sisterhood’s rule over Medalon.”

“And you find that worthy of celebration?”

“It’s tradition, your Highness,” Jenga replied. “I’m sure you

have many such traditions in Fardohnya.”

“Of course, my Lord. I apologise if you took offence.”

“Don’t listen to her, Jenga,” Damin warned. “She’s not in the

least bit sorry.” He ignored the look Adrina gave him, and gave her no

chance to defend herself. “Her Serene Highness did tell me something

though, that she’s conveniently neglected to mention until now. The

Duke of Setenton isn’t with Cratyn.”

Jenga’s weathered brow furrowed. “That would explain their tactical

stupidity. Is he out of favour with Jasnoff?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Adrina told him.

“Why did you wait until now to tell us?”

“I didn’t realise you would consider it so important, my Lord.”

“Tell us what?” Tarja asked, returning with a cup of wine for both

Damin and Adrina. She took the tankard and swallowed the wine with a

gulp. How was she supposed to know Lord Terbolt’s absence was such a

big issue?

“The Duke of Setenton isn’t in the Karien war camp.”

“Then where is he?”

“That’s a question I’d like answered,” Damin replied, looking

pointedly at Adrina.

“I told you! I don’t where he is.”

“You’ve told us a great deal, your Highness, half of which is

probably outright lies, and the rest of which is doubtful.”

“If we were in Fardohnya, sir, you would be put to death for insulting

me so.”

“If we were in Hythria, your Highness, you’d have been flogged for

being —”

“Damin!” Tarja warned.

Fortunately, the Warlord didn’t finish the threat. Adrina smiled at

Tarja gratefully, but it was time to escape the company of such an

intolerable man.

“Do you dance, Captain?”

“Only when I can’t avoid it,” Tarja replied with a grimace.

“Consider this one of those times. I feel the need for some

entertainment and I find the company in this part of the hall quite

dull.”

Much to her annoyance, Damin laughed aloud at her comment. She thrust her

wine cup at Lord Jenga and all but dragged Tarja to the centre of the

Hall where a lively jig was in progress. She had no idea of the steps

involved, and did not particularly care. She took her place in the line

and followed the steps of the girl beside her, a young thing of about

sixteen with a pretty face that was ruined by a missing tooth she

displayed when she smiled. The dance was fairly simple and repetitive so

it didn’t take long before she got the hang of it. She glanced across

the hall and saw Damin watching her. She quite deliberately turned her

head away and smiled winningly at Tarja.

“You don’t have to keep looking at him,” Tarja told her when the

dance brought them together for a turn.

“Looking at whom?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“You know who I mean. Are you trying to make him jealous?”

“Don’t be absurd! That would imply I care what he thinks.”

“And you don’t, of course.”

“Of course not.”

They parted then and broke into two lines, men on the right, women on the

left. The steps changed and Adrina found herself having to follow the

toothless peasant girl for a time. When she looked up, she couldn’t see

the Warlord, but she could feel his eyes on her. The dance took her back

to her partner and she found herself confronting Tarja’s infuriatingly

calm expression.

Was he really immune to her charms, she wondered? Is R’shiel so

enticing that even when she is hundreds of leagues away, he can resist

what is right under his nose?

The lines of dancers moved together. When Tarja took her in his arms for

the next part she leaned into him and smiled, meeting his eyes with an

open invitation. There weren’t many men who could deny her when she

chose to be irresistible. Cratyn and Damin Wolfblade being rather notable

exceptions, she recalled sourly.

Tarja’s reaction was not at all what she expected. His expression grew

serious. “Damin wasn’t kidding when he said you were dangerous, was

he?”

“Do you think I’m dangerous?” she teased.

“I think you’re a spoilt brat, actually,” he replied pleasantly.

“I think that’s why you really left your husband. You’re so used to

getting your own way that you ran away, rather than be denied.”

“And what would you know about it?”

“I’m something of an expert on spoilt brats, your Highness. R’shiel

is fairly famous for it in some circles.”

Adrina’s anger evaporated in the face of such a startling admission.

She had never heard Tarja speak of R’shiel before. She was more curious

about the demon child than she cared to admit.

“Is she very beautiful?”

“Very.”

“More beautiful than me?”

Tarja laughed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to say yes, but I’m hardly

what you’d call objective. Damin could probably give you a more

accurate answer.”

“Thank you, but I’d rather not ask him anything. Tell me more about

R’shiel. Is she truly the demon child?”

“So the Harshini claim.”

“Don’t you believe them?”

“I’m an atheist. I’m supposed to devote my life to eradicating the

Harshini.”

“Yet you have a Harshini lover? A curious way of carrying out your

orders, Captain.”

“I have a talent for complicating my life far more than is necessary,

your Highness. And you are a complication I don’t want or need, so quit

rubbing up against me like that, or I’ll end up doing something we’ll

both regret, and when R’shiel gets back she’ll turn you into a toad

and me into something that looks like a smudge on the road.”

Adrina smiled. “I like you, Captain. I’ve even forgiven you. Is the

demon child really so fearsome?”

“No, just very certain about her territorial boundaries.”

“And I’m crossing them?”

“You’re getting close.”

Adrina stepped back a little, her ego somewhat appeased. She had been

beginning to wonder if she was losing her touch. The dance ended with a

round of applause and Tarja led her back to the stairs. The Lord Defender

had moved on and was talking to the officer who had charge of the horses.

The musicians struck up another tune and the hall echoed to the stamping

feet of the dancers. Damin was sitting on the stairs sipping his wine. He

did not bother to rise as she approached. His manners were appalling.

“I see her Highness dances with the same flair she spins fanciful

stories,” Damin remarked. “You survived, Tarja. I’m proud of you.”

“Only just,” Tarja admitted with a smile. “Your Highness, it’s

been a pleasure, but I have duties to attend to. I’m sure Lord

Wolfblade would be delighted to keep you entertained.” He bowed and

walked away, leaving her standing there. His abrupt departure left her

speechless.

“Don’t worry Adrina, you didn’t drive him off. He’s waiting for a

bird from the Citadel. Tonight is more important to the Medalonians than

you know.”

She turned to Damin curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Tonight is their annual Gathering at the Citadel. R’shiel is

planning to make some changes in the Sisterhood and Tarja’s very

nervous about it. Here, have a seat and drink up. I’m sure you’ll

find me much more agreeable company if you’re drunk.”

Adrina accepted the cup and sat beside him on the stairs, drinking her

wine thoughtfully. It was a surprisingly strong blend. “He told me

about R’shiel.”

“I’m not surprised. You weren’t being very subtle, you know. I was

half expecting you to start tearing his jacket off, right there on the

dance floor.”

“Do you always have to be so crude?”

“I’m being suitable to the occasion, your Highness. If you act like a

whore, you shouldn’t be surprised when you get treated like one.”

Adrina had taken just about all she intended to from this barbarian. He

had done nothing but taunt her and torment her. It was time to put him in

his place. Time to wipe that superior smirk off his face.

“You’re jealous.”

“Of you? Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Of course, you are,” she laughed. “I’ve misjudged you badly, my

Lord. All this time I thought you were a degenerate pervert like your

uncle, when in fact, you fancy yourself Kalianah’s gift to women. You

don’t even like me, yet you can’t bear the thought that I might find

Tarja attractive. How pathetic!”

“Your attempts to sleep your way to freedom are far more pathetic than

anything I can come up with, Adrina.”

“If I’d been trying to ‘sleep my way to freedom’, as you so

crudely put it, I would have been out of here weeks ago,” she assured

him confidently.

“You’re that good, are you?”

She finished the wine in a swallow, surprised at how potent it was. She

had heard that the drier the climate the stronger the wine, but she

hadn’t realised until now the difference between the sweet blends of

Fardohnya and the hardy Medalonian vintages.

“Well, that’s something you’re never likely to find out, is it?”

Damin refilled her cup from a jug he had on the step by his feet. “Ah,

now that would imply that I would want to find out, Adrina. Thank you,

but I prefer to sleep with women who aren’t likely to try slipping a

knife between my ribs.”

“I imagine that’s all you can do, Damin. Sleep with women.” She

downed the wine recklessly. She was enjoying this. To the Seven Hells

with being nice.

“This from the woman who couldn’t even coax a virgin boy into her

bed,” he said. “I wonder what Cratyn’s doing at the moment? Praying

to the Overlord for the return of his beloved wife, or thanking him for

getting rid of her?”

“You’re a pig, Damin Wolfblade!” She stood up — far too quickly,

she discovered with alarm — and gripped the rough stone wall. “I’m

not going to sit here and listen to your drunken insults any longer.”

“Giving in so easily, your Highness? You disappoint me. I thought

you’d be good for another hour at least.”

“You’re drunk!” she accused, turning to climb the stairs to her

room. She misjudged them and stumbled, but Damin caught her before she

fell.

“Actually, I’m disappointingly sober,” he corrected. “You, on the

other hand, are well and truly under the weather. How much did you

have?”

“Let me go!” she demanded, shaking free of him. “I am not drunk. I

had two cups, that’s all.”

“They weren’t cups, they were tankards, and the wine you’re used to

is like mother’s milk compared to this Medalonian stuff. Come on,

let’s get you upstairs before you really do something to embarrass

yourself.”

“Take your hands off me!” she hissed. Gripping the wall, Adrina took

the steps carefully, grateful, but not willing to admit it, that Damin

was behind her. Her head was starting to spin alarmingly.

By the time they reached the door to her room, Adrina felt a little

better. She took a deep breath and turned to Damin, feeling almost

gracious enough to thank him for his assistance. Until she saw the smirk

on his face.

“You’re insufferable! How dare you laugh at me!”

“You really should learn not to take yourself so seriously. You’d be

much more bearable, if you did.”

“I’ve no interest in making myself bearable to suit you.”

“I doubt you could even if you tried, Adrina.”

A small part of Adrina — that part that was still reasonably sober —

warned her to let the comment go. But for some reason, she felt compelled

to rise to the challenge. She was sick to death of this man.

“I’ve told you before. In the unlikely event I ever decide to

entertain myself with you, Damin Wolfblade, you won’t know what’s hit

you.”

“So you keep telling me. You’re not quite game to put it to the test,

though, are you?”

“You think I couldn’t?”

“I think you’re afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of anyone, least of all you!”

“Brave words from a cheap drunk. Go to bed, Adrina.”

She laughed softly. “You’re afraid of me, that’s the truth of it.

You even warned Tarja that I’m dangerous.”

“He told you that?”

“Yes.”

“He really does have a bad habit of repeating the most inconvenient

things, doesn’t he?” He reached across and opened the door to her

chamber. “Goodnight, Adrina.”

“I’m right, aren’t I? You’re afraid of me.” Adrina wasn’t

sure why she was being so insistent. It just seemed that the world would

be a much better place if Damin Wolfblade admitted that he feared her.

Even a little bit.

“Terrified,” he agreed, as if he were speaking to a small child.

“Now go to bed.”

“You’re just saying that to get rid of me.”

“You noticed? Maybe you’re not as drunk as I thought.”

“I know why you’re afraid.”

“Why?”

“Because of this,” she said, and then she kissed him.

Adrina had intended to bestow one blazing, breathtaking kiss on him and

leave him gasping for more. He would never get any more, of course, but

that was the whole point. Let him have a taste of the forbidden fruit and

then deny him the sweetness forever more.

But she didn’t count on Damin’s reaction. She didn’t count on him

kissing her back. Didn’t count on finding herself pushed against the

wall with strong arms holding hers pinned against her body while her

pulse pounded in her ears, blocking out all other sensations. Adrina had

kissed plenty of men before, but no court’esa in her service would have

dared such unbridled lust. Her grand plan evaporated in a heartbeat. For

a fleeting, dangerous moment, she gave herself up to the sheer,

unexpected pleasure of it.

“Your Highness?”

Tamylan’s startled greeting brought her back to her senses and she

pushed Damin away with a shove, gasping for air. Her slave stood in the

open doorway to her chamber, her expression a mixture of astonishment and

horror.

“Are you alright, my Lady?” she asked with concern, glaring at Damin.

“I’m fine Tam. Go back to bed. I’ll be in shortly.”

The slave nodded warily and moved away from the door. Only then did

Adrina feel composed enough to meet Damin’s eye.

“I think I’ve proved my point, don’t you?”

Damin’s expression was far too smug. “You think so?”

“I hope you enjoyed it, my Lord. You’ll never receive another. From

now on, you’ll just have to dream about what you’re missing.”

Adrina still had enough of her wits about her not to wait for his answer.

She turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her with a resounding,

and most satisfactory, thump.

“What are you playing at, Adrina?” Tamylan demanded as soon as the

door banged shut. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

“You forget your place, Tamylan.”

“So have you, your Highness,” the slave retorted. “Have you

forgotten where we are? Who he is? What he is?”

“Be silent!”

Tamylan shook her head in disgust and left the rest of it unsaid.

CHAPTER 46

For the second time in her life, R’shiel entered the Great Hall to

attend the annual Gathering of the Sisters of the Blade, although on this

occasion she did not have to scale the outside of the building in the

rain.

This time she walked through the main doors quite brazenly, concealed by

a glamour that made her unnoticeable. She broke from the crowd at the

entrance and made her way to the narrow stairs leading to the gallery.

Once she had climbed the stairs, she walked along the gallery to almost

the exact spot from which she had watched the Gathering two years ago

with Davydd Tailorson. It was odd, and a little disconcerting that she

could barely remember his face. Davydd had died trying to help her and

Tarja escape the Citadel. He deserved to be remembered more clearly.

R’shiel watched the Hall filling with blue-robed sisters, fidgeting

nervously. She wanted to call Dranymire, to ensure the demon knew what

was expected of him and his brethren, but she could not risk them being

noticed before she took control of the Gathering. She wanted to know

where Mahina was. She wanted to get a message to Affiana, concerned that

the woman had not been at the pre-arranged meeting place. It could simply

be that she had not waited around. R’shiel and Brak had been late

arriving at the tavern. R’shiel was worried. Affiana had not even left

a message for them.

She leaned on the balustrade, watching the growing crowd. Garet Warner,

the ranking officer in the Citadel, stood off to the left of the dais

with two other officers, where Lord Jenga and Tarja had stood the night

Joyhinia had been appointed First Sister. She wished she could tell what

he was thinking. Wished she knew how far he could be trusted.

R’shiel also wished Brak had come with her, but he had insisted he wait

outside with the horses, ready for a quick departure. He wanted her away

from this place with a determination that bordered on obsession. Brak was

a hard man to read. The only thing R’shiel was certain of was that he

would stay by her, regardless of how he felt about what she was doing.

She wasn’t even sure that Brak liked her very much, but he took his

responsibilities seriously. He had killed the Harshini King to ensure her

survival. To desert her now would make that act meaningless.

The doors closing with a hollow boom signalled the start of the meeting

and every eye turned forward as the white-robed members of the Quorum

filed on to the dais from the door at the back of the Hall.

Traditionally, the First Sister entered last, a custom R’shiel was

extremely grateful for. She sent out a mental call for Dranymire. The

demon responded instantly, popping into existence beside her, his

too-large eyes glittering in the gloom.

Are you ready?

May the gods be with us, Dranymire responded before he disappeared again.

“Be careful,” she whispered to the vanished demon.

She turned her attention to the dais, as Francil began reciting the

ritual thanksgiving to the Founding Sisters. On the edge of her

awareness, she could feel the demons forming the meld that would be

Joyhinia. She pushed aside the distraction and reached inside herself,

feeling the glow of the Harshini magic that nestled in her mind. She drew

on the power carefully, as Brak had shown her, and formed the thoughts

she wanted to impose on the Gathering although she held back releasing

them. Her eyes darkened until they turned completely black, the whites of

her eyes consumed by the power she gathered to her. As Francil’s dry

voice finished the litany, the door leading from the small anteroom

opened and the demon meld stepped onto the dais.

Dranymire and his brethren had done an impressive job. The Joyhinia they

had formed was a little too tall perhaps, and her eyes had never been

quite that shade of blue, but one would be hard pressed to tell her from

the genuine article. Joyhinia stepped up to take her place with a

commanding air, nodding in acknowledgment to the Quorum before turning to

face the Gathering. It was against protocol, R’shiel knew, but she did

not want to risk the meld for a moment longer than she had to. Joyhinia

would stand up, make her announcement and then leave. R’shiel could not

pick out Mahina among the sea of blue-robed sisters, but she trusted the

old woman to be in place.

She held back the coercion with difficulty. The power, once tapped, did

not like to be restrained. Sweat beaded her forehead and her eyes burned

as she gripped the balustrade. Unconsciously, R’shiel mouthed the words

of Joyhinia’s rehearsed speech, as the demon meld addressed the crowd.

“Sisters! It is good to be back among you, in these trying times.”

The voice was too low, almost masculine, but it was so long since any of

the sisters had heard Joyhinia speak, R’shiel doubted anybody would

notice. “I have been on our northern border, supervising our efforts to

repel the insolent Karien invasion of our sovereign nation.” The

Gathering was silent as they listened to the First Sister, more curious

than concerned. “Medalon will be safe in the hands of the Defenders and

we must press all our efforts in that direction.”

“From what I hear, it was a Defender who got us into this mess!” a

voice called from the back of the Hall.

R’shiel grimaced. She had not coached Dranymire to trade taunts with

hecklers. The coercion laboured to be released. Her knuckles were white

with the effort of holding it in. Dranymire ignored the comment and

carried on, oddly enough, making the meld seem more like Joyhinia than

ever.

“The single most important issue facing Medalon is our survival.

Everything else is insignificant in comparison to this. Personal

ambition, feelings and prejudices must be put aside.” That actually

drew a spattering of applause. There were many Sisters who were more

concerned with their duties than their careers. Having grown up in

Joyhinia’s shadow, R’shiel had to occasionally remind herself of that.

Joyhinia waited a moment before she continued. R’shiel fervently hoped

it was Dranymire pausing for dramatic effect, not fighting for control

over the meld.

“To this end, I plan to step down from the position of First Sister and

nominate the woman who I believe is the only one among us strong enough

to see us through this: Mahina Cortanen.”

Pandemonium erupted in the Hall at Joyhinia’s announcement. R’shiel

let go of the coercion, almost gagging as it descended on the Hall,

forcing down the opposition like a wet blanket thrown on a fire.

R’shiel had known it would be uncomfortable, she remembered the feeling

on the border when the Karien priests had coerced their troops, but she

was not prepared for the wave of debilitating nausea that washed over

her. Her knees buckled as she forced the women below to accept what they

could not accept, to believe the unbelievable. She gritted her teeth,

waiting for Mahina to step forward to accept the mantle of First Sister.

The crowd settled as their thoughts were turned from rebellion to

compliance, but there was no sign of the old woman. Joyhinia looked up

toward the gallery uncertainly.

“I call forth Mahina Cortanen!”

Where is she? R’shiel forcibly held back the suspicions of the crowd,

fighting the sickening feeling with all her strength. A movement at the

back of the crowd caught her attention and she spied Mahina moving

towards the dais with relief. It would be over soon. It was almost done.

Mahina finally stepped up to the platform and turned to face the

Gathering. R’shiel could not imagine what she was thinking. As First

Sister she was sworn to destroy all vestiges of Harshini magic, yet her

appointment this night could not happen without it. She faced the

Gathering with an unreadable expression as R’shiel forced the thousand

or more Sisters present to accept her reinstatement.

“Do you accept my nomination?” Joyhinia asked.

“Yes!” came the unanimous, if somewhat muted reply. R’shiel needed

them to agree. She did not have the skill to inspire them with enthusiasm.

“Then I declare Mahina Cortanen First Sister!”

There was no accompanying cheer, barely a murmur, in fact. Mahina did not

wait for the customary accolades, in any case. The demon meld wobbled for

an instant and R’shiel knew they could not hold it together much longer.

“Commandant, as the ranking officer of the Defenders in the Citadel,

will you take the oath on behalf of the Lord Defender?”

“I will, your Grace,” Garet replied, stepping forward into the small

clearing at the foot of the dais.

R’shiel fought off the crippling nausea as Garet drew his sword and

laid it at the feet of the new First Sister. Not much longer, she told

herself, understanding now why Brak had insisted she work the coercion

and then leave immediately. She wanted to vomit and she wasn’t sure how

much longer she could stay on her feet.

Garet knelt on one knee and began the oath in a voice that rang clearly

through the Hall. A commotion at the edge of the crowd distracted

R’shiel for a moment, but she ignored it. It was almost over. The demon

meld shimmered but Dranymire managed to hold his brethren together. As

soon as the Defenders were sworn to Mahina, Joyhinia could leave. It

didn’t matter if the meld disintegrated the moment they were out of

sight. The important thing was to prevent it falling into a puddle of

little grey demons in full sight of the Gathering. R’shiel was coercing

the Sisters into accepting Mahina’s appointment. If she were forced to

cover for the demons, she would have to let that thought go. Even if she

had the skill to perform such a task, she doubted she had the strength

left.

R’shiel’s black eyes watered with the effort of forcing down the

natural opposition of the Sisters in the Hall to this blatant breach of

protocol. It was like trying to hold a surging ocean back with nothing

more than a fishing net. As Brak had warned, for some the coercion

settled on them with barely a flicker of protest, while other minds

rebelled against the thoughts she imposed on them. That opposition surged

up like a stormy sea. No sooner had she quieted one mind than another

screamed in protest. The mental strength it took surprised her.

Physically, she was on the point of exhaustion.

It seemed to take Garet forever to complete the oath. Time slowed as her

vision narrowed to a pinpoint, fixed on the dais. It was all she could

see, all she cared about. As the power consumed her, every sense not

immediately involved in holding the coercion together seemed to shut

down. She could no longer feel her fingers gripping the balustrade. She

could no longer hear anything. The odour of damp wool cloaks that had

permeated the Hall faded into nothing. She was isolated in a bubble of

total concentration that allowed no room for any distraction.

“Stop this abomination! You are being deceived!”

The voice rang out from the back of the Hall, a male voice that startled

the Sisters with its harsh Karien accent. R’shiel felt the

Sisters’resistance to the coercion surge in response to the sudden cry

and it slipped from her grasp. At almost the same instant, Dranymire lost

control of the meld.

Screams filled the Hall as Joyhinia fell apart, leaving nothing but a

writhing mass of wrinkled grey gnomes who blinked out of existence as

soon as they realised they were exposed. All except one. The little demon

who had attached herself to R’shiel in Sanctuary who sought warmth in

her bed cowered behind the lectern on the podium, unseen by the humans

surrounding her, trembling with fear.

R’shiel did not see the demon. She had no idea what was happening. She

collapsed against the balustrade and brought up everything she had eaten

for the past week. Her eyes watered so hard she could not see, could not

find the source of the pounding feet on the narrow stairs that led to the

gallery. She wiped her mouth and glanced up, barely had time to notice

the tonsured man standing over her as a jewelled staff landed on her

shoulder, tearing a scream of unbearable agony from her.

She quivered on the gallery floor as rough hands held her down and

something cold and hard was snapped around her neck. As soon as the clasp

snicked shut, R’shiel felt the last remnants of the Harshini power

vanish, as if a door had been slammed shut on it.

Dazed and barely able to walk, she was dragged to her feet, pushed down

the winding stairs, then half pulled, half carried to the front of the

Hall. The men holding her threw her to the floor. Simply letting her go

would have had the same effect. Her head cracked against the bottom step,

but she barely noticed the pain or the blood that spurted from her

forehead. She pushed herself up onto her elbows and wiped her eyes.

More screams filled the hall as the little demon spied R’shiel and flew

at her, chitterring in terror. She wrapped her arms around R’shiel’s

neck. As soon as the demon came in contact with the collar, she squealed

with pain and fell to the floor, quivering, temporarily robbed of every

vestige of power, too stunned to disappear and save herself. R’shiel

tried to catch the creature but she was pushed away roughly. One of the

priests pinned the demon to the floor with his staff.

R’shiel cried out in protest as the little demon squealed in agony.

Someone knocked her down. By the time she had pushed herself up again,

the demon was being hurried from the hall by two of the Karien priests.

She looked up then and caught sight of the First Sister.

Joyhinia looked down at her. The real Joyhinia. Savage intelligence

burned in eyes that should have been filled with childish innocence. She

smiled with malicious glee, then held her arms wide to address the

Gathering.

“What has happened here is sorcery, my Sisters! Only with the help of

Lord Terbolt and the Karien priests have I been able to expose this

treachery. I have not resigned. I do not surrender my position to any

woman.” She spared Mahina a glance, then turned to Garet Warner.

“Arrest the usurper!”

Garet did not even hesitate. Mahina was being led away before she could

protest — before anyone could protest. The Commandant had changed sides

without a whimper. Angrily, R’shiel forced herself to concentrate and

reach for her power, but all she got in return for her trouble was a

vicious burning sensation around her neck that wrenched an agonised cry

from her lips.

Joyhinia glanced down at R’shiel. She was gloating. Her eyes were

filled with vengeance waiting to be sated. The aura that surrounded her

was black streaked and tantalisingly familiar. She held her arms wide

again and addressed the Gathering.

“Behold, Sisters! Let me present the author of this treasonous plot. I

give you the reason for the Purge. I give you the result of relaxing our

vigilance. I give you a Harshini sorcerer! I give you the fabled demon

child!”

CHAPTER 47

Consciousness returned slowly. It crept up on her like a thief in the

night, so slowly that it took time for her to realise she was awake. It

took even longer for her to realise where she was.

R’shiel lay on the floor, her head throbbing from the shallow cut she

received when she had hit the marble steps leading to the dais. Cold

morning light from the highset windows chequered the expensive rug where

she lay. Her neck ached as if it had been burned; the icy collar that

circled her throat a grim reminder of the foolishness of trying to reach

for her power. Her mouth tasted like the floor of a pigsty. Her hands

were tied behind her back, the ropes so tight that her fingers were numb.

She was in a bedchamber, rather than a cell, but she could not recall how

she got there. Her last clear memory was Joyhinia staring at her with

savage, lucid eyes as she destroyed everything R’shiel had been working

toward.

“You’re awake, I see.”

R’shiel turned her head in the direction of the voice. The man who

spoke was a Karien.

“Can I have some water?” she croaked.

The Karien nodded and R’shiel felt other hands pulling her up into a

sitting position. A cool tankard touched her lips and she swallowed the

water gratefully. The man who held her head was Karien too, with the

tonsured head and fanatical expression of a priest. Fear stabbed at her

like a knife. She had been the victim of a Karien priest before. It was

not an experience she wished to repeat.

“You failed in your attempt to subvert the Sisterhood. You realise

that, don’t you?”

“Who are you?”

“I am Lord Terbolt, the Duke of Setenton, Personal Envoy of King

Jasnoff III and the anointed representative of Xaphista the Overlord.”

“Is that supposed to impress me?” she said, pushing away the tankard.

Too late now to wonder if it had been drugged.

The Karien frowned. “You would do well to show some respect, demon

child. I can have you put to death with a word.”

R’shiel stared at him, trying to gather her wits. She ignored the pain

with an effort. Now was not the time to give into something so

distracting. “I’d be dead already if you were planning to kill me.”

Lord Setenton nodded slowly, as if reluctant to admit the truth of her

statement. “You live because the Overlord wishes it, demon child. He is

liable to change his mind quite rapidly, should you fail to do as you are

told.”

“Then kill me now,” she suggested. “I’d rather die than do

anything Xaphista demanded of me.”

The Karien frowned at her blasphemy. The priest actually gasped.

“No, Garanus!” Terbolt ordered. He was standing behind her, so

R’shiel could not see what the priest intended.

“She blasphemes, my Lord!”

“She doesn’t know any better.”

“But, my Lord . . .”

“No Garanus, his Majesty was quite specific. She is not to be harmed.

The Overlord has plans for the demon child.”

R’shiel struggled to sit up and glared at the Karien. “Look, I

don’t know where you got the idea that I’m the demon child, but

you’re gloating over the wrong catch. The Harshini are extinct. I am

human.”

“You are a liar,” Garanus countered.

“Let her be, Garanus. Her denials are meaningless. Go find Gawn and see

if there is any word on the half-breed.”

So they hadn’t caught Brak. The news gave her hope. The priest followed

the Duke’s orders with some reluctance, closing the door behind him. As

soon as he was gone, Lord Terbolt rose from his chair and crossed the

room. He untied the ropes holding her then helped her to her feet.

R’shiel winced as the blood returned to her numb fingers.

“Thank you.”

“I am not a vicious man, R’shiel. I have no wish to see you harmed. I

have orders to deliver you to King Jasnoff in one piece. I would

appreciate it if you gave Garanus and his ilk no reason to harm you.”

“You mean, if I cooperate, I’ll be safe until you hand me over to

Xaphista so he can kill me himself? What a tempting offer.”

“As I understand it, the Overlord wants your cooperation, not your

death, demon child. I believe he seeks an alliance, not your

destruction.”

“An alliance? With me? Now I really have heard everything.”

Before Terbolt could answer, the door opened and R’shiel felt the room

sway momentarily as Joyhinia stepped into the room. It was impossible,

she knew, for Joyhinia to have regained her wits. Dacendaran had stolen

them and Tarja had destroyed them. How could she be standing there? So

sure of herself? So obviously aware?

“Did you want something, Captain?” the Duke asked, addressing the

First Sister with ill-disguised impatience.

R’shiel stared at him in confusion. Captain?

“Garanus wishes to speak with you, my Lord. In private.” Joyhinia

turned her frighteningly lucid eyes on R’shiel and smiled unpleasantly.

“I’ll watch the prisoner for you.”

“She is not to be harmed,” the Duke warned.

“As you wish.”

Joyhinia closed the door behind the Duke then leaned against it, studying

R’shiel with contempt.

“Your sorcerer’s tricks didn’t help you much this time, did they?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yes you do! You may have fooled everyone else, but these Kariens

know what you are. And I’ve seen your evil first hand. Only this time

Tarja’s not around to save you, is he?”

It slowly dawned on R’shiel that this was not Joyhinia. The body was

hers, certainly, but the words were not. She knew the aura surrounding

Joyhinia, and this did not belong to her foster-mother. Neither did the

memories. Joyhinia had never seen her use anything remotely resembling

magic. Nobody in Medalon had, with the exception of her friends still on

the northern border and the Fardohnyan crew of the Maera’s Daughter.

The only other person was . . .

“Loclon!”

The name evoked a flood of memories she had thought long forgotten.

Nightmares she hoped she would never revisit suddenly threatened to

overwhelm her. R’shiel’s mouth went dry and she took an involuntary

step backwards, wishing Korandellan had never removed the block on her

emotions. For a brief, sickening moment the pain, the humiliation she had

suffered in this man’s hands tried to swamp her. She fought a wave of

nausea as bad as the one that had almost crippled her when she tried to

coerce the Gathering.

“In the flesh,” Joyhinia agreed. “Well, in the First Sister’s

flesh actually. Ironic, don’t you think?”

“How?” she managed to ask, her head reeling from the implications of

such a dreadful combination.

Joyhinia shrugged. “I’m not sure how. The priests did it. They called

on their Overlord, or something. I wasn’t too thrilled to begin with,

until it occurred to me what I could do as First Sister. By the look on

your face, I’d say it’s occurred to you, too.”

Actually, R’shiel was still struggling to come to grips with the

dreadful spectre of the man she loathed and feared most in this world

controlling the body of the woman she hated almost as much. Her mind had

not had time to deal with the wider implications of all that sadistic

megalomania trapped inside the woman who ruled Medalon.

“You won’t get away with this, Loclon. You can’t make people

believe you’re the First Sister.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, demon child. I am the First Sister.”

“Where’s Mahina?”

“The usurper? Safely under lock and key. She’ll be tried and hanged

for treason, along with the Lord Defender and Tarja, when I get my hands

on them. I may even keep you alive long enough to watch them swing.”

“You’ve no say over what happens to me, you deluded fool. You’re a

Karien puppet. You’re dancing to their tune.”

“Only while it suits me.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” she warned. “They’ll only keep you alive

long enough to do what they want. And you won’t be able to deny them.

Where’s your own body, Loclon? Somewhere safe? Being tended by Karien

priests? Did they promise to watch over you while your mind inhabits

Joyhinia’s body? How long do you think you’ll last if they slit your

unresisting throat?” R’shiel had no idea if her prediction was

accurate, but Loclon didn’t know that.

Joyhinia’s face paled a little, small satisfaction though it was. It

was obvious the Kariens had not explained much about the mechanics of

transferring his mind into Joyhinia’s body. That could work in her

favour. Loclon was many things, but first and foremost, he was a coward.

“You console yourself anyway you want, R’shiel,” the First Sister

retorted. “Just remember, I’m the one in control now.”

R’shiel had to keep reminding herself that this was Loclon, not

Joyhinia, and that she needed to deal with him, not her. “You’re not

in control of anything, Loclon, least of all me. I don’t care whose

face you wear, you’re still nothing but a craven, petty, insignificant,

little man. The only difference is that now you’re wearing a skirt.”

Loclon took a step toward her, reacting as he always did to her taunts.

R’shiel tentatively reached inside herself and tried to touch her

power, but even that delicate probe caused the collar to burn. She

understood why the Duke had untied her, why Loclon did not fear her. They

had cut her off from the source of the Harshini magic.

“I intend to make you suffer until you beg for mercy!” Joyhinia’s

voice hissed, but it was Loclon’s vengeful mind that supplied the words.

“You’ll be doing nothing of the sort,” the Duke of Setenton

corrected.

Joyhinia spun around in annoyance to find the Karien standing by the open

door wearing a look of intense displeasure.

“R’shiel is a wanted criminal, my Lord. She belongs to Medalon.”

“She belongs to the Overlord, Captain, and if I see any evidence that

you intend to interfere with the Overlord’s wishes, you may find the

penalty life-threatening. Your usefulness is limited. There are other,

more cooperative minds who could serve our needs just as easily.”

Loclon’s eyes burned with anger in Joyhinia’s face. She strode from

the room, pushing past Setenton. The duke watched her leave and then

turned to R’shiel.

“You will be confined here until we leave. There are a number of things

that need to be taken care of first. But we should be able to leave in a

few days. If all goes well, we should be in Karien by the end of the

month.”

“Then you plan to travel overland? A bit risky, don’t you think, in

the middle of a war?”

Lord Setenton smiled coldly. “War? What war? Of course, you left the

Gathering early, didn’t you? Your nation is no longer at war with

Karien, my dear. The First Sister has already dispatched the order to

your forces on the border. Medalon has surrendered.”

CHAPTER 48

“Surrender?” Damin leapt forward and snatched the note from Tarja’s

hand. “The hell we will! This is a trick!”

Tarja looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept for days. “The note

carries the correct authentication seal from the Citadel. It’s

genuine.”

“Who sent it?”

“The First Sister,” Jenga told him grimly.

“But which First Sister?”

“Mahina would not betray us,” the Lord Defender objected.

“Well, somebody did! Probably your precious Garet Warner. I told you he

wasn’t to be trusted.”

Tarja sagged against the edge of the long table near the hearth.

“You’re both missing the point here. This message means that

R’shiel failed. Their demon meld didn’t work.”

Damin glanced at the Medalonian captain sympathetically. “I’m sure

she’s fine, Tarja. Perhaps they didn’t arrive in time.”

“If they hadn’t arrived in time, then things would have simply gone

on as they have for months. Something went wrong.” He stood up and

squared his shoulders determinedly. “I’m going to the Citadel.”

“No you’re not, Captain. I need you here.”

“R’shiel needs me.”

“There is nothing you can do for her, Tarja,” Jenga reminded him with

cold practicality. “It would take you weeks to reach the Citadel and

for all you know she’s already dead.”

Tarja’s eyes blazed defiantly, but he could not deny Jenga’s logic.

“That’s it then? We just roll over and die? Shall we send an emissary

to the Kariens with our surrender, or were you planning to do the honours

yourself, my Lord?”

“I don’t think we should do anything just yet,” Damin advised.

“Who else knows about this?”

“Just the three of us at present.”

“Then let’s keep it that way for a little bit longer. I want to have

a word with Her Serene Highness, first.”

“What can she tell you that we don’t already know?” Jenga asked. He

did not baulk at holding off carrying out his orders, Damin noticed with

relief.

“I’m not sure. I just have a funny feeling about this. I’ll tell

you after I’ve spoken with her. Can you have her brought to my tent?”

“She’s right up those stairs, Damin,” Tarja pointed out. “Why not

just go up and ask her now?”

“I want this discussion to take place on my territory, not hers.”

It was a measure of his distress that Tarja didn’t even smile.

An hour or so later, two Defenders arrived in the Hythrun camp escorting

Adrina. Damin had spent the intervening time mentally rehearsing what he

was going to say.

He had not quite recovered from their last encounter. Adrina had caught

him unawares, and that irked him no end. What really annoyed him was that

he had been expecting her to try something like that ever since he first

laid eyes on her and had steeled himself against it. He knew her

background too well. Knew that if she couldn’t get her own way by

demanding it, she would eventually resort to using her body. But she took

him by surprise and he’d reacted exactly as she’d wanted him to. His

only comfort was that she seemed to have been as unnerved by the incident

as he was.

When she arrived, Adrina was dressed for warmth, rather than effect,

wrapped in the woollen shirt he had given her and a warm Defender’s

cloak. Her skin was flushed from the walk, her dark hair piled loosely on

top of her head. Gods, she was stunning. He wondered why he’d never

noticed how green her eyes were. Dark lashes almost too long to be real

framed eyes the colour of cut emeralds. Damin mentally berated himself

for a fool as she shook off the cloak and stepped up to the brazier to

warm her outstretched hands.

“You wanted to see me, my Lord?”

“I thought we might continue our discussion from the other night.”

“Which one?” she asked calmly. “The one about Cratyn’s

intentions, or the one about us?”

“There is no us, your Highness, so I guess that leaves Cratyn.”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Then tell me again.”

“I don’t see the point.”

“You don’t have to.”

Adrina’s eyes narrowed cannily. “Something’s happened, hasn’t

it?”

“I’m sorry, I’m being very remiss as a host. Can I offer you some

wine?” He turned his back, reaching for the jug on his writing desk.

“Don’t avoid the question, Damin. What’s happened?”

He poured the wine and turned back to her. “The Medalonians have been

ordered to surrender.”

Now why had he told her that?

Her face was a portrait of shock. He doubted even Adrina could fake such

a genuine reaction. “In the name of Zegarnald, why? They’re

winning!”

“I don’t know if I’d go so far as to call this stalemate

winning,” he said as he handed her the wine. “But they certainly

aren’t in danger of imminent defeat.”

“I don’t understand it.”

“Neither do I. That’s what I wanted to see you about. Could this have

anything to do with Setenton’s absence from the front?”

“It might,” she nodded thoughtfully. “I thought it a little odd

that Jasnoff sent Cratyn to the border without Terbolt. But the Kariens

are very big on honour and distinguishing themselves in battle. I always

supposed he wanted to give Cratyn a chance to prove himself to the

Dukes.”

“If he’s behind this sudden turnabout, that would explain it. What

about the treaty with your father?”

Adrina hesitated for a moment, then sighed. “What I told you before was

the truth, or most of it. Father agreed to invade Medalon from the south

come summer, and to supply the Kariens with cannon.”

“Cannon? Are they really as devastating as they claim?”

She nodded grimly. “The truth? They’re proving more trouble than

they’re worth. They blow up when you least expect it, only work

sometimes and we still haven’t found the right sort of alloy that

won’t split after a few shots and kill the men manning the guns. My

father’s cannon are as much the result of clever rumours as they are

fact.”

“I see. And what does Hablet get in return for all this?”

“Gold and timber. Lots and lots of it.”

“I know your father’s greedy, Adrina, but there has to be more to it

than that.”

“The prize is Hythria, Damin,” she said softly. “I thought you’d

already worked that out for yourself.”

He stared at her for a moment, wondering why she had chosen this moment

to reveal Hablet’s plans. “Hablet doesn’t need the Kariens to

invade Hythria.”

“No, but he needs the Defenders occupied. You know as well as I do how

futile it’s been, trying to attack Hythria over the Sunrise Mountains.

There are only a few navigable passes and they can be defended by a

handful of men against the entire Fardohnyan army. A naval invasion would

be just as futile. Your ports are too well defended. Hythria’s only

vulnerable point is the border with Medalon. If the Medalonians had

territorial ambitions, you’d have been overrun a century ago.”

“So Hablet plans to turn south, once he reaches Medalon.”

“And you’ve made the job even easier for him. Your province borders

Medalon. You’re supposed to be Hythria’s first line of defence.”

Damin really didn’t need Adrina pointing out his tactical error at that

point. He was more than capable of punishing himself for being so

arrogant.

“Did your father know anything about the Karien plans for Medalon?”

“If you mean, was he expecting them to surrender, of course not. His

entire strategy is based on the Kariens keeping the Defenders off his

back. Hablet doubts the Defenders would care if he invaded Hythria, one

way or the other, but they’re likely to take a very dim view of him

marching through Medalon to do it, particularly since they allied

themselves with you, Damin.”

That was the second time today she had called him by name. He wondered if

she realised that she was doing it.

“And if Medalon surrenders?”

“Jasnoff will have time to wonder what my father is up to. The Kariens

are religious fanatics. It’s bad enough the entire southern half of the

continent is devoted to pagan worship. They certainly don’t want it

united under one crown. Hablet will invade Hythria and Karien will follow

to stop him. Either way, Hythria will lose. Your only hope is to keep me

safe from the Kariens.”

Damin smiled. It was amazing the way she could twist any situation to her

advantage. “Exactly how would that make a difference?”

“Any child of mine by Cratyn would have a claim on Hablet’s throne.

With Medalon defeated, if Hablet ruled Fardohnya and Hythria, the Kariens

would own the entire continent on his death.”

“A death that would be sooner, rather than later, knowing the

Kariens.” Damin shook his head at the vast scope of the Karien plans

for world dominance. Or perhaps they were Xaphista’s plans.

And the demon child, the only one who could stop him, was probably dead.

“An heir and a spare — and I too become surplus to requirements,”

she reminded him grimly.

He studied her for a moment, wondering if he was seeing the real Adrina

for the first time. The woman whose life depended on staying one step

ahead of the men who controlled her. Her father. Her husband. Even him.

Every one of them was trying to use her to further their own ambitions.

“Is there anything else you haven’t told me, Adrina?”

She sipped her wine, looking at him over the rim of her cup. “Haven’t

I told you enough?”

“That depends on what critical piece of information you’re holding

back.”

She lowered the cup and smiled. “You’re the most suspicious man

I’ve ever met.”

“With just cause, around you.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, Damin, but you know just about

everything I do.”

“It’s the ‘just about’ that concerns me.”

“I’ve nothing to gain by lying to you. If Medalon surrenders, I will

be returned to Karien. I would rather die.”

Oddly, he believed her. If what she had told him was true, the Kariens

would allow her to live long enough to produce the requisite heir — and

not a moment longer. She had already betrayed them once. They wouldn’t

be so lax in their vigilance a second time.

Then something else occurred to him, which changed his opinion of her

rather radically.

“Cratyn’s impotence was all your fault, wasn’t it? You didn’t

want to give him an heir to your father’s throne.”

The question startled her at first, then she smiled smugly. “As you

pointed out the first time we spoke, my Lord, an inexperienced Karien

princeling is no match for a court’esa-trained Fardohnyan princess.”

“It seems I’ve misjudged you, your Highness.”

“Something else I warned you about.”

He refused to acknowledge her reprimand. “More wine?”

“Thank you, no. I’ve learnt the folly of consuming too much

Medalonian wine on an empty stomach.” She held out her empty cup. “I

should be going. Was there anything else you wanted?”

He took the cup from her outstretched hand. “Untie your shirt.”

“What?”

Damin smiled. “Untie your shirt.”

“You have got to kidding.”

“I’ve never been more serious. Untie your shirt, or I’ll do it for

you.”

She glared at him, but to her credit, she didn’t back away. “You lay

one finger on me and I’ll —”

“What? Scream?” he finished with a laugh. “You’re in the middle

of my camp, Adrina. Who’s going to come to your rescue?”

“I’ll gouge your eyes out if you touch me.”

He shrugged and turned his back on her, replacing the empty cups on the

desk. “As you wish. I was under the impression you wanted that slave

collar off. I must have been mistaken.”

He waited with his back to her. She was silent for a very long time.

“You could have said that’s what you were planning.”

“And miss seeing you squirm like that?” he asked with a grin as he

turned back to her. “I don’t think so. So, shall we start again?

Untie your shirt. I can’t get to the thing with you bundled up like

that.”

“Just give me the keys and I’ll do it myself.”

“No. And for being so uncooperative now you’re going to have to say

please.”

“You are the most unbelievable bastard.”

“I know.”

She stepped around the brazier and the cushions, unlacing the shirt as

she went. By the time she reached him the shirt was open far enough to

expose the collar and a tantalising glimpse of pale throat — and not a

thing more.

“There! Just take the damned thing off!”

“Say please.”

“Please!” Her eyes burned with fury.

Getting that much out of her was something of an achievement, so Damin

decided not to push his luck. She might still try to gouge his eyes out,

just on principal.

He took her hand and pulled her closer, then slid his fingers under the

collar. Lernen had only shown him once how the catch worked, and he

wasn’t at all certain he could find it. The jeweller who had designed

the collars was a craftsman and they were manufactured to prevent a

clever slave finding the means for their emancipation. Adrina closed her

eyes rather than meet his. It was very distracting, holding her so close.

He could feel her hot breath on his face, smell the faint perfume of the

soap she used to wash her hair.

He found the catch and heard it open with a faint snick. Adrina heard it

too. She opened her eyes, a little surprised to find herself so close to

him. She looked up, met his eyes.

Later, Damin couldn’t say who moved first. One moment she was staring

at him with those impressive green eyes. The next he was kissing her and

she was kissing him back. The collar tumbled forgotten to the floor. It

was almost as if she wanted to devour him. He cursed the layers of winter

clothing they both wore as she tore at the lacing on his shirt. There was

no logic to this, no rational thought.

“This is insane,” Adrina gasped between kisses, as she fumbled with

the buckle on his sword belt. “I hate you.”

The sword belt dropped to the floor with a clatter. “I hate you too.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she added as she pulled the shirt

over his head.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he promised as her shirt fell away,

exposing her glorious pale breasts. They fell onto the scattered cushions

beside the brazier. Adrina landed astride him. Her hair had come loose

and it fell about them in an ebony wave that cut off the rest of the tent

so that it was only Adrina that he could see. It was only Adrina that he

wanted to see, in any case.

“Damin?”

He pulled her down and kissed her, but she pulled back impatiently.

“Damin!”

“You’re not going to ask me to be gentle, are you?”

She smiled wickedly. “No. I only want one thing from you, my Lord.”

“Name it, your Highness.”

Her smile faded, replaced with a look of unexpected savagery. “Make me

forget Cratyn.”

The request did not surprise him nearly as much as her vehemence. But he

understood it. “Say please.”

“Go to hell.”

He laughed softly and drew her down again. Before long it was doubtful if

either of them could recall their own names, let alone the name of

Adrina’s husband.

CHAPTER 49

“You did what?”

Tarja wondered if he’d mis-heard the warlord. He glanced across at

Damin and feared he hadn’t.

They were supposed to be riding out to inspect the border troops, but

Tarja realised now that Damin’s suggestion had merely been a ruse. He

wanted to break the news to Tarja out of the hearing of the rest of the

camp. The Hythrun was looking rather shamefaced with all of the things

that had gone wrong in the past few days, this was one complication they

could have done without.

“You heard me.”

“Founders, Damin, she’s the wife of the Karien Crown Prince!”

“I’m aware of that.”

“I thought you couldn’t stand her?”

“I can’t. Look, it’s . . . complicated. It’s hard to explain.”

“Well you’d better think of something,” Tarja warned. “I imagine

Jenga’s going to want a fairly detailed explanation when she complains

that you raped her.”

“I never raped her!” Damin declared, offended by the very suggestion.

“Her Serene Highness was a very willing participant, I can assure

you.”

Tarja shook his head doubtfully. “Even so, when she’s had time to

think about it, she might change her mind. Just because you didn’t

throw her on the ground and tear her clothes off, doesn’t mean she

won’t claim you did.”

“Perhaps I should get in first,” Damin suggested with a grin. “She

was the one tearing at my clothes, after all.”

“Be serious!”

The Warlord sighed and reined his stallion in. He studied the snow dotted

plain for a moment before turning to Tarja. Their breath frosted in the

early morning light. The sun had risen over the rim of the Jagged

Mountains, but the day was overcast, threatening more snow.

“Is Jenga planning to surrender?”

Tarja shrugged. “I wish I knew. He’s torn between duty and reason at

present.”

“I have to leave, Tarja.”

“I expected as much,” he agreed without rancour. “It’s the

Defenders who are being ordered to surrender, not the Hythrun.”

“I’d have to go in any case,” Damin told him. “Hablet’s

planning to invade Hythria. I need to be in Krakandar.”

“Adrina told you that?”

He nodded. “She confirmed it, but I’ve suspected that was his

ultimate goal ever since I first heard of the Karien–Fardohnyan Treaty.

If the Defenders surrender to Karien, there’ll be nothing stopping

him.”

“Did Adrina tell you this before or after she tore your clothes off?”

Damin looked at him and smiled sourly. “I deserved that, I suppose. But

I’m the Hythrun Heir, Tarja. I can’t sit here minding your border

while the Fardohnyans pour over mine.”

“I understand, and so will Jenga.”

“I didn’t doubt that, Tarja, but are you going to be so understanding

when I tell you Adrina is coming with me?”

In light of the Warlord’s recent admission, the news did not surprise

him. However, that didn’t make it any more palatable.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Damin. If we surrender to Karien, the first

thing they’ll do is demand her return. And if we don’t surrender,

she’ll make a very useful hostage.”

“I won’t allow you to return her to Karien, Tarja.”

“You slept with her once, Damin. I hardly think that warrants throwing

her over your saddle and riding off into the sunset with her.”

Damin grinned. “Poetic as it may seem, Tarja, my reasons are far more

pragmatic. Should Adrina and Cratyn have a child, it would have a claim

on both the Karien and Fardohnyan thrones. I don’t intend to let that

happen.”

“As opposed to a child with a claim on both the Fardohnyan and Hythrun

thrones,” he pointed out. “Or had that minor detail escaped you?”

Damin looked so surprised that Tarja realised that he probably hadn’t

considered that possibility.

“It’s not the same thing.”

“It’s exactly the same thing, Damin. A child who can unite Karien and

Fardohnya is a threat, I’ll grant you that, but a child who could bring

Hythria and Fardohnya together is even worse. The Kariens will hunt you

down like a criminal. I can’t even begin to guess what the other

Hythrun Warlords will do when they discover you’ve run off with

Hablet’s daughter.”

“I’m not running off with her,” he objected. “I’m averting a

potential catastrophe.”

“You’re creating a potential catastrophe. Founders, man, think about

this! How do you think the Kariens are going to react when they find out?

Taking a lover might not be cause for concern in Hythria or Medalon, or

even Fardohnya, for that matter, but it’s a sin in Karien and they take

their sin very seriously.”

“I’m not her lover!”

“If you didn’t take her by force, then what else do you call it?

I’m sure the Kariens will see it that way. They tend to be very black

and white in their thinking.”

“All the more reason not to send her back to Karien. She’d be stoned

if they found out.”

“A few weeks ago, that prospect wouldn’t have bothered you one

whit.”

Damin didn’t look pleased at the reminder. “All right, I’ll concede

that my opinion of her has . . . softened . . . somewhat.”

“Softened? That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”

“I won’t send her back, Tarja. Even if what you say is true, the fact

is we know the Overlord wants a Karien heir to the Fardohnyan throne. The

rest of it is just speculation. I’ll deal with the known threat and

face the rest of it if and when it happens.”

“Jenga’s not going to like this.”

“I wasn’t planning to ask his permission. I’m an ally, not a

subordinate.”

“Have you told Adrina?”

“Not yet.”

“What if she objects? She might prefer to go back.”

“She’d kill herself before she agreed to return to Karien.”

“She doesn’t strike me as the suicidal type.”

“Ask her about Cratyn sometime.”

Tarja reached forward to pat Shadow’s neck. The mare was restless, no

doubt picking up his apprehension. “When are you planning to leave?”

“The sooner the better. Jenga will have to act on that order soon, one

way or the other. If he surrenders, this plain will be crawling with

Kariens any day, and if he refuses the order you’ll be fighting Karien

on one side and your own people on the other. I don’t want to get

caught in the middle of it. Besides,” he added with a frown, “when we

crossed into Medalon we had Brak’s help. We’re going to have to make

our way home by more ordinary means. If I don’t leave now, Hablet will

be in Krakandar before me.”

At the mention of Brak, Tarja’s brow furrowed with concern. Brak was

supposed to be looking after R’shiel. But the Sisterhood had betrayed

them. R’shiel would never have let that happen willingly.

“If you’re so damned worried about R’shiel, do something about

it,” Damin said, guessing the direction of his thoughts.

“That would mean deserting my post.”

“Well, you’ve done that before,” the Warlord pointed out rather

tactlessly, “so it should be easier the next time round. Anyway, if

Jenga surrenders, how long do you think your head is going to stay

attached to your neck, my friend? You’re responsible for the death of

the Karien Envoy, remember? I’ll bet you any sum you care to name that

your head on a platter was a condition of the surrender.”

“That doesn’t give me the right to abandon Jenga at the first sign of

trouble.”

“Think of it as saving the world, Tarja. The demon child is the only

one who can destroy Xaphista. There’s something of a moral imperative

involved in going to her rescue.”

“She might already be dead.”

It pained him to admit it. With Brak watching over her and with the power

she commanded, she could achieve anything. R’shiel had been so

determined that Tarja was certain nothing short of death could have stood

in her way.

“Somehow, I doubt it. The gods have gone to a lot of trouble to get her

this far. I don’t think they’d stand by and let her be destroyed out

of hand. She hasn’t done what she was destined for yet.”

The reminder did little to ease Tarja’s worry. Being assured that

R’shiel lived so that she could eventually confront a god was hardly a

comforting thought.

“I wish there was some way of being certain.”

“Ask Dace, he should know.”

“I recall having this discussion with you once before. You said he

wouldn’t come if I called him.”

“And he probably wouldn’t,” Damin agreed. “But you don’t need

to call him, he’s here. I saw him hanging around with that Karien boy

the other day.”

“What’s he doing here?” Tarja asked suspiciously. He mistrusted

these creatures that the pagans called gods.

“The God of Thieves, by his very nature, is bound to be up to no good,

but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s doing your cause any harm.”

Damin laughed suddenly. “I wonder how that fanatical child of the

Overlord is coping with the idea that his new friend is a pagan god?”

Tarja smiled in spite of himself.

“Tell you what, Tarja, let’s go back to the camp. You round up your

little Karien friend and ask him where Dace is, and I’ll speak to

Adrina. I promise I’ll only take her with me if she wants to come. I

haven’t the time to waste dragging her to Hythria by force, at any

rate. After that we’ll talk to Jenga. Who knows, if you can prove

R’shiel still lives, he may even sanction your heroic dash to her

rescue. I’m sure he’d like to know what really happened at the

Gathering and it may stay his hand on the surrender for a time.”

“Make sure that’s all you do when you see Adrina. Speak to her.”

“You show a disturbing lack of trust in me, Captain,” Damin turned

his stallion toward the camp and managed to look quite offended.

Tarja shook his head and followed him. “I thought we were going to

check on the border troops?”

“They’ll keep. Besides, if Jenga surrenders, it doesn’t really make

much difference how they’re placed, does it?”

Tarja could not deny the Hythrun’s logic and in truth, he would much

rather find Dace and learn of R’shiel’s fate than conduct an

inspection. He stared at the border thoughtfully, then kicked his horse

into a canter and headed back to the camp with the Hythrun Warlord.

CHAPTER 50

Brak watched the scene between Joyhinia and R’shiel unfold with growing

frustration.

R’shiel’s recovery from her suffering at the hands of Joyhinia and

Loclon was too fragile to be tested so soon. He could almost taste her

fear. To face Loclon in the body of her foster mother was testing her to

the limit. One she feared; the other she loathed. It was like a nightmare

come to life. It could push her over the edge. His futile efforts to

reach out to her, to contact her, to somehow let her know that he was

with her, brought a frown to the War God’s stern face.

“I have already explained to you, Brakandaran. She cannot see you. She

cannot hear you.”

“I have to go to her.”

“And you shall,” Zegarnald promised. “In time.”

Brak turned on the god impatiently. “Why are you doing this? They’ll

kill her!”

Zegarnald did not answer for a moment. He waited as the First Sister left

the room and Lord Terbolt explained his plans to R’shiel, then nodded

slowly.

“The Karien human speaks the truth, Brakandaran. Xaphista wants the

demon child for himself. Her ability to destroy a god is quite

indiscriminate. She could destroy me just as easily as Xaphista.”

“Oh, I see,” Brak retorted, his voice laden with sarcasm. “That’s

a good plan. Hand over the only person who can destroy you to your enemy.

Now why didn’t I think of that?”

“Your disrespect wears on my nerves, Brakandaran.”

“Not half as much as your scheming is wearing on mine, Zegarnald.”

“I agreed to humour you, Brakandaran, by allowing you to assure

yourself that the demon child lives. I did not agree to listen to your

whining.”

Brak watched helplessly as the Karien duke left the bedchamber where

R’shiel was being held. As soon as she was alone, R’shiel threw

herself on the bed and stared at the ceiling, cursing softly. After a

while, she gave up that futile pastime and began pacing the room. She

checked the door first, but it was firmly locked. Then she went to the

window and threw it open, looking down with despair at the six-storey

drop to the courtyard below. Finding no joy in that escape route she sat

on the edge of the bed and tentatively reached for her power, drawing

back hastily as the silver collar she wore began to burn.

“Let me out of here, Zegarnald. I have to help her.”

Here was a hard place to define. The War God had him trapped between the

world R’shiel inhabited and the world the gods called home. He was

powerless here — at Zegarnald’s mercy. He could move around freely,

but he could not be seen, nor could he affect anything that happened in

the ordinary world of humans.

He could have kicked himself for walking into Zegarnald’s trap so

blindly. He should have known the War God’s sudden appearance in the

alley beside the Temple of the Gods meant trouble. Zegarnald probably

hadn’t walked the halls of the Citadel for two centuries. Brak knew the

gods well enough. He should have suspected something. And he should never

have accepted Zegarnald’s uncharacteristic offer of a handshake.

Touching the god had been his undoing. Once Zegarnald had a hold of him,

he was powerless to resist being drawn into this grey limbo.

“She must help herself.”

“How? She can’t even touch her power. That collar is as bad as those

damned staffs Xaphista’s priests lug around.”

“She can touch it. But the pain will be intolerable. If she wants to

escape badly enough, she will find a way to bear it.”

“This is another of your tests, I suppose? Another part of the

‘tempering’ you’re so fond of? What happens if she doesn’t want

to play your game, Zegarnald? Suppose she throws her lot in with

Xaphista?”

“Then I will release you and you will destroy her.”

Brak glanced at the god warily. “You trust me to do that?”

“If the demon child joins with Xaphista, what is left of the Harshini

will be destroyed. I have no need to trust you. I trust your

determination to remove a threat to your people.”

The worst of it was that the War God was right. Should R’shiel give in

to Xaphista he would not hesitate to kill her. He turned back to watching

her, feeling like a voyeur.

“You’re taking a big risk, Zegarnald.”

“Perhaps. If the demon child is too weak to face down Xaphista, if she

is willing to become his disciple, I would rather find out now than wait

until she has matured.”

“The finding out could kill her.”

“Xaphista will try to win her over. He’ll not resort to force unless

he has to. He wants the demon child to believe in him, Brakandaran. She

is no good to him if she despises him.”

“I can’t imagine she’ll be too thrilled by your efforts,” he

pointed out. “If you ask me you’re playing right into his hands.”

“I do not recall asking you.”

Angrily, Brak drew on his power and tore uselessly at the restraints that

bound him to this place. Zegarnald didn’t budge. His efforts were

trivial in the face of the god’s implacable will.

“Control yourself, Brakandaran. Such undisciplined behaviour ill

becomes a member of your race.”

“I’m half human, Zegarnald. I’m doing my human ancestors proud.”

“Stop fighting me. You will harm no one but yourself.”

“Then let me out of here.”

“In time.”

Brak cursed and let go of the power. Fighting a god was a fruitless

effort. Fighting Zegarnald was a complete waste of time. He thrived on

it. Brak’s efforts were only making him stronger. The realisation

brought another thought to mind and he decided to change his tactics. If

he couldn’t force Zegarnald into releasing him, then he had to make him

want to do it.

“Medalon has surrendered.”

“So it would seem,” the god agreed, a little wary at Brak’s sudden

change of heart.

“You’re taking it pretty well.”

“What do you mean?”

“The war is over. That’s going to seriously affect your standing

among the other gods, isn’t it? I mean, now that the Kariens and the

Medalonians aren’t fighting any more, things are going to get very

cosy. Before long they’ll be shaking hands, then they’ll start making

friends. Before long they’ll be falling in love . . . Kalianah’s

going to be very happy. And considerably stronger, unless I’m

mistaken.”

Zegarnald frowned. “The Defenders will not surrender.”

“You think so? You haven’t been keeping up to date, Divine One. The

Defenders are the most disciplined army in the world. If they were

ordered to dress up like chickens and run around clucking, they’d do it

without blinking. They won’t ignore an order to surrender.”

“Then I will have to content myself with the Fardohnyan invasion of

Hythria,” the War God told him smugly.

Brak bit back another curse. He hadn’t known about that. Zegarnald

needed wars to keep him strong, but he didn’t really care where they

happened. A conflict between those who worshipped him would serve him

just as well as one between those who didn’t.

“I suppose you’re right. Of course, you’re assuming that Kalianah

won’t interfere.”

“There is nothing she can do to prevent a war.”

“Don’t be so sure. All she has to do is make the right people fall in

love and your war is done for.” Brak wondered if Zegarnald knew how

desperate he was. He was certain he sounded desperate.

“If you know something of her plans, then you should tell me,

Brakandaran.”

He shrugged. “I merely speculate, Divine One. If Kalianah’s got

something up her sleeve, you’ll have to ask her about it.”

Zegarnald’s dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. Trust was not a commodity

the gods owned in any great quantity and they tended to take things

rather literally. They were jealous creatures and were more conscious of

rank than the most snobbish Karien nobleman. It dawned on Brak then that

Zegarnald was afraid of R’shiel. He was afraid of what they had

created. That’s why he was determined to prove that she could be

trusted, before her ability developed beyond the point where the gods

could take action.

Brak looked at R’shiel with new respect. It took a lot to frighten a

god.

The knowledge did little to help him out of his current predicament,

however. Perhaps divine jealousy would work where reason had failed. Brak

had no idea if Kalianah even cared that there was a war going on. For all

he knew, she was off making a hive of bees happy, somewhere. But he was

certain she would not approve of Zegarnald’s plans to test the demon

child’s fortitude by throwing her to Xaphista’s priests. If he could

taunt Zegarnald into seeking her out, he might be able to prevail upon

the Goddess of Love to release him. Kalianah was a happy-ever-after sort

of god. She didn’t like her plans being disrupted and she had gone to a

fair bit of trouble to keep R’shiel and Tarja together. He was

clutching at straws, but at this point anything was worth a try.

“Of course, if Kalianah was up to something while you’re at the

Citadel making certain the demon child has a spine, you’re not going to

know about it until she’s standing over you, smiling that annoying

little smile, asking you if you love her.”

“Kalianah would not dare interfere. She knows what is at stake.”

“She made R’shiel and Tarja fall in love. That’s interference where

I come from. If Kalianah gets the better of you, R’shiel won’t be

tempered, she’ll be mooning about like a lovesick cow.”

One of the advantages of trying to manipulate a god was their total

inability to comprehend anything other than their own natures. Zegarnald

knew what love was in a theoretical sort of way, he even tolerated it,

but he didn’t understand it. Brak’s prediction sounded quite

plausible to him.

“I will put a stop to her interference at once!”

“You do that, Divine One. In the meantime, let me out of here and

I’ll make certain R’shiel doesn’t fall for Xaphista’s devious

—”

“Don’t push me, Brakandaran. You will stay here until I have dealt

with Kalianah. And don’t bother to call any of my brothers or sisters.

They will not hear you unless I will it.”

The War God vanished, leaving Brak alone in the half-world between

reality and dreams. He looked down on R’shiel and found her sitting on

the bed, her knees drawn up and her head resting on them, her whole

posture radiating abject misery. He tried reaching out to her again, but

he knew it was useless. Until Zegarnald released him there was nothing he

could do to help her.

The demon child was on her own.

CHAPTER 51

Loclon stood before the full-length mirror in the First Sister’s

apartments and studied Joyhinia’s naked body curiously. It was a pity

she was so old, he mused, although he supposed the body was quite well

preserved for a woman approaching late middle age. The once full breasts

sagged disappointingly. The hips and thighs were thickened by age, and

her skin was showing signs of decay.

There was little joy to be had from this body in any case. Pleasures that

normally had him stiff with anticipation seemed like far-away memories.

He recalled the desire but did not really feel it. The woman’s body he

inhabited seemed to dampen his maleness. It was as if such thoughts could

not thrive in this female form.

But if sexual pleasure was denied him, there were other compensations.

The power he wielded as First Sister left him breathless. Of course,

there was a limit to what he could achieve at the moment. Lord Terbolt

and his priests hovered around him like vultures over a fresh corpse, but

that would end soon. He would toe the line for now, but once the Kariens

left the Citadel, he would be in control. Loclon smiled coldly. If they

thought the old Joyhinia had been a tyrant, the citizens of Medalon would

lack the words to describe the new one.

He had a long list of victims who would suffer at the First Sister’s

hands once he had a free rein. Men who had slighted him; women who had

scorned him; all of them would pay.

He would start with Tarja Tenragan.

Fortunately, this coincided with the Kariens’plans and the order would

be issued today, under the First Sister’s seal. A courier would take it

to Lord Jenga in the north as soon as the ink was dry. It would demand

that Tarja Tenragan be arrested immediately and handed over to the

Kariens to stand trial for the murders of Lord Pieter and the priest

Elfron. Loclon would have preferred to take a more personal hand in

Tarja’s demise, but the Kariens were planning to burn him alive. It was

a very satisfying thought; his pleasure diminished only slightly by being

unable to witness the event.

There were others too, who would feel his wrath, but they could wait.

With Tarja accounted for, he must take care of R’shiel. Unfortunately,

his chance at her had a deadline.

When Terbolt left the Citadel, R’shiel would go with him, willingly or

not. He felt betrayed by the Kariens’plans for R’shiel. They had

promised him revenge and then denied him. R’shiel was a prisoner,

granted, but she was hardly suffering. She was fed regularly and well,

and treated with cautious respect by Terbolt and his priests. The collar

that circled her neck caused her pain only if she tried to touch her

Harshini power, and she appeared to have learnt that lesson very quickly.

All in all, her incarceration was remarkably comfortable and not at all

what Loclon had in mind. If he was going to do something about the bitch,

he would have to do it soon.

Conveniently, the Kariens were creatures of habit. Xaphista was a

demanding god, and every day at sunset, when the mysterious Dimming began

in the Citadel, they would gather in the apartments Lord Terbolt had

seconded and pray for at least an hour. For that hour, R’shiel was

guarded by only two Defenders and as First Sister, he could order them

about with impunity. He sighed contentedly. It was almost sundown. By the

time he was dressed Terbolt, Garanus and their companions would be on

their knees at their devotions. He knew the folly of killing R’shiel,

but for an hour at least, he could take the revenge he felt he so richly

deserved.

She was standing by the window when he arrived, her exquisite profile

limned by the sunset. Her glorious dark red hair was loose. It hung past

her waist and had obviously been brushed until it shone — she had

little else to fill her days. She wore dark, supple leathers that hugged

her lithe body. Had he still been a man, the very sight of her would have

aroused him. That had always been his mistake in the past. He had let his

lust for this woman rule his head. But not this time. This time he

inhabited a woman’s body and the desire that had betrayed him in the

past was nothing more than a shallow echo.

R’shiel turned at the sound of the door and stiffened at the sight of

him.

“What do you want?” She sounded annoyed rather than fearful. That

would have to change.

“I’ve come to ask you some questions,” he said, placing the large

covered birdcage he carried on the floor beside him.

“Ask them from there,” she said, crossing her arms defensively.

“You’re hardly in a position to be giving me orders, R’shiel.”

“And you’re hardly in a position to defy your Karien masters. Does

Terbolt know that you’re here? No, of course he doesn’t. He’s at

prayer, isn’t he? You’re too craven to dare anything if you thought

he might catch you at it.”

Loclon bit back his fury at her scorn. “I’ve no care for what Terbolt

thinks.”

“You should have. Have you been to check on your body Loclon? Are you

sure it’s well? Are they feeding it? Turning it frequently so you

don’t get bedsores? Do you really trust them that much?”

“Stop it!”

She smiled, which was a big mistake. Loclon did not take well to being

laughed at. But he would have his fun. Instead of responding to her

taunts he pulled the cover from the cage.

R’shiel gasped in horror. The little demon cowered in the centre of the

cage, crouched into a tangle of arms and legs, her large black eyes

filled with terror.

Loclon saw R’shiel’s expression and knew he had found the perfect way

to torment her.

“Funny little creature, isn’t it?”

“Let her go.”

“You know I can’t do that. Aren’t you going to ask how we caught

it?”

“I know how you caught it. How are you keeping her there?”

Loclon shrugged. “I’ve no idea. The priests tied the top of one of

those staffs to the top of the cage, here . . . you see . . . and it does

something to the bars. Did you want to see?”

“No.”

“Oh, but you must,” he insisted with a malicious smile.

He poked the creature and it jerked away from him instinctively, but the

cage was too small and the movement pushed it back against the metal

bars. The creature cried out with pain and jerked back from the bars,

only to come up against the bars on the other side, where the agony was

waiting for it. The high-pitched screams were most gratifying. It took

the creature two or three attempts to curl back up into the ball that

kept it away from the bars. When it finally settled down, it was

trembling uncontrollably with tears spilling silently from its liquid

black eyes.

“Want to see it again?” he asked.

“Stop it!” She crossed the room in a few paces and grabbed him by the

hair, forcing him to his knees. Loclon did not cry out, or even struggle

against her.

He simply reached out with his foot and kicked the cage, which set the

demon off again.

R’shiel let him go and ran to the cage, but she could no more touch the

enchanted bars than the demon could. The priests’ magic worked best on

those who could channel the power of the gods. R’shiel had no hope of

freeing the terrified creature. All she could do was kneel on the floor

and watch it suffer.

Loclon climbed to his feet, laughing. Her attempts to open the cage were

useless, even touching the latch was agony. She heard him move and turned

to look up at him. The pain in her eyes was all he could have hoped for.

“Go ahead, let it go. If you can.”

R’shiel glanced back at the cage which had fallen on its side. The

demon was screaming in agony. There was nothing she could do to help it.

She couldn’t even right the cage to save the demon from the pain of

contacting the bars.

As if she had realised the same thing, she climbed slowly to her feet.

“Giving up so soon?” he taunted.

Without warning, she turned and kicked the cage with all the force she

could muster, lifting it clear off the floor. The cage clattered against

the wall and landed with a thud. As it did, the base of the cage popped

open and the demon gratefully scrambled clear of the trap.

“Be gone!” she cried urgently, as Loclon grabbed her.

The demon winked out of existence with a startled squeal.

Loclon punched her then pushed her onto the floor and held her there with

his knee while he looked around the room for something to hurt her with.

There was nothing handy. Terbolt had stripped the room of anything

remotely resembling a potential weapon. He wished for his male body.

R’shiel was physically stronger than Joyhinia. Fighting her with his

bare hands was not an option. Lacking anything more substantial than his

fists, he wrapped his hand tighter through her hair and slammed her

forehead into the floor, over and over, until she was almost senseless.

He stopped himself just in time. He would be in enough trouble for

letting the creature escape. Killing R’shiel could easily cost him his

life.

“Get up!”

She did not respond.

“I said, get up!” He kicked her in the stomach and she grunted

involuntarily, confirming his suspicion that she was faking

unconsciousness. “Get up, you inhuman slut!”

R’shiel rolled over slowly and stared at him with defiant eyes, a

little dazed.

“Get up, I said!”

She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. The wound on her forehead

had opened and the blood flowed freely, obscuring her vision. Impatient

with her slow response, he kicked her again, throwing her backwards

against the wall. He laughed. This was what he wanted. What he needed.

R’shiel collapsed against the wall and for a moment she lay still, but

when she looked up there was no submission in her eyes. Instead there was

an expression of such hatred that he took a step back from her. Her eyes

began to darken ominously. As she drew on her power the collar around her

neck began to glow in response. She pushed herself up as her eyes turned

black. The collar grew so bright it was almost painful to look on it.

Truly fearful of what he might have provoked, Loclon backed away from

her. The sickening stench of burning flesh reached him as R’shiel

gathered her power to her and the collar punished her for her efforts.

She grabbed the windowsill and pulled herself to her feet, her eyes as

black as night, the collar like a thousand candles burning under her chin.

With a visible effort she steadied herself and prepared to hurl her fury

at him. The stench of burning flesh grew stronger. Loclon marvelled at

her tolerance for the pain she must be in, but his own fear prevented him

from taking any pleasure in it. If she broke through the constraint of

the collar, he would not leave this room alive.

“Die!” she hissed.

Loclon expected his life to end at that moment, but the collar flared as

she tried to unleash her power. She screamed and dropped to the floor,

tearing uselessly at the burning necklet. Loclon let her drop, shaking

with relief as she collapsed.

The screams stopped only when she finally passed out. He waited for a

long, long time to be certain she really was unconscious this time.

When Loclon finally stopped shaking he was appalled to discover his

bladder had let go and for the first time was grateful for Joyhinia’s

long skirts. R’shiel lay under the window, her breathing shallow. He

approached her cautiously, half expecting her to be faking again. As he

neared her, he realised it was unlikely. Her magnificent long hair

tumbled over her face, obscuring the worst of the damage, but blood

streamed from her forehead and he could see savage blisters marring her

neck above and below the now quiescent collar.

He prodded her experimentally with the toe of Joyhinia’s boot, but

received no response. A harder kick got the same reaction. He kicked her

again, this time for sheer pleasure rather than any attempt to determine

her state of consciousness. The kick following that one was just for the

hell of it.

He tired of that game soon enough. Bruises and broken ribs would heal in

time. Even her scars would probably fade — she was Harshini, not human.

He wanted to leave her with a reminder. He stood back and studied her for

a while, wondering. Then it came to him. He crossed the room to the door

and opened it a fraction.

“Bring me scissors,” he ordered.

The guard looked a little startled by the order but hurried to comply.

Joyhinia taped her foot impatiently as she waited for him to return. When

he hurried back to his post clutching the scissors, she snatched them

from his hand and locked the door again.

Loclon dragged R’shiel to the bed, annoyed by Joyhinia’s weakness. If

he had his own body, it would have been nothing to scoop her up and throw

her onto the bed. As it was, he grunted and struggled to get his hands

under her arms and move her across the room. Lifting her was almost

beyond him, but he managed it somehow. When he finally got her on the

bed, he laid R’shiel out with almost tender care, crossing her hands

demurely across her breast. He combed out her glorious mane with his

fingers until it spread like a fiery halo around her head then stepped

back to admire his handiwork.

If one was prepared to ignore the blood and the burns, she looked quite

stunning. He smiled, thinking he had never seen her quite this way — so

peaceful, so . . . vulnerable.

Loclon sighed and picked up the scissors. He moved to the bed and planted

a lingering kiss on her slightly parted lips.

Then he took the scissors and cut her hair as close to the skull as he

could get. He hummed tunelessly as he worked, stopping only once to stare

suspiciously over his shoulder.

He could not avoid the feeling that someone was watching him.

CHAPTER 52

When Tarja questioned first Hadly, then Sergeant Monthay regarding the

whereabouts of the Karien boy, neither of them could provide a

satisfactory answer. Hadly was too busy, and Monthay sounded genuinely

perturbed. He could recall giving the boy the afternoon off, but not why.

Tarja thanked him for his assistance and went looking for the child

himself. He didn’t blame the sergeant. If the God of Thieves had taken

it into his head to lead Mikel astray, there was little Monthay could

have done about it.

He leaned forward and patted Shadow, wondering where a small Karien boy

and a mischief-making god could be hiding in the vast camp. Nowhere there

was work to be done, that was certain. They were unlikely to have gone

north toward the border. Not only was it dangerous, there was no

entertainment in that direction. The Keep was just as unlikely, as was

the Hythrun camp, where Mikel’s brother was, or the neat Defender’s

camp, where surely somebody would question their right to be there. He

glanced south at the follower’s camp thinking there was plenty of

trouble to be found there. He turned Shadow and let her pick her own

pace, hoping he was heading in the right direction.

There would be a town here soon if the war dragged on much longer, he

thought as he rode through the vast camp. Already some enterprising

merchants had set up rickety wooden frames to house their commercial

endeavours between tents that ranged from the ramshackle to the truly

spectacular. The larger tents belonged to the Court’esa’s Guild. They

had moved in within days of the Defenders. All these lonely men out here

in the middle of nowhere was an opportunity too good to be missed. Half

the court’esa here could probably retire in luxury by now and those

that couldn’t would not have long to wait.

Tarja debated stopping by the largest tent to speak to Mistress Miffany.

If Jenga surrendered, the court’esa were in real danger. Miffany was a

generous, rotund little woman who had worked in the Citadel as a

court’esa when Tarja was a cadet. She had inherited the business from

Mistress Lyndah, when the sour old bitch had finally died — making

everyone in the Citadel who knew her breathe a sigh of relief — and had

set about making life pleasant for as many Defenders as possible since

then — at a reasonable price, of course. Tarja liked her and had no

desire to see her, or her girls, stoned by the invading Kariens.

On impulse, he turned toward her gaily-striped tent. If he could do

nothing to stop the surrender, he could at least save a few lives. That

Jenga would surrender was a very real possibility. The Lord Defender had

stretched his loyalty about as far as it was likely to go. From the

moment he had defied Joyhinia in Testra, he had been fighting a losing

battle with his conscience. The order to surrender, while unpalatable,

was probably easier to live with than treason.

A grubby child ran forward to hold his mount when he arrived. He

dismounted and threw the child a copper rivet, before pushing back the

flap, bending over to enter the tent. Inside, a number of women looked up

hopefully at his captain’s insignia, smiling at him with open

invitation. Tarja smiled back, but otherwise ignored them. Miffany

hurried forward as soon as she recognised him, obviously happy to see him.

“Tarja!”

“Hello Miff,” he said, kissing her cheek. “You’ve lost weight.”

Miffany laughed delightedly. She was almost as wide as she was tall.

“You tease! I look like a pudding, and you know it, but it was nice of

you to say so. Did you want a girl?” Miffany was never one to beat

around the bush.

“No, I wanted a word with you. In private.”

Curious, but unconcerned, she turned to her girls. “I’m going to take

a turn of the camp with the captain, here. Becca, you’re in charge

until I get back.”

Miffany slipped her arm though his and led him outside.

They headed south between the tents down what could only very loosely be

described as a street. The tents had been placed with little thought to

the traffic in the camp and they were forced to step over tent pegs and

dodge muddy puddles as they walked. Miffany clung to his arm with a smug

grin that broadened to an outright smirk as they passed by the tent of

one of her competitors.

“There’ll be tongues a-wagging in there, soon enough,” she

predicted.

Tarja smiled. “We could stop outside on the way back while I declare

I’ve never had better.”

“You are such a sweetheart,” she laughed, squeezing his arm.

“Have you done well since you’ve been here, Miff?”

“I’ll say! I’m rich enough to buy myself one of those posh little

villas on the riverfront in Brodenvale. War is good for a business like

mine.”

“Then perhaps you should think about retiring.”

She looked up at him suspiciously. “You’re taking a sudden interest

in my welfare.”

“I care about you.”

“You’re sweet Tarja, I’ve always thought that, but you’re a

captain. One of Jenga’s closest officers. You didn’t come all this

way to suggest I retire without a damn good reason.”

“Isn’t caring for you enough?” he asked with a hopeful smile.

“Much as I’d like to kid myself that is the case, Tarja, I’m not a

fool. What’s really going on?”

“I can’t say, Miff. All I can do is suggest that you quit while

you’re ahead.”

The chubby court’esa thought for a moment and then nodded. “How long

do we have?”

He could have hugged her for being so astute. “A few days. A week at

most. Your profession won’t be looked upon kindly after that.”

“I owe you for this, Tarja.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Miff. Consider it a debt repaid.”

“What debt?”

“I was fourteen the first time I came to Mistress Lyndah’s. You

didn’t laugh at me.”

She chuckled at the memory. “I was a lot thinner in those days. You

were a sweet boy then, Tarja, and you still are, in my book. Tell me, do

you plan to act on your own advice, or stay here and let them kill you?”

Her blunt question startled him. “I haven’t decided yet, but I

don’t plan on letting anybody kill me.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose. You know, I’ll need some guards

when I leave. I’ve quite a haul in the chest under my bed. Not looking

for a job, are you?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, but I’ve got other things demanding my

attention.”

“Ah well, it was worth a try. I’ll ask young Dace. He seems to know

everybody in the whole damned camp.”

Tarja stopped dead, almost jerking Miffany off her feet. “Dace? A

fair-haired lad about so high? Wears the worst collection of cast-off

clothing you’ve ever seen?”

“That’s our Dace,” Miff agreed. “How do you know him?”

“I came here looking for him.”

“I thought it was too much to hope that you came here just to see

me,” she sighed.

“Where can I find him?”

She shrugged. “Who knows? He’s a sweet boy too, but every time he

appears, something goes missing. He hangs around with a Karien boy. They

turn up every now and then, looking for a meal.”

“And you feed them, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Do you have any idea where I can find him? It’s really important.”

Miffany thought for a moment and then nodded. “Try old Draginya, the

herb woman. She lives over by Will Barley’s tavern tent. She’s a

weird old buzzard, always praying to the Primal gods and muttering to

herself, but I’ve seen Dace with her now and then. She might know where

he is.”

Tarja bent down and kissed Miffany’s plump cheek. “You are the

best.”

“Then how come you’re leaving?” she called after him.

Tarja would have found Draginya’s tent simply by following the smell,

even if Miffany had not described its location. The tent was crammed with

dried herbs and a smoking brazier that gave off an aroma unlike anything

he had smelled before. The old woman was wrapped in several tattered

shawls against the cold and she looked up with rheumy eyes as Tarja bent

almost double to get through the tent flap. He straightened up once he

was inside, his head brushing the roof of the tent.

“Captain Tarja Tenragan,” the old woman said, as if she expected him.

“How do you know who I am?” The tent was gloomy and he had to squint

to make her out.

“You are the demon child’s appointed lover. Kalianah has made it so.

She told me about you.”

Tarja was still atheist enough not to want to know what she meant. “I

seek Dacendaran.”

“The God of Thieves? An odd companion for a man like you.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“The gods are everywhere, Captain.”

“I was hoping you could be a bit more specific.”

The old woman smiled revealing toothless pink gums. “Dacendaran said

you were unusual for a Defender. I see what he means.”

“I need to speak with him,” Tarja insisted.

“The gods listen to all our prayers, Captain.”

“I don’t want to pray to him, dammit, I need to ask him something!”

“Well, there’s no need to yell, Tarja. I’m not deaf.” He spun

around to find the God of Thieves standing behind him. The boy looked

unchanged from the last time he had seen him in Testra, but that was

hardly surprising. Dace pushed past him and knelt down beside the old

woman. “Is he bullying you, Draginya? Shall I turn him into something

with six legs that likes to live under a rock?”

“He is young, Divine One, and at the mercy of Kalianah’s geas.”

Dace stood up and turned to Tarja. “Well, it seems you get to stay in

one piece. What did you want?”

“Where’s R’shiel?”

“At the Citadel, I suppose,” Dace shrugged.

“Something’s happened to her.”

“I’d know if she were dead. You humans worry far too much.”

Tarja glared at the boy. “Jenga has been ordered to surrender.”

That news gave the god pause. His grin faded. “That’s probably not a

good sign.”

“Dace, the only way that order could have been issued is if R’shiel

failed. Something has happened to her.”

“Well, if it has, it’s her own fault. I offered to go with them, but

did they want my help? No. They wanted to do it all on their own. The

Harshini are like that you know. They always think —”

“Dace!”

“What? Oh, I’m sorry. What did you want me to do?”

“Find out . . . what happened . . . to R’shiel,” Tarja explained

very slowly and carefully.

“Oh. I suppose that’s not a bad idea. If something’s happened to

her, we’ll have to start this whole demon child thing all over again.

Now that would be a bore.”

“How long will it take?”

Dace shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Tarja clenched his fists at his side, rather than grab Dace around the

throat and shake him soundly, which was what he really wanted to do.

“When will you leave?”

“You are so impatient.”

“She could be in danger, Dace.”

“She might just be sunning herself beside a pool somewhere, too,” the

god retorted. “On the other hand, it is winter and R’shiel never was

the sort to relax, although it wouldn’t do her any harm . . . Oh, stop

looking at me like that! I’ll go and see what’s happening, but I

won’t cross Zegarnald if he’s got a hand in this. He’s as strong as

he’s ever been with this war going on.”

“You do whatever you have to, Divine One,” Tarja agreed.

Dace grinned. “Divine One? Does this mean you’re finally coming to

believe in us, Tarja?”

“I believe in you Dace, I just don’t happen to want to worship you.”

“Ah, well,” the god sighed. “Just so long as you never tell

Kalianah you love her.”

“That’s not very likely.”

“Glad to hear it. Will you see that Draginya gets away safely?”

Tarja nodded. The boy turned to the old woman and kissed her cheek.

“See, Tarja will take care of you. I’d better go see what’s

happened to the demon child.”

Dace vanished without warning, leaving Tarja frowning and old Draginya

smiling toothlessly.

CHAPTER 53

Mikel was chattering away to Dace about the eggs they had stolen when he

suddenly realised that his friend was no longer with him. He looked

around the crowded camp, puzzled. Dace was nowhere to be seen.

Mikel sighed, used to Dace’s odd disappearances by now. He did that

sort of thing a lot. One minute he was there and the next he was gone.

Still, it wasn’t that important. Mikel knew the way to the old herb

woman’s place where the eggs were safely nestled in an old shawl in the

corner of her tent. He was far more interested in them, anyway. The

chicks should hatch any day now and he was as excited as any expectant

father.

He turned into the street beside Will Barley’s tavern tent and stopped

dead as a familiar figure emerged from the old woman’s tent. Mikel bit

back a startled cry and slipped back between the tavern tent and the tent

beside it. What was Tarja doing in the old woman’s tent? Had he

discovered the eggs?

Even Mikel knew that stealing a clutch of swallow’s eggs would not

warrant the attention of a Defender. Perhaps he was sickening for

something and had gone to see Draginya for a cure? Then something truly

dreadful occurred to him. Perhaps Tarja had discovered that Mikel spent

most of his afternoons with Dace and had come looking for him. The only

reason Tarja would seek him out was to punish him, Mikel was certain.

What would he do? Would Jaymes lose a finger because of his brother’s

folly? That he had disowned his brother as a traitor was momentarily

forgotten.

He waited anxiously, filled with trepidation as Tarja moved off between

the tents. When he was sure the Defender would not turn back, he hurried

to the old woman’s tent and slipped inside.

“Did he hurt you?” Mikel demanded as soon as the flap closed behind

him.

Draginya sat in her chair by the smoking brazier from where she hardly

ever seemed to move; at least in Mikel’s company.

“Did who hurt me, child?” She sounded surprised by his question.

“Tarja.”

Her face creased into a wrinkled frown. “You speak with too much hatred

for a child.”

“That’s because he’s a monster!”

“Your ignorance blinds you, boy. Tarja is the appointed lover of the

demon child. He is destined for great things.”

Mikel stared at her. “Says who?”

“The gods, of course. Hasn’t your god explained these things?”

“The Overlord doesn’t speak to the likes of me. He only speaks to the

priests and stuff.”

Draginya nodded sadly. “That is a great shame.”

“Anyway,” Mikel added, rather put out by the old woman’s pitying

tone. “Tarja’s a Medalonian. That makes him an atheist. Even if I

believed what you say about the other gods, he wouldn’t.”

“Tarja knows the gods exist, Mikel. He simply choses not to worship

them. The Primal gods like to have believers, but they don’t need them.

You honoured Dacendaran when you stole those eggs. Whether you believe in

him or not doesn’t enter into it.”

“We never stole anything!”

“You removed those eggs from their rightful owner without permission.

That defines theft, don’t you think?”

“But we wanted to save the chicks,” he protested.

“If you kill one man to save another, it is still killing, Mikel. Good

intentions don’t alter the nature of an event.”

“Then I betrayed the Overlord,” he concluded, sinking down to the

floor beside Draginya’s stool. “I’m doomed.”

“You’re exaggerating,” the old woman scolded. “You are a child,

Mikel, and far too young to concern yourself with visions of doom and

eternal damnation. Live life to the full and follow the god of your

heart, not the tired litanies of grown-ups whose desire for power has a

lot more to do with their faith than what their god might want.”

“That’s blasphemy.”

“No, it’s wisdom. When you’re as old as I am, you get to call

everything wisdom. Now go check on your eggs and be off with you. I’m

tired and I have to start packing.”

“You’re leaving? Why?” Mikel was much less concerned about the old

woman travelling in winter than he was about his eggs. If she left, what

would he do with them?

“Because your people will be here soon. They’ll take one look at me

and burn me for a witch, I’m certain.”

“You mean there’ll be another battle? One that Prince Cratyn will

win?”

She shook her head and placed a withered hand on his shoulder. “The

battle has been fought and lost far from this place, child. The Defenders

have been ordered to surrender.”

All thought of eggs fled Mikel’s mind as the news sunk in. The

Defenders were going to surrender! Jaymes would be released and brought

back into the arms of the Overlord.

And best of all, he thought happily, Princess Adrina would not have to

pretend to hate Prince Cratyn any more.

Mikel hurried back through the camp, his heart lighter than it had been

for months. Any day now, Prince Cratyn would cross the border in triumph.

Karien had won. Tarja would be hung for the criminal he was. The Overlord

had made the Medalonians surrender with hardly a drop of blood spilt. (He

conveniently forgot the massacre resulting from the only serious Karien

incursion into Medalon.) It didn’t matter what happened now. It

didn’t matter what they did to him. The Overlord was truly omnipotent,

just like the priests said.

He skirted the edge of the camp and wound his way back through the

corrals, taking the route closest to the Hythrun stables. He always took

the same route. Dace claimed it was in the hope of catching sight of his

brother — a charge Mikel vehemently denied. It was simply the easiest

way back, he insisted, ignoring Dace’s knowing smirk.

This time, however, he actively searched for his brother. He had to give

him the news, quite certain that as soon as Jaymes learnt his own people

would soon be here, he would see the error of his ways. Mikel was

thrilled by the prospect and burning to share it with someone.

Jaymes was nowhere to be found, but as he stuck his head cautiously

around the corner of the first stable block, he spied someone who

deserved to hear the news even more.

Adrina was alone, brushing down a gorgeous golden mare, talking to the

beast softly as she worked. There was nobody else around, not even a

guard. Mikel chose to think of that as a sign from the Overlord, rather

than the more obvious conclusion — that she wasn’t guarded because

they didn’t consider her in need of one.

“Your Highness!” he hissed loudly.

Adrina turned and frowned when she caught sight of him.

“Mikel? What are you doing hiding over there?”

He slipped into the stable and ran to her, dropping to one knee as he had

seen the Fardohnyan lanceman do after the battle. The gesture had struck

him as being terribly noble.

“Your Highness, I have the most wonderful news!”

“Have you now? Do tell.”

“Medalon has surrendered, your Highness. Prince Cratyn will be here any

day. We are to be rescued!”

Mikel looked up, expecting to see relief and happiness radiating from her

in equal measure. He was disappointed to find her taking the news quite

calmly.

“And where did you hear this startling piece of intelligence?” she

asked.

“From the old herb woman in the camp. She’s already packing to leave

for fear of the Overlord’s wrath.”

Adrina smiled. “Mikel, don’t you think if Medalon had surrendered,

their troops might be told before some old herb woman? I’m sure she’s

mistaken.”

“But she seemed so certain, your Highness. Even Tarja went to visit

her.”

“Now that’s interesting,” Adrina agreed. “Do you know why?”

“The old woman said it was to talk to the God of Thieves, but I don’t

believe her. There is only the Overlord, isn’t there?”

“Yes, of course,” she agreed absently.

“Aren’t you happy, your Highness?”

“I’m delirious with happiness,” she assured him. “It’s just not

seemly that a woman in my position display extremes of emotion.”

He smiled with relief. He had forgotten how well mannered she was, how

careful she was not to shame herself. It must have been so hard on her,

having to pretend to be nice to everyone, while inside she was missing

Prince Cratyn so badly.

“It will be alright, your Highness. Prince Cratyn will be here soon.”

“I can’t tell you what a comfort that is,” she said.

Mikel stood up beaming. To have been able to deliver such wonderful news

to his lady was more than he could have hoped for in this dreadful place.

Adrina smiled down at him. “I thank you, Mikel, but shouldn’t you be

getting along? The Defenders haven’t surrendered yet, and I’d hate

for you to wear a beating on my account.”

“It won’t be long now, your Highness,” Mikel promised with an

encouraging smile. He turned and ran from the stable, almost colliding

with Lord Wolfblade. He yelped with astonishment and fled past the

Warlord, praying he hadn’t been recognised.

A few paces from the stable, Mikel stopped and looked back over his

shoulder. The Warlord had vanished inside. The princess was in there.

Alone. It just wasn’t proper. He wavered with indecision for a moment

and then headed back to the stable.

Mikel slipped back into the building silently, grateful for Dace’s

instruction on how to sneak around without being noticed, and hid in the

first empty stall he came to. It was close enough to hear what the

Warlord said to the princess. The boy smiled expectantly. Now that she

knew she was to be rescued soon, he fully expected Adrina to give him a

piece of her mind.

“You don’t have to do that, you know.”

Adrina looked over her shoulder. “When I was a child, the only thing we

were ever allowed to do for ourselves, was groom our horses. Hablet

thought it would teach us a responsibility.”

“And did it?”

She smiled. “Actually, I think it taught us more about the value of

bribes. It was more fun trying to avoid the task than doing it.”

Damin walked up behind Adrina and placed his hand over hers as she

brushed the animal with long slow strokes. He stood so close behind her

that their bodies were touching. The princess didn’t scream. She

didn’t even flinch. Damin bent his head and touched his lips to her

neck, just below her right ear. She arched her back and leaned into him.

“Stop that.”

“Why?”

“There’s no future in this, Damin. You know that as well as I.”

He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. “Ah,

that’s right, we hate each other, don’t we?”

She turned in his arms and touched her forehead to his. “You’re

confusing lust with genuine feeling, my Lord.”

As if to give lie to her words, she kissed him. There was no mistaking it

for anything else; she was definitely kissing him, not the other way

around. Mikel almost bit through his bottom lip to prevent himself from

crying out his outrage.

“If that’s your idea of trying to make me stop, then the court’esa

who trained you needs to be horsewhipped,” Damin laughed softly when

they finally came up for air.

Adrina smiled. It was the same sort of intimate smile R’shiel saved for

Tarja. The sort of smile Adrina had never bestowed on his prince.

“That’s all this is, you know. A simple case of two well trained and

rather bored people amusing themselves far from home.”

“I grant you that we’re both well trained,” Damin agreed,

unwrapping her arms from around his neck. He held her hands for a moment

and then turned them over, kissing the palms. “And I’ve no doubt

you’re bored. But this is far from simple, Adrina.”

She sighed. “I know. So what are we going to do?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m heading home while I still

can.”

“How noble of you. What happens to me?”

“That’s up to you. You have two choices. Stay and face Cratyn, or

come with me.”

Adrina’s eyes widened. “Follow you to Hythria? You’re pretty damn

certain of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I wish I could say my offer was entirely motivated by the knowledge

that you’d rather die than live without me, but the fact is, neither

you nor I want a Karien heir to your father’s throne. The whole world

will be safer with you in my bed, rather than Cratyn’s.”

“You are the most arrogant pig I have ever met.”

“Probably. Will you come with me, or not?”

“Is sharing your bed a condition of the deal?”

“No. If you want, I’ll never touch you again. I’ll escort you to

Hythria and kill any man who tries to lay a hand on you against your

will. Myself included.”

“You’d throw yourself on your sword for me? Somehow, I doubt that,

Damin.”

“It sounded rather noble, though, don’t you think?”

Adrina kissed him again. Mikel couldn’t tell how long it lasted. He was

too busy wiping away tears of anger and disappointment. Adrina knew that

Cratyn was on his way to rescue her. The only reason she was doing this

was the one he had refused to contemplate until now.

“I have conditions,” she said, when they finally broke apart.

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.” Damin gathered up the mare’s

lead rope and led her to an empty stall next to the one where Mikel was

hiding. He held his breath.

“I’m a princess of royal blood, Damin, not some whore you picked up

in the followers’ camp. I expect to be treated as such.”

“My men shall treat you with the utmost respect, your Highness, or

I’ll whip them myself.” He closed the gate on the stall and walked

back to her. The sun had almost set and it was getting hard to see them

in the gloom.

“I wasn’t referring to your men, I was talking about you.”

“I’ll ignore that. What else?”

“The remainder of my Guard, those men the Defenders are holding

prisoner, are to be released.”

“I think I can arrange that.”

“And I’m not your damned prisoner, either. If I go with you, I go of

my own free will. I’ll be free to leave anytime I want.”

“Was that all?”

“No. I want it clearly understood where we stand with each other.”

“And where is that, exactly?”

“I don’t love you, Damin, and I’m damned sure you don’t love me.

I’ll admit that there is a certain . . . physical attraction . . .

between us, but that’s all it is. I get a thrill out of flirting with

danger and you are about the most dangerous thing around. I don’t want

you mistaking this affair for something it’s not.”

Damin didn’t answer her for a long moment. Then he smiled. “You’re

a consummate liar, Adrina.”

“I assure you, sir, I meant every word.”

“That’s what makes you so believable. Very well, I agree to your

conditions. I’m planning to break camp the day after tomorrow. Be

prepared for some hard riding. If your husband should happen to discover

where you are, we’ll have every Karien on the border chasing us all the

way to Hythria.”

“Then you’d better hope your Medalonian friends don’t tell him. I

wasn’t planning to leave him a note, you know.”

“Now there’s a thought,” he laughed. He picked up her cloak from

where she had thrown it over the railing and held it out for her. Adrina

turned and allowed him to drape it over her shoulders. “Let me see, how

would it go? Dear Cratyn —”

“Cretin,” she corrected. “I always called him Cretin. The Kariens

thought it was my accent.”

“Very subtle . . . Dear Cretin, sorry I can’t be here to meet you

dear, but I’ve run off to Hythria with a dashing warlord —”

“Dashing?”

“Handsome sounded a bit arrogant, I thought . . . Anyway, where was I?

I’ve run off to Hythria with a dashing warlord with whom I’ve been

making wild, passionate love every night for . . . how long has it

been?”

“One week and two days . . .”

“Are you counting?”

“Only out of curiosity.” She turned to face him, her expression

suddenly serious. “We shouldn’t joke about this, Damin. He’ll kill

us both.”

Damin kissed her forehead. “It will take more than — what did you

call him? Prince Cretin the Cringing — to kill me. And I swear I’ll

kill you myself before I hand you back to him.”

“Well, that makes me feel so much better.”

Mikel shrank down as they walked past his stall exchanging that odd

mixture of intimate secrets and insulting banter that seemed to

characterise their conversations, tears of bitter disappointment sliding

down his cheeks.

The truth burned in his stomach like a bad meal. He waited in the

darkness surrounded by the moist smell of the horses for a long, long

time after they were gone. His heart was breaking; his childish illusions

well and truly shattered.

By the time he forced himself to move, his fingers were numb with cold.

But he had made a decision. When the Karien army crossed the border,

Mikel would find a way to gain an audience with the prince.

He was going to have to explain to Cratyn that his beautiful, noble

princess was nothing more than a traitorous slut.

PART 4

CONSEQUENCES

CHAPTER 54

The walls of the Citadel defined Brak’s prison. He had discovered this

annoying detail quite by accident as he had tried to follow Lord Terbolt

to a meeting with another Karien agent in the small village of Kordale,

west of the city. He had met an invisible wall as solid and impenetrable

as the wall that cut him off from his power. Brak had tested its limits

right around the Citadel, but could find no weak point. He wondered if it

was entirely Zegarnald’s doing or if the Citadel itself was aiding the

War God, although he could think of no reason why the Citadel would ever

cooperate with Zegarnald.

He spent his days watching and worrying over R’shiel. His frustration

was a palpable thing and his worry enough to make him physically sick. He

had watched Loclon tormenting her and the demon, helpless to intervene.

He had watched him punish her then cut off her hair, tearing uselessly at

the invisible barrier that separated him from the ordinary world. But

worse, he watched as every day R’shiel sank a little lower into

despair; a little closer to giving in; a little closer to the day he

might have to kill her.

Brak had an odd relationship with R’shiel. Part guardian, part teacher,

he had been sent to find the demon child and bring her home to Sanctuary.

His first impressions of her had not been good — she was spoilt,

manipulative and rebellious. She bore long grudges and tended to be

rather single-minded when it came to getting even. Brak had not liked her

much in the beginning. It had taken a long time for him to discover how

much of R’shiel’s behaviour was a result of her upbringing as much as

her true nature. She carried a lot of hurt inside and those who hurt her

would suffer for it. He was also cynical enough to realise that the very

qualities that made him distrust her were just the sort of

characteristics one needed if one was destined to destroy a god.

When he had first set out to find the demon child, he had vague visions

of a noble young man with a pure heart, who would take on his appointed

task with a solemn vow and then . . . well, he’d never really got to

that bit. He had not expected R’shiel; not expected to find a

complicated, troubled young woman, who had been raised by the most

ruthless and unloving mother that the Sisterhood had ever spawned.

It wasn’t until he learnt how much of her suffering had been sanctioned

by the gods, that he truly began to sympathise with her. Zegarnald’s

“tempering” had been a cruel and rocky road for R’shiel and she was

a long way from the end.

If he stood back from it, he understood the logic. Xaphista was a master

of seduction, in his own way. He had seduced millions of Kariens into

believing him. One half-breed Harshini would hardly be a threat, unless

that half-breed was inured to his enticements. R’shiel had to be so

determined to destroy him that nothing would stop her. She had to be

ruthless enough to stand back and watch everything and everyone she held

dear threatened with extinction, and not waver from her purpose. She had

survived being raised by Joyhinia, raped by Loclon, imprisoned by the

Sisterhood, a near-fatal wound, and the discovery that she was a member

of a race that she had been raised to despise. The experience had left

her battered and bruised, but it had not even come close to breaking her.

Brak was beginning to wonder if her current situation would succeed where

everything else had failed.

When she regained consciousness after Loclon left her room, it had taken

her a little while to get her bearings. Her face was a mess — her

forehead puffy and bruised and covered in dried blood. She lay for a

time, staring at the canopy over the bed, as if trying to recall how she

came to be there. Then she sat up and ran her fingers through her hair.

She stiffened with shock, then looked behind her at the carefully

laid-out halo of dark red hair that was left behind on the pillow.

For a moment she did nothing but stare at it in bewilderment, then she

leapt off the bed and ran to the mirror hanging over the dresser. Brak

winced as she looked at her reflection. Vanity was not a quality he

associated with R’shiel — she had always seemed rather unconscious of

her beauty — but even the plainest woman would have gasped at the

reflection staring back at her. Loclon had hacked off her hair with

little care. It stood up in clumps in places; elsewhere it had been cut

so close to the scalp that the skin showed through. Her eyes were

blackening, the cut on her forehead a red slash across a purple landscape

of bruises. Her long neck was livid; white blisters already visible above

and below the thin silver collar. Several had burst when she began to

move, leaving weeping patches of raw flesh to rub against the metal.

R’shiel stared at her reflection for a long, long time, then she sank

down onto the floor and sobbed like a brokenhearted child.

Brak could feel her anguish but could do nothing to relieve it.

He could not imagine what it must be like for her to cope with Loclon in

Joyhinia’s body. Added to that, she had failed in her attempt to coerce

the Sisterhood. Mahina was imprisoned. Affiana and Lord Draco were both

dead. Garet Warner had changed sides and the Kariens effectively had

control of the Citadel. If that wasn’t enough, when the order to

surrender arrived at the border, Tarja’s life would be forfeit. He had

no way of knowing, but Brak suspected R’shiel’s tears were as much

from failure, as they were from pain.

But while her reactions up to that point had been typical, since that day

R’shiel seemed sunk so far in misery, that she no longer cared what

happened.

Terbolt had been quite appalled at the state she was in when he returned

from his prayers and livid over the loss of the demon. He had chastised

Loclon severely, but the Karien still needed a cooperative Joyhinia, so

he had done little more than make his displeasure known. He had ordered

the priests to treat her wounds and Garanus, in a rare show of

compassion, trimmed her hair until it was, if not quite styled, then at

least tidy. Once the bruises faded, she wouldn’t look too bad, Brak

thought. She had that sort of bone structure.

But R’shiel cared no more for how she looked than she did about

anything else, at present. She ate only if the priests stood over her,

and then it was mechanically, as if she didn’t taste a bite. She said

nothing unless directly addressed and then answered in a monotone. She

washed when they told her, ate when they ordered her, and when she was

alone she simply sat where they left her, staring blindly into the

distance.

Two days after Loclon’s attack some of the blisters under the collar

began to fester. She did not even flinch when the priests held back her

head, lanced the sores and poured saltwater onto the open cuts. They did

not remove the collar, simply worked around it, but even that rough

handling got no reaction from her. He remembered how vague she had been

after he rescued her from the Grimfield, the night she had tried to kill

Loclon. She had been animated then, compared to her present state.

And there was not a damned thing he could do about it.

Two weeks after R’shiel’s capture at the Gathering, Lord Terbolt

finally announced his intention to leave the Citadel and return to

Karien. Brak had been certain he was waiting for something, but could not

work out what it was. The arrival of a tall, dour-looking Karien who

introduced himself as Squire Mathen was apparently what the duke had been

expecting. The two of them remained closeted for hours. When they

emerged, Terbolt announced his plans to leave.

Loclon had been fairly panting in anticipation for that moment, and his

chance at unfettered power as First Sister. Brak had wondered if Terbolt

would be so foolish as to leave Loclon in charge. The Karien Duke was not

stupid and Loclon’s loss of the demon and his attack on R’shiel had

done nothing to foster any trust between them. Brak thought it would be

better for everyone if he simply slit the throat of Loclon’s senseless

body and let his soul wither and die.

They kept Loclon’s body in a room in the First Sister’s apartments.

The priests tended it with businesslike efficiency. Transferring the mind

of one person into the body of another was not such a difficult feat to

arrange, by Harshini standards. It was just one of those things that was

only done if there was a good reason for it — and that was rare. Had

they thought about it, they could have done the same to Joyhinia

themselves, although considering the way things had turned out, it

probably would not have made a difference, given that Zegarnald actually

wanted to push R’shiel to breaking point.

There were risks, though. If the host body died, then the mind

automatically returned to its own body with little more than a nasty

shock. But if the vacant body died, the soul had nowhere to go. It would

survive a day or two, no longer, before joining its physical counterpart

in death. Loclon’s transfer was nothing like the subtle removal of wit

that Dacendaran had performed on Joyhinia. This was the working of a

clutch of Karien priests who lacked the finesse of a god. They had simply

taken Loclon’s mind — lock, stock and barrel — and dumped it into

Joyhinia’s unresisting body.

Squire Mathen would remain behind to “assist” the First Sister.

Loclon was furious, and could do nothing but agree. Two priests would

remain behind also, Terbolt declared, then made a great show of handing

Mathen the key to the room where Loclon’s body lay. The message was

clear, even to Loclon.

Terbolt’s announcement of their imminent departure drew no visible

reaction from R’shiel. She barely even glanced at him. Loclon waited

outside the door, fidgeting with Joyhinia’s long skirts. As soon as

Terbolt emerged, he began demanding to know exactly who Squire Mathen

was. Brak made to follow them, until he spied Garet Warner entering the

apartment. He said something to guards on R’shiel’s door that Brak

didn’t catch then went inside. On impulse, Brak followed Garet.

The commandant seemed shocked at R’shiel’s condition, but she was as

unresponsive to his arrival as she had been to anything else in the past

week. Garet knelt down beside her chair and gently shook her shoulder.

“R’shiel?”

She ignored him, or perhaps she was so far inside herself, she really

didn’t know he was there.

“R’shiel?”

Finally she turned to him, her eyes blank. “What?”

“You’re leaving today. With Lord Terbolt.”

“I know.”

“They’ve ordered the troops on the border to surrender.”

“I know.”

Garet muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse.

“Do you understand me, R’shiel? Do you even know who I am?”

“I know you,” she replied tonelessly. “You betrayed me.”

He nodded, satisfied with her answer for some reason. “I didn’t

betray you, R’shiel. I just can’t help anyone from a prison cell. Do

you understand? Do you know why I did what I did?”

She turned to him, showing some real interest for the first time. “You

did what you said you would do. Brak called you an honest man.”

“Not a description I’d use myself, but I think I know what he

means.” He reached into his boot-top and withdrew a thin sheathed

blade. “Can you hide this somewhere?”

She stared at the knife incomprehensibly. “What for?”

“To escape, maybe? Or do you want to go to Karien?”

“I have to face the Overlord. He wants me to join him.”

Garet sighed and pushed the knife into the top of her boot. “You do

what you have to, R’shiel. The only thing I’m concerned about is

Medalon. I’ve done all I can for you.”

The commandant left after that and the guards came in to escort R’shiel

downstairs. She let them drape a plain woollen cloak over her shoulders

and lead her away without resistance. Brak followed her and the Karien

party as they descended the stairs, wanting to scream with frustration.

Once they left the Citadel, she would be entirely out of reach.

Garanus handed her into the carriage and then climbed in beside her. As

soon as the door snicked shut the carriage moved off toward the Main Gate

where Terbolt and nearly a thousand Defenders awaited the order to move

out. Brak had never felt more helpless in his entire life.

“Zegarnald!”

The grey limbo in which he was trapped seemed to quiver with the strength

of his cry.

“Zegarnald! Let me out of here!”

The silence he received in reply was absolute.

CHAPTER 55

Adrina had just finished packing, if throwing her few meagre possessions

into a sack could be called that, when the door flew open and Tarja

appeared.

“If you’re leaving, your Highness, you’d better do it now,” he

warned. “The Kariens are on their way.”

“How can that be? Damin said Jenga had agreed not to surrender until

we’d gone.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps they know about the order from the Citadel.

They may even have had a hand in it somehow. All I know is that there’s

a whole troop of knights riding this way under a flag of truce.”

Adrina cursed in a most unladylike fashion. “Tam, go and find . . . no,

on second thoughts, you’d better stay with me. Someone might recognise

you. Are you certain they’re heading this way?”

“Yes.”

“How long do we have?”

“Not long at all, I’m afraid.”

“We’d best get moving then.” Adrina snatched up her sack and slung

it over her shoulder. Tarja led them onto the landing. The guards were

gone now. Lord Jenga had dismissed them days ago, when it became apparent

she was no longer using the quarters over the main hall often enough to

warrant placing a guard on them.

She followed Tarja cautiously, Tam close on her heels. They were halfway

down the stairs when he stopped suddenly and held his arm out to bar her

progress. The Hall doors rattled as they were pushed open.

“Back! Now!” Tarja hissed.

Adrina did not need to be told twice. She raced back up the stairs,

pushing Tam ahead of her. When they reached the landing, Tarja motioned

them down. By the time they were stretched out on their bellies, looking

down over the Hall, the first of the Kariens were clattering through the

door.

Adrina recognised Lord Roache and Lord Laetho as they raised their

faceplates. The other knights she did not know; they were more than

likely an escort. The Dukes made their way to the end of the hall as Lord

Jenga entered with Cratyn at his side. Following them were a dozen or

more Defenders. None of the Medalonians looked very happy.

Adrina studied Cratyn for a moment. He removed his helmet and ran his

fingers through his hair as he looked around the Hall. His eyes skimmed

over the darkened balcony. He could not see her, she knew, but she held

her breath in any case. Jenga ordered wine served and turned to face

Cratyn. The two opposing sides had unconsciously arranged themselves on

either side of the long wooden table near the fireplace.

“You requested a parley, your Highness, and I have honoured your flag

of truce. What do you want?”

Cratyn seemed a little taken aback by Jenga’s blunt manner. “I’m

certain you know exactly what I want, my Lord. I want your surrender.”

Several Defenders, those officers who did not know of the order from the

Citadel, gasped in surprise. Jenga silenced them with a look and turned

back to the young prince.

“What makes you think I’m planning to surrender?”

Cratyn looked at Roache uncertainly. “I was led to believe, my Lord,

that you had received an order to that effect some time ago.”

“Then you were misinformed, your Highness.”

Adrina was quite astounded to hear the Lord Defender lie so blatantly.

Isn’t truth supposed to be a virtue of the Defenders? She glanced at

Tarja, but he was engrossed in the scene below and his expression was

impossible to read in the gloom.

“He’s lying, your Highness,” Roache assured the prince confidently.

Jenga turned on Roache. “You impugn my honour, sir?”

Before Roache could reply the doors flew open and Damin burst in,

followed by Almodavar and a score of Raiders. Adrina smiled at Damin’s

theatrical flair — every man with him must have been picked for his

size, she thought. They were conspicuously armed and arrayed themselves

across the doorway, blocking the exit.

Tarja groaned softly. “Founders, what’s he up to now?”

“My apologies for being late,” Damin announced as he strode into the

Hall. He walked straight up to Lord Roache and bowed extravagantly.

“You must be Prince Cratyn.”

“I am Cratyn,” the prince announced in annoyance. Damin had walked

straight past him. It was no accident, Adrina was certain. Roache was old

enough to be his grandfather and Damin knew well how old Cratyn was.

“You?” Damin asked in feigned surprise. “Gods! You’re just a

child. Ah, but you’re not a child, are you? I hear you’re married

now. How is your lovely wife, by the way?”

Adrina cringed at the question. What the hell was he playing at? Cratyn

glared at him, quite appalled by the Warlord.

“Who are you, sir?” Roache demanded angrily.

“I’m sorry, did I forget to introduce myself? I am Damin Wolfblade,

Warlord of Krakandar, Crown Prince of Hythria, Prince of the Northern

Marshes, and there’s another title or two that I can’t quite recall.

And you would be . . .?”

“This is Lord Roache and Lord Laetho, my advisers,” Cratyn said, not

having the wits to announce their full titles.

“Lord Laetho?” Damin asked. “Now you I’ve heard of. What happened

to that brat we sent back, by the way?”

“We are here to discuss surrender!” Cratyn declared, sounding more

like a petulant child than a statesman.

As she watched Cratyn try to impose his will on the gathering, she could

not help but compare her husband to her lover. Apart from the physical

differences between the men — even the most objective observer would

agree that Cratyn fared a poor second — there was no comparison. Damin

commanded authority without even trying. Cratyn had to demand it —

loudly.

“Surrender?” Damin cried, as if it was the first time he had heard

the word. “Surely you’re not going to quit after one measly little

battle, Cratyn? I came here for a good fight and you want to surrender

already? Have some balls, man!”

Even Jenga bit back a smile at Damin’s deliberate misunderstanding.

“Not me, you fool!” Cratyn snapped. Normally surrounded by men who

treated him like rare porcelain, he was floundering in the face of

Damin’s disrespect. “Medalon is surrendering to us!”

“You are?” Damin asked Jenga. “Since when?”

“No decision has been made as yet, Lord Wolfblade.”

“You claimed you knew nothing about this,” Cratyn accused.

“An unverified message has been received, your Highness. I do not

consider that an order when dealing with an issue of such importance.”

“You require verification, my Lord?” Roache asked.

“Naturally. Would you surrender a strategically superior position

without some sort of confirmation?”

Roache nodded solemnly. “Of course not. How long will this verification

take?”

“I suppose that depends on whether or not the order is genuine,”

Jenga shrugged. “I imagine the confirmation should arrive within the

week, if it is.”

“And if the order is proved genuine?”

“Then I have no choice, your Grace,” Jenga conceded.

Roache appeared satisfied with the Lord Defender’s answer. He was the

most experienced of Cratyn’s dukes. He understood the Lord Defender’s

position, even admired his stance.

“Perhaps then, in anticipation of the verification you require, we

could discuss the details of your surrender?”

“That is somewhat premature, is it not?” Jenga ventured.

“Not at all, my Lord. Given that we have also been advised of your

imminent surrender, one could safely assume that the order is genuine.

Given that neither of us wishes unnecessary misunderstanding, such an

agreement would seem prudent, don’t you think?”

Cratyn had become superfluous in the face of the experience of the Lord

Defender and the canny Lord Roache. Even Laetho seemed at a loss for

words. But Damin wasn’t finished. Not yet.

“Well, I’m sorry, but if you’re going to surrender, I can’t

condone it,” he declared. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

“The surrender includes all forces currently allied with Medalon,”

Cratyn pointed out stiffly.

“Then consider our alliance at an end,” Damin announced. “I’m not

going to surrender to this whelp.” He turned on Cratyn shaking his

head. “Did you really marry one of Hablet’s daughters? Gods! I

can’t imagine how you manage to keep her satisfied.”

Adrina would have thrown something at Damin, had she had a missile handy,

but Cratyn did blush an interesting shade of red.

Damin turned to Jenga. “My Lord, I cannot countenance this farce any

longer. I shall be leaving immediately. Kindly have my court’esa

delivered to my tent at once.”

The Warlord tossed his head dramatically and marched from the Hall, his

savage looking Raiders in his wake. Jenga purposely kept his eyes

downcast.

“Aren’t you going to stop him?” Lord Laetho demanded.

“Lord Wolfblade is an ally, my Lord. I do not command him. Short of a

pitched battle, I don’t see how I can stop him leaving.”

“The Hythrun is of no importance,” Roache agreed. “There is only

one place he can go, and he might find more waiting for him when he gets

there than he bargained for.”

“There is also the matter of Captain Tenragan,” Cratyn added, annoyed

that the discussion was slipping from his control.

“Your Highness?”

“Don’t play the innocent, Lord Jenga. Tarja Tenragan murdered Lord

Pieter and the priest Elfron. He is to be handed over to us for trial.”

“There was nothing mentioned about this, even in the unverified

order.”

“I can assure you, verification is on its way. You must agree to hold

him, pending your surrender.”

Adrina glanced at Tarja. He was torn between stepping forward and

bolting, she thought. Duty warring with survival. She placed a hand on

his arm and shook her head.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Tarja,” she said softly. “There’s

nothing you can achieve by going down there.”

Tarja looked at her for a moment. He nodded slowly, acknowledging her

advice, then turned back to watching the Kariens.

“Should such an order be received, then of course I will honour it,”

Jenga assured Cratyn.

“I should think so,” Cratyn replied, rather lamely. He really

wasn’t handling this very well.

“In that case, gentlemen, I believe this discussion is at an end. I

shall have Captain Alcarnen escort you to the border. Should verification

arrive, I will send a message, advising my position.”

“Your cooperation in this matter is much appreciated, my Lord,”

Roache agreed, before Cratyn could add anything further.

“Captain!”

Nheal Alcarnen stepped forward and saluted sharply.

“Would you be so kind as to escort our guests back to the border?”

“Sir!”

There was little else Cratyn and his party could do but follow the

captain.

As soon as the Kariens had left the Hall, pandemonium broke loose, as the

officers demanded an explanation. Tarja waited until Jenga had quieted

his men and ordered them about their business. The last man was leaving

as they descended the stairs. Jenga looked up at their approach. His face

was haggard.

“You’d better get out of here, and soon.”

Adrina nodded. “I thank you for not betraying my presence, my Lord.”

Jenga shrugged. “A small victory over the Kariens, your Highness, even

if there is nobody to share it with. I wish you a safe journey, although

I suspect your future is as doubtful as mine.” He turned to Tarja. “I

want you to go with them, Captain.”

“I won’t desert you, Jenga. Not this time.”

The Lord Defender shook his head. “I want your resignation then. I’m

damned if I’m going to hand any man of mine over to the Kariens for

some sort of farcical trial with a noose waiting at the end of it.

Particularly for a crime he didn’t commit.”

Adrina looked at Tarja curiously. If Tarja hadn’t killed Lord Pieter,

then who had?

“I won’t run away, Jenga.”

“Now is not the time to be noble, Tarja. I lied to the Kariens. A

courier delivered the orders from the Citadel this morning, signed by

Joyhinia. Accompanying the orders was a warrant for your arrest.”

“Then you will surrender?”

“I have no choice.”

Tarja didn’t answer.

“Go,” Jenga ordered. There was more emotion in that one word than

Adrina could ever recall seeing the Lord Defender betray previously.

Tarja hesitated for a moment then saluted smartly. “My Lord!”

He turned away, his expression determined and even a little disappointed.

Adrina impulsively leaned forward and kissed Jenga’s weathered cheek

before she and Tam hurried after him.

“Captain!”

They stopped and looked back. Adrina could have sworn there were tears in

the old man’s eyes.

“Take as many men with you as you can. Just be quiet about it.”

Tarja nodded in understanding. “As you wish.”

“You’re the only one I can ask this of, you understand that, don’t

you? No other man in my command has experience of this type of warfare.”

The comment puzzled Adrina. “War is war, isn’t it? Besides, you said

you would surrender.”

“I’m surrendering my forces, your Highness. I have no say over what

former officers do once they have resigned from the corps.”

“You’ll accept my resignation then, my Lord?”

The Lord Defender nodded.

“Make the bastards pay, Tarja,” he added. “Make them pay for every

league of Medalon soil they claim.”

What could one man and a handful of renegade soldiers do, she wondered,

to halt an army the size of the Kariens? Then she glanced at the captain

and saw the look of quiet determination in Tarja’s eyes.

Cratyn was going to find taking Medalon a lot harder than he imagined.

CHAPTER 56

There was no denying the rumours once the Kariens arrived under a flag of

truce, and Lord Jenga did not bother trying. On the morning following the

meeting with Prince Cratyn word was passed through the camp that Medalon

would surrender. The following day a messenger was sent north through a

miserable squall to request another meeting with the Kariens — this one

to negotiate the details. Mikel heard the news with mixed feelings. The

welcome thought that he would soon be back among his own people was

soured by the knowledge he carried.

The Hythrun camp was dismantled with remarkable speed. Rather than move

out as one large force, Lord Wolfblade dispatched his men in waves, a

Century at a time. He was concerned that his fleeing force might prove

too tempting to the Kariens. Cratyn would not be able to resist pursuing

a thousand Hythrun across Medalon, but it was unlikely he would bother

hunting down countless scattered bands of them.

Mikel overheard Monthay discussing the strategic merits of the

Warlord’s decision with another sergeant. He seemed to admire it. The

Raiders left in platoons of one hundred, which would break into smaller

groups once they were clear of the battlefield. They had been ordered to

make their way home anyway they could. Some would ride straight for the

Glass River, others would stay on this side until they almost reached

Bordertown. It would be well nigh impossible to round them all up.

The Hythrun weren’t the only ones departing in haste. The followers’

camp was a frenzy of activity as some hastened to leave and others dug

in, hoping for even more business once the countless Kariens arrived.

Mistress Miffany’s brightly striped tent was gone even before the

Kariens had paid Lord Jenga a visit, as was old Draginya’s tent. Mikel

had no idea what happened to his eggs but he cared little for them now.

He had more important things to worry about. More adult things. He had

not seen Dace or Kali for days and assumed his new friends had left too.

The last of the Hythrun to leave was Lord Wolfblade’s party, and the

size of it puzzled him. He was certain nearly all of the Hythrun Raiders

had left already, yet there seemed far too many men gathered on the edge

of the camp waiting for the order to move out. Then Mikel realised that

over half the men riding with the Warlord were mounted on sturdy

Medalonian horses, not the magnificent golden horses of the Hythrun.

There were even men mounted on the captured Fardohnyan steeds. His

suspicions were confirmed when Damin appeared with Tarja at his side. The

soldiers wore nondescript civilian clothing, but they were Defenders,

sure as Xaphista was the Overlord. Tarja was abandoning the field and

taking hundreds of his men with him, including the captured Fardohnyans.

Mikel watched from the top rail of the corral nearest the Hythrun

stables. He could not see the princess, but she was there somewhere, he

was certain. Nor could he spot Jaymes in the milling crowd. He had

anxiously studied every troop leaving the field and was sure that his

brother was still in the camp. Perhaps Jaymes had seen the light; or

perhaps the Hythrun had abandoned him once they knew they were heading

home.

It was just on dawn when Tarja gave the order to move out. He and Damin

waited off to the side, their heads close together as they discussed

something of import, as the men moved off. Several other riders waited

behind then, but from this distance, Mikel could not identify them.

“Mikel!”

Jaymes broke away from the host and cantered toward him. He was mounted

on a Medalonian horse — he was too raw to be trusted with a valuable

Hythrun mount, but his saddlebags were full, his bed roll tied to the

saddle.

“Have you come to see me off?” His brother’s eyes glittered with

the excitement of his adventure. He sat his horse as proud as any

Defender.

Mikel glared at him reproachfully. “Traitor.”

Jaymes’expression hardened. “You’re a child, Mikel. You don’t

understand.”

“I understand plenty. You’re betraying your country, your lord and

your prince. Just like her.”

“Just like who?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He was not going to share his knowledge with

Jaymes. He didn’t deserve to know the truth.

His brother sighed. “I have to go, Mikel. Will you give mother and

father my love?”

The audacity of the request made Mikel’s blood boil. “I’ll do no

such thing! I’ll tell them you’re dead. Better they think that than

know the truth!”

He jumped off the rail and ran back toward the Keep, ignoring Jaymes’

frantic calls for him to return.

When he finally stopped and looked back Jaymes was gone.

The next time Prince Cratyn arrived, a long and frustrating day after the

Hythrun had departed, it was with a much larger party and there was no

white flag in evidence. The Prince knew he had won and was in no mood to

mind the tender feelings of his vanquished foe. He marched into the Keep,

his dukes at his heels, with all the assurance of one who knew he had

nothing to fear.

Mikel hung around the yard, trying to be inconspicuous. It proved to be a

relatively simply task. Neither the Defenders on guard nor the Karien

escort spared him a glance. They were too busy eyeing each other warily

to be concerned with one small boy.

Mikel had no idea how he was going to get near the prince. He knew none

of the knights waiting outside with the horses, and he was fairly sure

that he looked like nothing more than a Medalonian urchin. They would not

spare him a copper if he was starving, let alone take him to see the

prince. The meeting dragged on for hours as the cold sun climbed high in

the sky. Mikel missed lunch and his stomach growled in complaint as the

sky darkened toward dusk.

His chance came just as he was on the verge of giving up. Sir Andony

emerged from the hall to speak to the knights waiting outside. Mikel

swallowed his apprehension and hurried forward.

“Sir Andony?”

The young knight glanced at him, his eyes widening in shock.

“Mikel? What in Xaphista’s name are you doing here?”

“I have to see the prince, Sir Andony.”

“Don’t be absurd! What could you possibly need to see the prince

for?”

“It’s about Princess Adrina.”

Andony was not renowned for his intelligence, but even he understood the

implications. He nodded slowly.

“Wait here.”

Mikel fidgeted impatiently under the scrutiny of the Karien knights as

Andony disappeared inside. In a surprisingly short time, Lord Roache

appeared. He grabbed Mikel by the collar and dragged him aside, out of

the hearing of the knights and the Defenders alike.

“What do you know of the princess?” he demanded without preamble.

“She was here, my Lord.”

Roache’s expression betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. “Are

you certain?”

He nodded. “I fled Karien with the princess and her servant. The

Hythrun captured us the morning after we left. The princess has been here

ever since.”

“And where is her Highness now?”

“I’m not sure. I think she left with Lord Wolfblade.”

“I see.”

“My Lord? There . . . there is something else you should know.”

“What?” Lord Roache sounded impatient, as if his mind was already on

other things.

“The princess and Lord Wolfblade . . . they’re . . . well . . .”

“Out with it, boy!”

“She was kissing him, my Lord,” Mikel blurted out.

Roache’s eyes narrowed. “Who else knows of this?”

“Nobody, my Lord! I —”

“Come with me,” Roache demanded, not in the least interested in what

else Mikel had to say. He pulled Mikel along in his wake and thrust him

at Andony.

“Take the boy back to our camp. Now!” Roache ordered. “You are to

stop for no one. Nor must you allow anybody to speak to the child. He is

to be held in my tent until I return.”

Andony nodded, too well conditioned to question his orders. Before he

truly understood what was happening Mikel was sitting in front of Andony

on his big warhorse, riding away from the Medalonian camp and heading for

home.

It was close to midnight before Roache returned and when he did, he had

Prince Cratyn with him. Mikel’s determination to reveal the true depth

of Adrina’s treachery wavered in the Prince’s serious presence.

“Tell his Highness what you told me,” Roache ordered, waking Mikel

from a light doze. The boy jumped to his feet and brushed his fingers

through his sleep-tousled hair.

“The Princess is with Lord Wolfblade,” Mikel told Cratyn. The young

prince’s expression was shadowed in the light from the smoking brazier.

“Then she fled to Medalon, not back to Yarnarrow as we thought.”

“She told me she was going to Fardohnya, your Highness. To seek aid

from her father.” Mikel thought it important that he establish his own

innocence as soon as possible. “I thought I was following your orders,

Sire.”

“Lying bitch,” Cratyn muttered. “What else?”

Mikel glanced at Lord Roache uncertainly.

“Tell him the rest of it, boy.”

“I saw them kissing, your Highness.”

“You mean Wolfblade was forcing himself on her?”

Mikel shook his head sadly. “No, your Highness. She was . . . well, she

didn’t seem to mind at all. She called you . . .”

“What? What did she call me?”

Mikel stared at his boots with determination. “Prince Cretin the

Cringing.”

“I see. And what else did she say?”

Mikel looked to Lord Roache desperately for help. He did not want to

repeat what he had heard, despite his promises to himself.

“The prince must know the truth, boy,” Roach said, almost

sympathetically. “Tell him.”

Mikel nodded and told him everything he had heard. He told him of the

meeting on top of the tower. He told him of what he had seen and heard in

the stables. He told him everything he knew, although it broke his heart

to be the bearer of such dreadful news.

Cratyn swore under his breath and then turned to Roache. “This is

intolerable! I will send a party out to hunt her down. By Xaphista, I

will see the bitch burn!”

“We’ll hunt her down,” Roache agreed. “But do you really want it

made public that the wife you could not satisfy turned to a Hythrun for

comfort?”

Cratyn paced the tent angrily. “She can’t be allowed to get away with

this!”

“Nor shall she, but there are other things to consider.”

“What other things? She has publicly humiliated me!”

“And she will humiliate you even more, should the truth get out. You do

not want to put her on trial, Cratyn.”

The Prince glared at Lord Roache. Mikel seemed all but forgotten.

“You’re surely not suggesting that I take her back?”

“Of course not! I am suggesting that you do everything in your power to

rescue your wife from the clutches of the barbarian warlord who has

kidnapped and raped her. It will be unfortunate, but she will be killed

in the attempt.”

“We’ll have no chance at an heir if she’s killed.”

“She has been sullied by another man. No heir could come from your

union in any case.”

Cratyn nodded, savagely pleased with the duke’s suggestion.

“I will lead the rescue party, myself.”

“That would be most heroic of you, your Highness. Your grief, on the

discovery of your wife’s fate, will be inconsolable, of course. But

I’m sure you will recover. In time.”

Cratyn smiled coldly. “I’m sure I will. And what of the boy?”

Lord Roache glanced at Mikel for a moment before turning back to the

prince.

“Perhaps he should accompany you, your Highness. He can, after all,

give testament to your wife’s . . . indiscretions.”

The prince nodded. “It would be most unfortunate if something were to

happen to him.”

“Most unfortunate,” Lord Roache agreed.

Mikel studied the prince and the duke, not at all certain he understood.

CHAPTER 57

The darkness into which R’shiel retreated was comforting at first. The

memories of the Gathering and everything that had happened since that

awful night could gain no toehold here. There was no pain, no unbearable

guilt, and no despair. Just blessed emptiness. A nothing place where

nobody could hurt her.

She had been here before. She first discovered it on the road to the

Grimfield, when Loclon had chosen her as his instrument of revenge on

Tarja. It welcomed her the night she had confronted Loclon and almost

succeeded in killing him. For a time, on waking to find herself in

Sanctuary amid the Harshini, she had fled there again, until

Korandellan’s magic had suppressed her emotions and made it bearable to

face reality. It was a tantalising, alluring place, and each time she

retreated there, it became a little harder to leave.

A part of R’shiel still existed in the real world. A part of her

responded when someone spoke to her, ate the meals she was served, and

rode in the carriage each day staring blindly at the winter-browned

plains as they wound their way north. But it was a small part only. Just

enough to pretend she was alive.

Within herself, R’shiel knew that she could not stay here indefinitely.

Comforting it might be, but it was her Harshini side that fled from the

violence and the pain. Her human side hankered to return, to wreak havoc

on those who had caused her suffering.

It was her human side to whom Xaphista spoke.

R’shiel did not recognise his voice at first. The sensuous, soothing

tones seemed like a distant echo that she hardly noticed. It took a long

time to recognise it for what it was. It took even longer before she

bothered to respond.

You run from the pain, demon child. Let me ease it for you.

Calling her the demon child finally evoked a response. She had never

liked that name.

Don’t call me that.

What would you have me call you?

Don’t bother calling me anything. Just leave me alone.

The voice did not reply and R’shiel did not particularly care.

Later, she had no way of judging time in this place, the voice returned.

It was stronger, as if by acknowledging it the first time, she had given

it strength.

I can help you, R’shiel.

How do you know my name?

All the gods know the name of the demon child.

Are you a god?

I am the only god. At least I will be, with your help.

She laughed sourly. With my help? Why would I want to help you?

Because I can ease your pain, R’shiel. I can take away the hurt.

Can you turn back time?

Of course not.

Then you can do nothing for me. Go away.

The voice did as she bid, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

The living part of R’shiel vaguely noted the changing scenery as the

days grew shorter; saw the silver ribbon of the Glass River draw nearer.

For some reason, the sight of the broad waterway sparked a brief reaction

in her, as if the thought of crossing it would take her beyond redemption.

You fear crossing the river? the voice asked curiously.

I fear what it represents.

It brings you closer to me.

I can destroy you, Xaphista. Shouldn’t you be the one who fears my

approach?

You need not destroy me, R’shiel. Together we would be invincible.

Together?

You would be my High Priestess. We could rule the world.

Suppose I don’t want to rule the world?

You are half human.

That doesn’t mean I crave an empire.

What do you crave, R’shiel?

Sanity.

Xaphista had no answer to that and it was a long time before he spoke to

her again.

They crossed the river in a blustery, cold wind that chopped the

mirror-like surface of the water into millions of glittering shards. The

sun was high in a pale, cloudless sky, offering no warmth. R’shiel

stood by the rail on the barge, oblivious to the cold spray that misted

over her as the sailors hauled on the thick rope, pulling the barge

across the river with grim determination. The current fought them at

every turn. Although they professed to be atheists, the ferrymen muttered

among themselves about the wrath of Maera, the River Goddess. They had

never known a crossing like it. It was as though the Glass River was

alive and determined to prevent them landing on the other side.

They made it eventually. R’shiel let Terbolt lead her onto dry ground

and waited patiently for the rest of their party to disembark. The barge

would be busy for two days or more, ferrying the remainder of the troops

across. Aware of this, Terbolt commandeered the Heart and Hearth and

settled in to wait. R’shiel paid no more attention to her surroundings

at the inn than she had when they camped by the road each night on the

journey here.

Garanus came to her at dinnertime and stood over her while she ate. When

her meal was finished he sent the tray away and sat beside her. He did

the same thing every night. He would talk to her as if she was listening,

describing the power of the Overlord, preaching in a rasping, but

impassioned voice that R’shiel found more irritating than comforting.

He pleads my case most eloquently.

He’s a nuisance. If you truly want to ease my pain, getting rid of

Garanus would be a good start.

As you wish. Without warning, Garanus broke off mid-sentence and left the

room. I would give you anything you asked for, R’shiel.

So long as I promise not to kill you, she added wryly.

That would be a reasonable expectation, don’t you think?

You can’t give me what I want, Xaphista.

I can give you anything. You have but to ask.

Free me, then. Take this collar from me. Let me feel the power again.

Ah! I’m not certain I trust you that much, demon child.

Then what do I need you for? You are the reason for my pain.

Not I, R’shiel. It is the Primal gods who want you to suffer.

The Primal gods created me.

And they live in fear of their creation. Who do you think allowed this to

happen?

It is your followers who hold me prisoner.

For your protection, nothing more. The Primal gods have interfered in

your life enough.

What are you talking about?

Can you be so blind, child? They wish to destroy me. Why do you think you

were raised in the Citadel? No child raised by the Harshini could

contemplate killing, even with human blood.

Brak seems to manage.

He is as much a creature of the Primal gods as you are.

Are you telling me the Primal gods made Joyhinia adopt me?

That’s exactly what I’m telling you. They picked the most ruthless,

cold-hearted bitch they could find to raise you. How else could they

ensure you had the skills to commit murder? They engineered your

suffering, R’shiel. They have manipulated you since you were born.

You’re delusional, Xaphista, as well as power hungry.

It is you who are deluded. Do you think your love for Tarja is an

accident? Or his for you? Of course not! Kalianah made it happen.

Why?

Just to make you suffer. Think what it has cost you. Loclon raped you

because Tarja loves you.

The last time I looked, Loclon was on your side. He misjudged her badly

if he thought that was going to persuade her to his cause.

You will see the truth eventually, demon child. I pray that it will not

be too late.

He left her then, leaving R’shiel with a puzzling thought. Xaphista was

a god. To whom did he pray?

They left Cauthside and continued their journey north the third day after

the river crossing. Outwardly, R’shiel showed no more interest on this

side of the river than she had on the other. Garanus no longer came to

her each night to aid her conversion, but little else changed. She woke,

she ate, she rode in the carriage, then ate and slept where she was told.

The routine never varied; it was unlikely she would have noticed if it

had.

Her retreat was no longer peaceful, though. Her silent haven had been

disturbed by Xaphista’s poisonous logic.

Was she really just a pawn, manipulated since birth to become a weapon

the Primal gods could use against their enemy? Was Tarja’s love for her

simply imposed on him? Had the Primal gods sat back and let Loclon do

what he had done to her, hoping it would toughen her up? The idea seemed

ludicrous at first, but the longer she thought about it, the more

credibility it gained.

And what of Xaphista? Was he really so evil? And who was she to judge

what was evil anyway? Xaphista had hurt her, there was no denying that;

her current predicament was entirely attributable to him, but he was

fighting for his survival. Were his actions any worse than those of the

Primal gods?

For the first time since retreating into herself, R’shiel began to

hunger for release. It was no longer peaceful here. Memories she had no

wish to confront began to plague her. Thoughts she had no wish to

contemplate refused to go away.

You see? Everything you hold dear is a lie, Xaphista told her

seductively. Tarja’s love is no more real than this place. The Harshini

secretly despise you, else why would they let you leave Sanctuary? Even

the Primal gods fear you. You are a weapon, R’shiel, to be aimed and

pointed by whoever holds your heart in his hands. Don’t let them use

you.

You would use me just as soon as the Primal gods.

I offer you something in return. I can ease your pain. I can help you.

How? By suppressing my emotions like the Harshini did? That was simply an

illusion and it hurt tenfold when they released it. I’ve no wish to

experience it again.

I can do better than that, demon child. I can take away the memories that

pain you.

Those memories make me who I am.

Then perhaps you should think about who you would rather be.

I won’t be your pawn, Xaphista.

I offer you a partnership, R’shiel, not bondage.

Perhaps, she thought once he was gone. But when it comes to the gods, who

can tell the difference?

CHAPTER 58

Tarja set a gruelling pace as they fled the border. Jenga had promised to

stall the Kariens as long as he was able, but even in Tarja’s most

optimistic estimate that gave them a start of only a day or two. Adrina

kept up and did not complain, despite the fact that her backside felt

bruised to the bone and her inner thighs were rubbed raw. They ate cold

rations when they stopped each night, and collapsed into their bedrolls

under an open sky.

As a child Adrina had been entranced by the bards who sang long, romantic

ballads about lovers on the run who spent all day galloping toward

freedom and all night making love. What utter nonsense, she thought,

dismounting gingerly in the small grove of trees Tarja had chosen for

their camp that night. Damin proved to be more human than heroic. He

looked tired and haggard and even he walked a bit stiffly, despite a

lifetime spent in the saddle. For some reason his discomfort made her

feel a little better.

Their numbers had thinned considerably since they left the border.

Following Damin’s lead, Tarja had broken his men into much smaller

groups and dispatched them south with orders to muster at an abandoned

vineyard south of Testra, where he seemed to think they would be safe

until he could join them. There were barely a hundred men left, and less

than half of those were Damin’s Raiders. The rest were Defenders and

the remainder of her Guard. When they crossed the Glass River at

Cauthside, they would split up once more. Tarja and his men would head

for the Citadel, while Damin continued south for Hythria.

Adrina knew the reason for Tarja’s mission, although he rarely spoke of

it.

Something had happened to R’shiel.

Adrina prayed it was nothing serious. Tarja would not rest until he

discovered the demon child’s fate. It was a pity she would never meet

her. Although she was careful not to broach the subject, R’shiel

fascinated Adrina. Damin spoke of her in such glowing terms that she

might have been jealous, but for two very good reasons. The first was

Tarja. He was so completely besotted with the girl, that if he thought

Damin’s motives were anything but honourable, he’d have killed the

Warlord long ago. The second was Damin. Jealousy would imply she had some

feeling for the man, and of course she didn’t, so there was nothing to

be jealous about.

Adrina unsaddled her mount and dumped her gear near the small fire that

one of the Defenders had started. Tarja had ordered at least one night

with a fire and a hot meal. If he was feeling the strain of the pace he

set, then he knew some of the others would be at the point of exhaustion.

Adrina had tried not to look too happy when she heard the news, but poor

Tam’s expression had been pathetically grateful. The slave wasn’t

accustomed to long hours in the saddle, and Adrina looked a picture of

health compared to her faithful companion.

“Can I take your horse, my Lady?”

Adrina turned and smiled wearily at Damin’s captain. Almodavar was a

fearsome-looking brute, but he was quite the gentleman underneath all

that leather and chainmail.

“Thank you, Captain, but it’s every man for himself on this journey.

I can take care of my horse. You have other things to do.”

“Aye, your Highness, but I have a few young studs with more energy than

sense. I’ll see she’s cared for. You take the chance to rest while

you can.”

Adrina was too tired to argue. “Thank you.”

Almodavar led the mare toward the picket line. He had sent someone for

Tam’s horse too. She turned to find Tamylan by the fire, warming her

hands and swaying on her feet.

“Sit down before you fall down, Tam.”

“I’ll stand, if you don’t mind. In fact if I never sit down again,

it will be fine by me.”

By the time darkness fell completely, Adrina was feeling a little better.

A hot meal and a warm fire eased her aching muscles. Damin and Tarja did

not join them until long after they had eaten. Tam had already fallen

asleep and Adrina’s eyes were drooping. The only reason she was still

awake was her inability to find a comfortable position.

“Come on, sleepy. Time for some exercise.”

“Don’t be absurd. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“I know, but trust me. If you stretch your legs now you’ll be much

better for it in the morning.”

Damin reached down and grabbed her hand, hauling her to her feet.

“Leave me alone!”

“Stop complaining. You sound like a spoilt princess.”

“I am a spoilt princess,” she retorted.

“Who am I to argue with royalty? Are you coming, Tarja?”

“No. I have to check on the sentries. Enjoy your walk, your

Highness.” She couldn’t see his face clearly in the darkness, but she

could hear his amusement.

“I’ll bet he doesn’t laugh at R’shiel,” she grumbled as Damin

pulled her along beside him. It was bitterly cold and the uneven ground

made her muscles cry out in protest.

“Would you laugh at someone who could fry you with a look?”

“How can you possibly be in such a good mood?”

“I’ve still got my head on my shoulders. In this business that’s

daily cause for celebration. Take longer strides. The idea is to stretch

your legs out, not mince along like you’re at court.”

“I do not mince, thank you.”

“I do beg your pardon, your Highness.”

“Don’t patronise me either.”

“You’re in a right temper tonight. I thought you’d be happy to be

free.”

“I’m cold and I’m tired, Damin. I feel like someone’s tied me in

a sack and beaten me with a pole for an hour or two. I don’t have the

energy to be happy about anything.”

He slowed his pace a little and put his arm around her shoulder. “I’m

tired too. And I’m cheerful because I’m a Warlord and nothing is

supposed to bother me.”

“I’m not one of your hired hands, you know. You’re not morally

obliged to keep my spirits up.”

He laughed softly, but did not answer. They kept walking through the

darkness away from the fires, although they stayed within the ring of

sentries posted around the camp. Adrina could make out the silhouette of

a guard every fifty paces or so, their eyes fixed on the open ground

beyond the trees.

It was much warmer with his arm around her and after a time her legs

seemed to loosen up a little. The respite was temporary, though. Tomorrow

they would resume their killing pace.

“How long till we reach the river?” she asked after a long period of

companionable silence.

“Seven or eight days, I guess. Tarja could tell you exactly.”

“Are we going to keep this pace up for another eight days?”

“No. The horses couldn’t take it, even if we could. We’ll ease up

in a day or so.”

“You think Cratyn will come after us, don’t you?”

He nodded, all trace of his previous good humour gone. “Jenga won’t

tell him where you are, but there are plenty of people who know you were

in the camp. We have to assume he’ll hear about it, sooner rather than

later.”

“What if he catches us?”

“He won’t. We’ve got too big a head start and we’re not stopping

for anything. Once we’ve crossed the Glass River, he’ll have no

chance of finding us.” He stopped and pulled her to him, kissing her

forehead lightly. “Stop worrying about it.”

She lay her head on his shoulder and stood in the circle of his arms,

surprised at how comforting it was. It was a real pity he was a Hythrun.

She could easily grow accustomed to this. To feel so secure, so . . .

“Hey, don’t fall asleep on me,” he chided. “I’ll be damned if

I’m going to carry you all the way back.”

She drew back from him, annoyed that he had disturbed her pleasant, if

rather unrealistic, daydreams. “You are so rude sometimes! I’m sure

you do it just to aggravate me.”

“Rude I might be, but I’m still not going to carry you,” he said

with a grin.

“A true nobleman would.”

“That’s because most true nobleman are inbred morons with more brawn

than brains. I could cite your husband as a prime example.”

“I didn’t choose him, you know.”

“Which says something for your good taste, I suppose. Come on, we’d

best get back before Tarja sends out a search party.”

Stifling a yawn, Adrina took his hand and they walked back towards the

fire and the welcome prospect of a good night’s sleep. She glanced at

him as they walked back through the darkened trees and reminded herself

sternly that Damin Wolfblade might be very disarming when he wanted, but

he was, first and foremost, her enemy. His desire to keep her from Cratyn

was nothing more than political, and she had better not forget it.

They were on the move by first light the next day. Poor Tam was on the

verge of tears as she struggled to mount her horse, but Adrina found she

was much better than she expected. Although she would have preferred to

ride with Damin or Tarja, she took her usual place in the very centre of

the column surrounded by Raiders, Defenders and Fardohnyans who had

orders to die before any harm was allowed to befall her.

They kept to the road that wound south towards Cauthside, in part because

it was the fastest route, and in part to disguise the size of their

group. They had left the border in significant numbers and there was no

need for any pursuing force to think that had changed. Scouts ranged

ahead and behind them, scouring the countryside for signs of pursuit, or

unexpected danger. Now that Medalon had surrendered, any Defenders they

met heading north would be enemies and both Tarja and Damin agreed that

in this case running was more prudent than fighting.

She had heard them discussing their plans late into the night as she lay

by the fire, her head resting in Damin’s lap and he unconsciously

stroked her hair. She drifted into sleep listening to Tarja explain his

plans for the men who waited for him in Testra.

She understood now why Jenga had wanted Tarja to resign from the corps,

why he wanted him to escape the border while he still could. It had

little to do with the Lord Defender’s affection for him. Tarja was an

expert guerilla fighter and Jenga wanted him to do to the Kariens what he

had done to the Defenders when he led the heathen rebellion. He didn’t

have the men to take on the Karien invaders directly but he would make

life very difficult for them.

Adrina fell asleep and dreamt of ambushes, and sabotage, and hit-and-run

raids on places she had never heard of.

They stopped just after midday at a small brook that tumbled over

moss-covered rocks beside the road. The water was icy, but the horses

seemed grateful. Adrina stood by her mare as she drank her fill, munching

on a wedge of hard cheese, when one of the forward scouts came thundering

through their midst. He skidded to a halt in front of Damin and Tarja,

turning his mount sharply to avoid barrelling them over.

“Defenders!” he panted. “A thousand at least. Headed this way.”

“How far?” Tarja demanded.

“Five leagues. They’re not moving very fast, but if we stay on the

road, we’ll ride straight into them.”

Tarja grabbed his mount and swung into the saddle. “Show me.”

The scout turned his mount and galloped off with Tarja on his heels.

“Almodavar!”

“My Lord?”

“Get everyone off the road. Make camp in that stand of trees we passed

a league or so back. No fires, no noise. You know what to do.”

Damin was mounted and racing down the road after Tarja before Almodavar

had a chance to acknowledge the order.

Adrina patted her mare with a weary sigh then climbed back into the

saddle. Almodavar got them organised in a very short time, the urgency of

their situation not lost on a single man. They rode back along the road

at a canter, until Almodavar called a halt when they neared the trees.

The copse was a fair way back, separated from the road by a broad stretch

of long brown grass. The captain studied the tree line for a while then

stood in his stirrups to look over the surrounding countryside. Then he

turned and cantered back in the direction they had come from.

“What’s the matter?” Adrina asked the guard on her left.

“If we ride through that grass, your Highness, we might as well put up

a sign telling them where we are. The captain’s looking for a way to

reach the trees without leaving any tracks.”

Adrina nodded, rather impressed by the Hythrun eye for detail. They

waited for another few minutes before Almodavar returned.

“There’s a gully back that way that leads toward the trees,” the

captain announced in Medalonian, for the benefit of the Defenders among

them. “But we’ll have to lead the horses, it’s too treacherous to

ride through. Once we clear it, we’ll have a bit of open ground to

cover, so we’ll cross it in single file.”

He did not ask for questions, or expect any. Adrina followed her guards

and picked her way through the gully after the young man who had told her

of Almodavar’s intentions. A bubbling stream coursed through the

centre, perhaps a tributary of the brook where they had stopped earlier.

The rocks were slick and the icy water splashed over her boots. She was

dressed in trousers and a warm jacket, as was Tam — there was no point

in advertising their presence by dressing like ladies — but her feet

were starting to numb by the time she led her mare out of the gully and

mounted for the ride to the trees.

There was no respite when she reached them, either. Almodavar ordered no

fires to betray their presence so she settled down for a long cold wait

until Damin and Tarja returned.

Adrina was sitting with her back to a tall poplar, Tam’s sleeping head

resting on her shoulder, when the sound of galloping horses woke her from

a light doze. Expecting to find Damin and Tarja returning, she gently

moved Tam’s head onto the cloak they were using as a rug and struggled

to her feet. She found Almodavar waiting at the edge of the trees as a

Defender and a Raider galloped toward them through the grass, making a

mockery of his effort to conceal their hiding place.

“That’s not Damin and Tarja,” she pointed out as the horsemen drew

nearer.

“The Raider is Jocim, one of the rear scouts,” Almodavar agreed. “I

don’t know the Defender.”

They waited until the men had almost reached the trees before waving them

down. Jocim stayed in his saddle, but the Defender jumped down, almost

collapsing with exhaustion as he hit the ground. Almodavar reached out an

arm to steady him, but he waved it away.

“Where’s Captain Tenragan?”

“He’s not here.”

“Who’s the ranking Defender officer then?”

Almodavar looked a little annoyed at the man’s insistence on following

Defender protocol.

“If you have news man, out with it.”

The Defender looked as if he was going to argue the point, but weariness

won out over procedure.

“I have a message from the Lord Defender,” he said. “The Kariens

crossed the border two days after you left. The Defenders were ordered to

throw down their arms. The Kariens have control of the Keep.”

Almodavar nodded, unsurprised by the news. “Jenga ordered you to

founder a horse just to tell us that?”

He shook his head. “No. He sent me to tell you that two hundred Kariens

were dispatched south at the same time. He thinks they know about the

princess. Cratyn is leading them himself.”

Adrina’s heart skipped a beat. Surely they had enough lead on them to

escape? The Kariens could not travel as fast as their troop and they were

making excellent time.

Almodavar nodded and glanced at Adrina. Her expression must have betrayed

her thoughts. “They’ll not catch us, your Highness.”

“Not if we keep moving,” she agreed.

Adrina left the rest of it unsaid. Almodavar knew, as well as she, that a

force of a thousand Defenders was blocking the way south.

CHAPTER 59

From a distance, the northern plains looked as flat and featureless as a

tabletop. The view was deceptive, though. In reality the plains were a

series of low rolling folds that concealed as much as they revealed.

Tarja, Damin and the Hythrun scout, whose name was Colsy, dismounted some

distance from the Defenders. They led their horses off the road for quite

a way, before leaving them to fend for themselves as they scrambled up a

low hillside, dropping on their bellies as they neared the summit.

“Gods!” Damin muttered as they reached the top.

Tarja studied the scene below, forcing down a wave of despair. The column

of Defenders was stretched out along the road in a snaking line that

stretched for half a league or more. At its head, rode a Karien knight,

displaying a coat of arms on his shield that he could not make out from

this distance.

“Do you have your looking-glass?”

Damin nodded and handed Tarja the instrument from the pouch he carried on

his belt. Tarja aimed it at the knight’s shield. As the three silver

pike on a red field slowly resolved into focus he swore softly, then

handed it back to Damin.

“Well, at least that answers the question about the whereabouts of the

Duke of Setenton.”

Damin took the looking-glass and followed Tarja’s pointing finger.

“And where the order for the surrender came from,” Damin agreed.

“What’s he doing leading half the damned Defender Corps north?”

Half was a gross exaggeration, but that near a thousand Defenders marched

under the command of a Karien knight was cause enough for concern.

“If he was waiting at the Citadel when R’shiel arrived . . .” Tarja

did not finish the sentence. He was afraid to put his thought into words.

“I wonder who’s in the carriage,” Colsy added, pointing at the

elaborate vehicle drawn by six matched horses, which trundled along

behind the Kariens.

“That’s the First Sister’s carriage.”

“That’s all we need,” Damin groaned. “Joyhinia Tenragan, in all

her vicious glory. I thought you destroyed her wit after Dacendaran stole

it?”

“So did I.”

Damin returned the looking-glass to its case and rolled onto his back. He

put his hands behind his head and stared at the pale sky for a moment

then looked at Tarja.

“They’ll be on us by nightfall.”

“Or so close it won’t matter.”

“I’ve always fancied myself a brilliant warrior, Tarja, but odds of

ten to one are a bit much, even for me.”

Tarja nodded. “There’s nothing to be achieved by engaging them.”

“So what do we do? Hide until they ride by? Head overland?”

“If we turn off the road, it’ll take a lot longer to reach the river

and even more time to find a place where we can cross. Cauthside is the

only place with a decent barge this side of Testra.” He didn’t add

that going overland meant turning west. Damin knew it without having it

spelled out for him.

“Then it seems we have no choice. We hide until they pass by.”

“That may not be as simple as you think. Terbolt might be in command,

but the Defenders won’t let that interfere with their normal routine.

They’ll have scouts out, you can be certain.”

“I didn’t see any,” Colsy objected.

“That doesn’t mean they aren’t out there,” Tarja warned.

Damin nodded in agreement. “The reputation of the Defenders is well

earned. All the more reason not to take them on.”

“If we’re careful, we should be able to avoid them,” Tarja

suggested.

The Warlord smiled wistfully. “Remember the good old days, Tarja? When

you and I knew exactly who our enemies were? I miss them.”

“I remember them well. You were the enemy, as I recall.”

“And you were always one step ahead of me. I always meant to ask you

how you managed that.”

“I probably shouldn’t disillusion you, but it was luck as much as

anything.”

Damin grinned. “I don’t believe you. Nobody could be that lucky.”

“Alright, if it makes you happy, it was my sheer tactical brilliance.”

“Just as I always suspected,” Damin agreed. He rolled over and stared

down at the advancing Defenders. “I have to tell you. The sight of

those Defenders has completely ruined my day, you know that, don’t

you?”

“You’ll get over it.”

“Eventually,” Damin sighed. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Aren’t we going to do anything?” Colsy asked, obviously

disappointed.

“We are going to hide, young man.”

“Hiding is for women.”

“And very smart men,” the Warlord retorted.

It was late afternoon before they located Almodavar and the rest of their

band. The Hythrun captain had done an excellent job of concealing their

presence. But for some scattered tracks heading toward the tree-line,

there was nothing to indicate that more than a hundred men were concealed

among the trees. Tarja looked around the camp with approval. The Hythrun

seemed to lack discipline, but when it really counted, they did exactly

as they were ordered.

Adrina hurried forward as they rode into the camp. The change in her was

quite remarkable, Tarja thought. She seemed to have shed her spoilt outer

shell. She had ridden without complaint, as though she was trying to

prove she was worthy of the danger they had placed themselves in by

offering her protection. Her face brightened at Damin’s approach,

revealing far more than she meant to.

Tarja was wary of Damin’s relationship with Adrina. It was fraught with

danger and long-term ramifications that did not bear thinking about.

Despite the insistence of both Damin and Adrina that the relationship

meant nothing, Tarja could see the danger signs. Adrina never strayed far

from Damin and he was prepared to risk his life to keep her by his side.

Tarja understood what it was like to be willing to lay down your life for

someone you loved. He wondered how long it would be before the Hythrun

Warlord and the Fardohnyan Princess worked it out for themselves.

“Cratyn’s coming!” Adrina cried as Damin dismounted.

Damin looked over her shoulder at Almodavar who approached them at a much

more dignified pace.

“She speaks the truth, my Lord. Jenga sent a messenger to warn us.”

Tarja dismounted and let Shadow be led away by one of his own men who had

clustered around them, anxious for news.

“How far behind us?”

“A day or two, three at the outside.”

“This could make things interesting,” Damin remarked laconically.

Adrina punched his arm impatiently. “Interesting? Don’t you realise

the danger we’re in?”

Tarja understood Adrina’s annoyance. Damin had a bad habit of treating

everything as if it was some sort of elaborate game. His refusal to take

anything seriously could be frustrating at times. In this case it was

downright dangerous.

“She has a point, Damin.”

“What’s the problem?” he shrugged. “We’ve already agreed that

it would be insane to take the Defenders on. We can’t go overland —

it will slow us down too much — so we hide. The Defenders will ride by

us, none the wiser.”

“And run straight into Cratyn,” Tarja reminded him. “What do you

think will happen then?”

“If we’re lucky, they’ll wipe each other out,” the Warlord

chuckled.

“Be serious!”

Damin had the decency to look contrite. “You’re right. If Cratyn

knows when we left, and we haven’t been seen by the Defenders, even he

should be able to figure out that we’re around here somewhere.”

“Can’t we slip past the Defenders?” Adrina asked hopefully. There

was an edge of desperation in her voice.

Tarja shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“Then we go overland,” Damin said, no happier with the idea than

Tarja. But at least this way they would have a chance of avoiding the two

forces that were inexorably closing in on them. But it took him away from

the Citadel. Away from R’shiel.

“If we start moving now, we can put a few leagues between us and the

Defenders by nightfall.”

The Warlord nodded and ordered Almodavar to get everyone moving.

Tarja’s stomach rumbled in complaint, reminding him that he had missed

lunch as Damin led Adrina away, his arm around her shoulder.

As he watched the retreating couple he frowned. He should have put a stop

to it. That he would have had more chance of stopping the sun rising

tomorrow did little to ease his concern. Were it not for Adrina, Cratyn

would more than likely have ignored the Hythrun refusal to surrender.

What were a thousand Hythrun to a man who could muster a hundred thousand

men? If Cratyn was simply chasing down his errant wife, then it was bad

enough. If anyone suspected that she and Damin were lovers, and shared

their suspicions with the prince, Cratyn would not rest until every last

person who knew of the liaison was dead. He was the Karien Crown Prince

and his religion demanded the most terrible vengeance he could wreak.

Adrina’s infidelity could not be forgiven — it could only be washed

away in blood.

It was slow going as they picked their way cross country. The terrain was

hard on the horses. One minute they were climbing, the next descending,

and although the slopes were not steep, the horses had been ridden hard

for days now. By the time darkness fell, and with it the temperature,

even some of the magnificent Hythrun horses, renowned for their stamina,

were stumbling. Tarja called a halt and ordered them to make camp, but

refused to allow any fires. The chance of being spotted by a Defender

scout was too real to be ignored.

Tarja hobbled his mount and finally got around to eating something long

after dark, although hard cheese and jerky barely counted as a meal. He

had been spoilt, he decided, living on the border. There was a time when

he didn’t mind trail rations. Had he been tougher then — or just less

discerning, he wondered?

“Tarja?”

He turned, a little surprised to find Adrina weaving her way among the

picketed horses toward him. Her breath frosted in the moonlight and she

held her borrowed jacket tightly closed against the cold.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“Sleep?” she laughed humourlessly. “That’s a joke. Who can sleep

with a thousand Defenders over the next hill and the Kariens riding us

down?”

“You need to rest, then, even if you can’t sleep. The last few days

are going to seem like a picnic compared to what lies ahead.”

She reached up and patted Shadow’s forelock. The mare nuzzled her

hopefully for a moment then returned to her feedbag when she decided the

princess had nothing better to offer.

“Can I ask you something, Tarja?”

“I suppose.”

“If I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t be doing this, would you?”

She knew the answer as well as he did. He wondered what was really behind

the question.

“Cratyn probably wouldn’t be on our tail, but we’d still be hiding

from the Defenders. You can’t blame yourself for that.”

She smiled. “Actually, I’m a little surprised at myself. Taking the

blame for things is not my style. I’ve never been known for my

selflessness.”

Tarja found that very easy to believe.

“I keep thinking I should just go back to Cratyn and be damned.”

“What good would that do?” He hoped he hadn’t let his astonishment

show. Such an offer from Adrina verged on the miraculous.

“R’shiel is missing, Tarja. You should be helping her, not saving me

from my own stupidity.” She smiled self-consciously, as if she was

startled to have made such an admission. “I have a feeling that the

demon child is more important in the general scheme of things than one

disgruntled princess.”

“She’s right, Tarja.”

Brak appeared out of nowhere a pace behind Adrina. The princess spun

around, startled by the unexpected voice. A thousand questions leapt to

Tarja’s mind at the sight of him, but one question overrode every

other, even his astonishment at Brak’s sudden return:

“Where is R’shiel?”

“Closer than you think,” Brak replied, then he bowed to Adrina.

“You must be Hablet’s girl. Adrina, isn’t it? The one who married

Cratyn?”

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Tarja? Who is he?”

“Brakandaran,” Tarja told her, fighting to keep an even temper. What

in the name of the Founders had happened to R’shiel? How did Brak get

here? “He’s Harshini. He was supposed to be looking after

R’shiel.”

“You can’t blame Brak, Tarja, it wasn’t his fault.”

Tarja started at the new voice and turned to find Dace standing behind

him. The God of Thieves was grinning broadly, rather pleased with the

effect of his dramatic entrance.

“What are you doing here?”

“You know, most people would prostrate themselves when confronted with

a god,” Dace pointed out, a little miffed at Tarja’s

less-than-enthusiastic reception.

“I’m not ‘most people’. What happened to R’shiel?”

“That’s a god?” Adrina asked. She looked awestruck, but then, she

was a pagan. Being confronted with one of her gods probably meant a great

deal more to her than it meant to him.

“Unfortunately, yes. This is Dacendaran. He’s supposed to be the God

of Thieves, I think. Personally, I think he’s the God of Unreliable

Fools.”

“Don’t be absurd, Tarja, there’s no such entity. If you’re going

to be like that, then I won’t help you.”

“That’s an empty threat under the circumstances,” Brak remarked.

“But he can’t be a god,” Adrina scoffed. “I’ve seen him in the

Defenders’ camp. He was hanging around with Mikel.”

“My newest and most fervent . . . no actually, he’s more like a

reluctant disciple.”

“Brak, what the hell is going on?”

He held up his hand wearily to stay Tarja’s avalanche of questions.

“Look, I know I have a lot of explaining to do, and I will, I promise.

But let’s find Damin first. I don’t want to have to go over this more

than once.”

CHAPTER 60

“Before I tell you where R’shiel is,” Brak began, looking at each

one of them in turn, “I have to explain a few things.”

They had gathered around a brightly burning fire, safe in the knowledge

that Brak’s magic concealed them from prying eyes. Tarja was sceptical

when he promised they would not be seen, and his men were decidedly edgy,

but even Almodavar seemed satisfied with the Harshini’s assurance that

he was protecting them. The fire warmed them more than it should have,

and he wondered if Brak’s magic was responsible for that too. The

half-Harshini’s eyes were completely black, a sure sign he was drawing

on his power. It reminded Tarja sharply how alien the Harshini really

were.

“You’d better tell them the rules, too,” Dace added.

“What rules?” Tarja asked warily.

“I’ll get to that. There are other things you must understand

first.”

Tarja shifted restlessly. He knew from experience how futile it was to

demand answers from Brak when he wasn’t ready to give them. Damin sat

on his left, with Adrina curled up beside him. On the other side of the

fire sat Almodavar, Ghari and Dace, who seemed quite content to let Brak

do the talking.

“As you’ve probably figured out by now,” Brak continued, “the

Kariens were waiting for us when we reached the Citadel.”

“I tried to warn you,” Dace interjected.

“You knew they were waiting for you? Why in the name of the Founders

didn’t you turn back?”

“Dace warned us Xaphista had believers in the Citadel, Tarja. Even he

didn’t know Terbolt and his priests were there.”

“So much for the infallibility of the gods.”

Dace glared at him, but let the comment pass.

“It wouldn’t have mattered if Dace had given us the disposition of

every Karien on the continent, there were forces at work that would have

seen to it that we did not succeed.”

“How could you fail with the gods on your side?” Adrina scoffed.

“That’s just the point. The only side the gods care about is their

own.”

Dace snorted with disgust at the comment, but he seemed unusually

reticent tonight and offered no other sign of his displeasure.

“Anyway, we reached the Citadel and everything went according to plan

until Joyhinia appeared at the Gathering. The real Joyhinia that is, as

lucid as she ever was.”

“How? I destroyed her wit. Her mind was gone.”

“The Karien priests found her another mind and transferred it into her

body. Once Joyhinia appeared things fell apart fairly rapidly. The demon

meld collapsed and R’shiel couldn’t hold the coercion. She was

discovered within minutes of Terbolt’s appearance. Mahina was arrested.

Draco’s dead, by the way. So is Affiana.”

“And just what were you doing while R’shiel was being arrested?”

Tarja asked, his voice dangerous. The news that that man who fathered him

was dead meant little to him. He was more concerned about Mahina. He was

sick with worry about R’shiel.

“I was also being detained — by Zegarnald.”

Damin sat bolt upright and stared at the Harshini in astonishment. “The

God of War prevented you from going to the demon child’s aid? That

makes no sense. He delivered her to me for safekeeping. Why would he

allow her to fall into the hands of his enemies?”

“The Kariens are your enemies, Damin, not Zegarnald’s. Xaphista is

his adversary and that’s all he’s interested in.”

“I don’t understand,” Adrina said, giving voice to Tarja’s own

confusion.

“The only reason the gods allowed R’shiel to be created was their

need to destroy Xaphista. They’re not interested in anything else. The

demon child has a job to do and they want to be damned sure she’s

capable of doing it.”

“You mean they want to know if she can kill?”

“She can do that readily enough,” Ghari warned her. “Ask anyone who

knew her in the rebellion.”

Brak nodded. “That’s not what concerns them. They’re more worried

that Xaphista will win her over to his cause. She can kill a god. Which

god she destroys is entirely up to her.”

“So they let the Kariens capture her? Isn’t that rather

counter-productive?” Damin asked.

“Zegarnald’s theory is that if she is going to succumb to Xaphista,

he’d rather know now, before she fully realises what she is capable

of.”

“He wants to find out while there’s still a chance she be can

killed,” Tarja translated for the benefit of the others. “That’s

your job, isn’t it, Brak?”

The Harshini dropped his eyes.

Adrina looked at Tarja in confusion before turning back to Brak. “But

what happened to R’shiel?”

“She was taken prisoner.”

“And then what?” Damin asked. He knew Brak, too; knew they had yet to

hear the worst of it.

“You recall I said the Kariens transferred another mind into

Joyhinia’s body? Well it wasn’t just any mind.” Brak looked

straight at Tarja. “It was Loclon’s mind.”

Tarja experienced a moment of such blind, mindless rage that he thought

he might explode from it. He didn’t say a word. He just sat there,

trembling, clenching his fists in helpless fury. The others looked at him

curiously, sensing his mood but unaware of the reason for it. Nobody but

Brak, Dace and Tarja knew of what Loclon had done to R’shiel in the

past. They did not understand.

“I gather from the look on Tarja’s face that this Loclon is not a

very nice person?” Damin asked flippantly. Tarja turned on him with

such fury that the Warlord leaned back, out of his reach. “Sorry . . .

Just trying to lighten the mood. I’ll shut up.”

“That would be a very good idea,” Adrina agreed sternly.

Brak resumed his narrative, looking almost as annoyed at Damin as Adrina

was. “If you need details, I’ll let Tarja fill you in if he wants to.

Suffice to say that Loclon has harmed R’shiel in the past. Enough that

he’s probably the only thing in this world she truly fears.

R’shiel’s feelings for Joyhinia aren’t much better. Being

confronted by both of them in the one body was more than she could

take.”

“Did he kill her?” Tarja asked. His voice was colder than the night.

Brak shook his head. “He roughed her up a bit, but he couldn’t risk

killing her. But for a few cuts and bruises, physically she’s fine.”

“Physically?”

“You remember the night we escaped the Grimfield?”

“I’m not likely to forget it.”

“Then you recall what happened to R’shiel after she tried to kill

Loclon? How she retreated into herself?”

Tarja nodded. “She was like it for days.”

“Well that’s basically what’s happened to her now. She’s alive,

she speaks, she eats; but R’shiel is not there.”

“You mean she’s in some sort of coma?” Adrina asked.

“Not exactly. Tarja knows what I mean. He’s seen her like this

before.”

“Then how do we wake her?”

“We can’t. She has to come back of her own accord.”

“If she wants to come back,” Dace reminded Brak.

“What do you mean?”

Brak sighed. “Wherever she is, it’s more than likely Xaphista is

there too.”

“Then only the gods can reach her? Why don’t you do something,

Dacendaran?”

“I’m not allowed to, Damin,” the young god replied. “Zeggie says

she has to turn away from Xaphista of her own accord, or when it comes

time to face him she’ll simply give in.” He looked around the

fire-lit circle of faces, begging for understanding. “Look, I’m going

to be in enough trouble for freeing Brak. I’d help if I could, but with

all these wars going on, Zegarnald is as strong as he’s ever been.

Unless you can start some sort of worldwide crime wave, I haven’t the

strength to defy him.”

“Then how can Xaphista get to her?” Tarja asked. He didn’t have the

benefit of a pagan education. He was floundering with all this talk of

gods.

“Xaphista gains his strength from his believers and he’s got millions

of them. That’s why the Primal gods fear him.”

“But she’s half-Harshini, isn’t she?” Damin pointed out. “Why

didn’t she just call on her power and escape herself?”

“The priests have blocked her power. They’re using some sort of

collar I’ve never seen before. If she tries to touch the source of her

power it burns. If she manages to get past that, the pain is intolerable.

Not even the demons can reach her.”

Tarja watched Brak, wondering how much of what he told them was

conjecture and how much he knew to be fact.

“So what is Xaphista doing to her?” Adrina wondered aloud.

“I doubt if he’s hurting her,” Brak shrugged. “If anything

he’ll be trying to coax her to follow him. He doesn’t need to kill

R’shiel to remove the threat. He just needs her on his side.”

“So if she defies him, he’ll kill her and if she doesn’t, you’ll

kill her anyway,” Tarja concluded bleakly.

Brak didn’t answer; he didn’t have to.

“Where is she, Brak?”

“With the Defenders camped less than two leagues from here. Terbolt is

escorting her back to Karien.”

The stunned silence lasted only a moment.

“We have to rescue her,” Almodavar announced.

“How?” Tarja demanded.

“We’ll think of something,” Damin said, with a nod to his captain.

“You’re surely not suggesting that we leave her there?”

“Why not? She’s as safe there as anywhere. I’m not going to risk

the life of every man here, just so that the moment we get her back Brak

can kill her.”

The Harshini stared at him with unreadable black eyes.

“Brakandaran would never . . .” Damin began, then saw the look on the

Harshini’s face. “Gods! You can’t be serious!”

Adrina glanced around at the men angrily. “This is insane! You can’t

leave her there. You can’t let them take her back to Karien. They would

destroy her, and trust me, I know what I’m talking about! You have to

rescue her!”

“It won’t be easy,” Ghari warned. “And if she has turned to

Xaphista, she may not want to be rescued.”

“Bollocks!” the Fardohnyan princess spat angrily. “You don’t know

what’s happened to her. You have to give her a chance.”

Tarja nodded in agreement. “Nobody wants to get her back more than I,

Adrina, but she’s being held in the middle of a thousand Defenders.”

“But we have the Harshini on our side,” Damin pointed out. “We

could be in and out before anyone knew about it. That’s assuming

you’ll help us, Brak.”

“I’ll help you as much as I can, but you must understand that I

can’t do anything for R’shiel. She has to make her own decisions.”

He turned to Dace. “I’m allowed to do that much aren’t I, Divine

One?”

Dace nodded miserably. “I suppose.”

“And once we have rescued the demon child?” Ghari asked. “You

forget the Karien force approaching from the north. Unless Lord

Brakandaran can magically transport us away from here, we’ll have

little hope of escape. Cratyn is angry enough to hunt down his wife. I

imagine losing the demon child will do nothing to improve his temper.”

“We need something to distract him,” Damin agreed.

“That’s easy,” Adrina said. “I’ll surrender.”

“No!” Damin cried.

“What else will turn him back, Damin? He seeks his wife. He doesn’t

know that the Defenders approach, or that they have the demon child. If

you can get R’shiel out of the Defenders’ camp, Terbolt will be

furious certainly, but the Defenders will not pursue you with the same

dedication that Cratyn will. With Brak’s help you can get clear. If

Cratyn joins the hunt, nothing will deter him.”

Tarja could see the logic in her plan, but remained silent, as did the

others. This was something they needed to decide between themselves. He

wondered if Damin was beginning to realise just how hard he would find it

to let Adrina go.

“I can’t let you do it, Adrina. If Cratyn suspects for a minute —”

“I’m prepared to take that risk, Damin.”

“Well, I’m not. You’re not going back to him and that’s final. We

haven’t come this far to quit now.” He turned to Tarja, his face

chiselled in determination. “We’ll get R’shiel back, Tarja, then

we’ll run like hell. We’ll split our forces and scatter them so wide,

Cratyn and Terbolt won’t even begin to know where to look. Brak can

conceal us and —”

“And his priests will think I’ve lit a beacon for them,” Brak

warned.

“But you’re shielding us now. Can’t they feel it?”

“I’m helping,” Dace admitted.

“Then you can help us when we flee.”

The God of Thieves shook his head. “That would be interfering. If you

take R’shiel and try to stop what’s happening to her, and Zegarnald

catches me helping you . . .” Dace left the sentence hanging ominously.

The gods could not destroy each other, Tarja knew that much, but he

wondered what one god could do to another that would cause Dacendaran

such concern. He had a feeling he didn’t really want to know.

Damin thought for a moment then shrugged. “What the hell. I wasn’t

planning to live forever anyway. What say we go and rescue the demon

child anyway, and to hell with the risk?”

“You’re mad!” Adrina declared, but she didn’t offer any further

protest, or repeat her offer to return to her husband.

One by one the others nodded their agreement, including Brak, until Damin

turned to Tarja questioningly.

“Well?”

Tarja looked up and met Brak’s unwavering, alien eyes. He wanted to

rescue R’shiel more than he wanted to keep breathing, but he could not

shake the feeling that saving her from her current predicament might be

placing her in even more danger.

“Let’s do it,” he agreed, sounding far more certain than he felt.

It was too late by the time they finished their discussion to take any

action that night, so they planned their rescue attempt for the following

evening. The delay made Tarja nervous. The Kariens were already too close

for comfort and the wait served only to bring them closer.

The Defenders had stopped for the night so Damin sent out scouts to spy

out the lay of their camp as it was more than likely the camp would be

set up in the same way each evening. Two Hythrun Raiders and two

Defenders, hand-picked by Tarja for both their experience and their

common sense, were despatched to learn as much as they could before

sunrise — specifically, where the occupants of the coach were camped.

Tarja didn’t need a spy to tell him they would be in the centre of the

camp, but it would simplify things considerably if he knew exactly which

tent and the disposition of the guards.

He spent the rest of the night organising the Defenders. Although they

travelled in civilian clothing, every man had his uniform safely tucked

away in his saddlebags. Sneaking into the Defender camp would be

impossible, so Tarja planned to march through it openly. With luck, he

could simply walk up to R’shiel’s tent, order her brought out, and

then escort her away without a question being asked.

If she was alone.

If the guards on the tent did not recognise him.

If the guards hadn’t been given any orders to the contrary.

If she was guarded by Defenders, rather than Karien priests.

He forced himself to stop thinking about the ifs. There were too many of

them for comfort.

Damin agreed with his plan, but was rather disappointed that he was not

to be included in the rescue party. He consoled himself with the prospect

of some useful sabotage. A small party of his Raiders would sneak into

the camp and disable the coach, while the rest would attempt to scatter

the horses. Pursuit was certain, once R’shiel was discovered missing,

but they planned to make it as difficult as possible.

That left only Adrina, her slave and the thirty men left of her Guard.

The question of what to do with them was rather hotly debated, mostly

between Damin and the princess. She did not want to be left behind to

wait, and Damin was understandably reluctant to lead her into the middle

of the Defenders’ camp. In they end they compromised. Adrina would stay

with the horses on the edge of the camp, ready for a quick getaway. The

Fardohnyans were more easily dealt with. With Damin as his interpreter,

Tarja told the Fardohnyans they were free to go. He gave them maps to

find their way home and enough supplies to see them to the Glass River.

The young Lanceman accepted their release with quiet gratitude, following

an assurance that the princess would be safe. The men would leave at dawn

— one more scattered group in a landscape that would soon be crowded

with them.

Their plans made, they settled down to rest until daylight. They would

need to travel north tomorrow, shadowing the Defenders until they stopped

again for the evening. Tarja hoped that Cratyn was far enough back that

his troop would not run into the approaching Defenders. They had no real

idea how far behind he was. Their estimates were based almost entirely on

the assumption that Cratyn and his knights were probably armoured, and

therefore unable to maintain any sort of sustained speed. The chances

were good that the Karien force would not meet up with the Defenders

until the day after tomorrow. Tarja needed to be well away by then.

Sleep eluded him, and he finally gave up pretending that he was getting

any rest, just as the first of the stars winked out of existence with the

onset of daylight. He walked to the edge of the camp, climbing a small

hill to look out over their route for the next day. The sound of

following footsteps alerted him to the fact that he was not alone, but he

did not turn. He had a feeling he knew who it was.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Nor can you, I’d guess.”

Brak stepped up beside him and followed Tarja’s gaze.

“I don’t need sleep the way you do. One of the advantages of being

half Harshini.”

They were silent for a time, each alone with his thoughts.

“How bad was it?” Tarja asked eventually.

“Bad enough,” Brak admitted. “You might get a shock when you find

her. He cut her hair.”

Her glorious, dark-red hair. Tarja felt his ire rising, but forced it

down. It would serve no purpose here.

“Tell me the rest of it.”

“There’s not much to tell. It took a while before I finally convinced

Dace to release me — it was a good thing you sent him, by the way.

Zegarnald was quite happy to let me rot. Anyway, Terbolt had already left

the Citadel by then. Joyhinia, or rather Loclon, is still nominally in

charge of the Sisterhood, but he’s taking his orders from a Karien

called Squire Mathen. I don’t know who he is, but he’s working to his

own agenda. Loclon doesn’t have much freedom of action.”

“For as long as I live, I will regret not killing him when I had the

chance.”

“Accept it, Tarja. Being consumed by your regrets is a bad way to

live.”

Tarja was surprised by the bitterness in his voice. “You speak from

experience?”

“Oh yes,” the Harshini replied with feeling.

Tarja glanced at him curiously. Brak’s eyes had returned to their

normal faded blue, but they were full of pain.

“I killed R’shiel’s father, Tarja. In doing so, not only did I

destroy a good friend and my king, I saved her mother and allowed

R’shiel to be born. Trust me, I have regrets that you couldn’t begin

to understand.”

Tarja did understand though, more than Brak realised. “If R’shiel

turns to Xaphista and the other gods want you to kill her, you’ll have

destroyed your king for nothing.”

Brak nodded. “Nobody in this world wants her to succeed more than I do,

Tarja.” Then he added with a sour smile, “and nobody has as much to

lose if she does.”

“Will she succeed?”

“I wish I knew.”

CHAPTER 61

The Crown Prince of Karien was pious, noble and dedicated, but he was not

stupid. He knew the Hythrun were better horseman, knew that they could

travel much farther and faster than he could. So he broke with tradition

and travelled without armour. He left his dukes behind and took only his

good friend Drendyn, the Earl of Tiler’s Pass, and young Jannis, the

Earl of Menthall. They were the only two men in his council he knew to be

loyal to him, rather than to his father. The remainder of his force was

made up of young knights who wanted to curry favour with the heir to the

throne. Jasnoff would not reign forever, nor would the elder dukes. If he

succeeded, these men would form the core of his personal support when he

became king.

If he failed, none of them was so important or well connected that they

would be missed.

Mikel learnt of all this the night before they left in pursuit of the

princess. Cratyn was reluctant to let him out of his sight, so he lay in

the corner of the prince’s tent pretending sleep, listening to Cratyn

make his plans. The prince seemed consumed by a cold determination that

would brook no interference. Their force would travel light: no armour,

no lances, no lackeys, he declared. They would travel from before sunrise

until after sunset. They would eat on the run and each man would lead a

spare horse so that they could change mounts frequently. They would catch

the Hythrun before they reached the Glass River.

Mikel admired Cratyn’s determination, but a small part of him was

beginning to wonder what he had done. The prince was justifiably angry

with Adrina. She had betrayed him most foully, but Mikel hadn’t really

thought about what Cratyn would actually do when he learnt of her

treachery.

He had expected him to be angry, certainly, but he didn’t think the

prince would decide to hunt her down personally. His own anger at

Adrina’s betrayal had faded somewhat. He wanted her punished, but he

wasn’t sure he wanted to witness her murder, and there was no question

about it — that was exactly what Cratyn had in mind.

The journey south proved a nightmare. Mikel clung to his saddle through

long days of endless hard riding, cold rations and freezing nights.

Cratyn made no allowance for his age or inexperience, and worse, when

they did finally stop each night, he treated Mikel as his page and

expected him to unsaddle his horse and fetch and carry for him, just as

if they were back in Karien. Mikel’s admiration was slowly turning into

burning resentment.

On their fourth day out they finally stumbled across proof that they were

on the right road. While looking for a campsite for the night, one of

knights discovered a small grove of trees with the remains of several

fires scattered among the bare trunks. The ashes appeared to be quite

fresh. Drendyn, the most experienced hunter among them, estimated that

the Hythrun were only a day and a half ahead. The news invigorated Cratyn

and the next day the pace he set was even harder. But, towards the

evening of their fifth day on the road, they made a discovery that

changed the whole nature of their mission.

Night had fallen, but the moon was bright. Cratyn judged it safe to

continue, although he did slacken the pace a little and sent two knights

out to ride in the van, a precaution he did not normally bother with.

Mikel rode behind him, swaying in the saddle as fatigue threatened to

unseat him. They had found no further sign of the Hythrun, but Cratyn’s

determination was becoming an obsession. He would ride all night if he

thought the horses could take it.

The sound of galloping hooves jerked Mikel fully awake. One of the

knights sent to ride point was thundering toward them. Cratyn called a

halt and waited for the man to reach them. Mikel leaned forward

anxiously, hoping to hear what was being said. Had they found the Hythrun?

“Sire! Lord Terbolt approaches!”

“Terbolt?” Cratyn repeated, sounding rather puzzled. “But he is

supposed to be at the Citadel. My father dispatched him there at the same

time we left for the border.”

“There’s nearly a thousand Defenders with him, your Highness. They

are camped not more than two or three leagues from here.”

Cratyn nodded, but his brow was furrowed. “You saw no sign of the

Hythrun?”

“No, sire.”

“Then we may have ridden past them. We’ll have to turn back.”

“But Cratyn, what about Terbolt?” Drendyn asked. The young earl rode

at Cratyn’s side and was probably the only man in camp who dared

address him by name. “Shouldn’t we at least pay our respects?”

“I’ve no time to stand on protocol,” Cratyn snapped impatiently.

“Perhaps, but a thousand pairs of eyes are better than two hundred.”

The prince thought about it for a moment then nodded. “Very well, we

shall join Lord Terbolt. And then we’ll look under every rock and every

blade of grass between the border and the Glass River until we unearth

the traitors.”

There was a time when Cratyn’s words would have thrilled Mikel, but now

they simply left him cold.

Cratyn and Mikel rode ahead of the troop and into the Defenders’ camp

amid curious looks and sullen stares. Drendyn had been left in charge

with orders to wait until Cratyn returned. Mikel was disillusioned enough

to realise that his place beside Cratyn was earnt through distrust, not

honour.

As they moved past countless small fires surrounded by red-coated

troopers, Mikel wondered what the Defenders thought about surrendering to

Karien. In his experience, they were proud men — proud of both their

reputation and their Corps. To be under the command of a Karien Duke must

be galling. He was old enough to understand that it was only their

discipline that kept them in line. The Hythrun had fled and Mikel

suspected that the Kariens would have behaved no better, were the

situation reversed. It seemed a tragedy that the very discipline that

made the Defenders famous now placed them at the mercy of their enemies.

Lord Terbolt met them in the centre of the camp, a little surprised to

find his prince so far from the border. Cratyn dismounted but to

Mikel’s relief one of Lord Terbolt’s men led his horse away. Mikel

jumped to the ground wearily, somewhat pleased to find his own mount

being catered for in a similar manner. Cratyn waved him forward and he

followed the prince into Lord Terbolt’s tent, wondering if the Duke

would think to feed them as well.

“I must say, I didn’t expect to find you out here, your Highness,”

Terbolt said as he poured two cups of wine. As an afterthought, he

glanced at Mikel and jerked his head in the direction of a barrel in the

corner of the tent. “There’s water over there. Drink if you wish.”

Mikel bowed and hurried over to the barrel, dipping the ladle into the

chill water gratefully as Cratyn settled into Terbolt’s only

comfortable chair.

“I did not expect to find you either, my Lord.”

“My work was done at the Citadel. I’ve left Mathen overseeing

things.”

Cratyn frowned. “A commoner?”

“He may be a commoner, your Highness, but he’s about the smartest man

I’ve ever met. And the most ruthless. I trust him completely. I believe

you’ll find him eminently qualified for the position.”

“And the demon child?”

“She is here. I’ll have her brought to you if you wish, although if

she truly is destined for great things, I can’t see it in her myself.

But who are we to question our God, eh?”

“Send for her.”

Terbolt nodded and went to the entrance. He pushed back the tent flap and

issued the order then returned to his wine.

“You’ve not told me what brings you out here, your Highness.”

“Adrina has been kidnapped by the Hythrun. They left the border just

before Jenga surrendered.”

Terbolt looked genuinely horrified. “Gods! How did they get across the

border? Wasn’t she guarded?”

“I believe my wife may have . . . contributed . . . to her own

capture,” Cratyn said cautiously. He did not want to admit to Lord

Terbolt that she had run away.

The duke frowned. “I was never happy with this arrangement, Cratyn. You

know that. I would far rather you had married my daughter.”

“And I would much rather have married Chastity, my Lord.”

“There’s not much we can do about it now, I suppose,” Terbolt said

with a sigh.

“Not much.” Cratyn sipped his wine and studied the duke over the rim

of his cup. “Unless of course, something were to happen to my wife.”

“Your Highness?”

“She has been kidnapped by the Hythrun, after all. You know what

barbarians they are. They might do anything. For that matter, they may

even kill her.” He had heard Cratyn express the same sentiment to

Drendyn, but never so coldly, so calmly.

“That would be a great shame,” Terbolt agreed, with the same, bland

expression. If Mikel had not heard it for himself, he would not have

believed the duke could agree to such a thing so easily. “Are you sure

they came this way? We’ve seen no sign of them.”

Before Cratyn could answer the tent flap was thrown open and a Defender

stepped inside. He saluted sharply before speaking.

“R’shiel is not in her tent, my Lord. If you would tell me where she

has been moved, I will have her brought here immediately.”

“What do you mean she’s not in her tent?”

“She was moved a short time ago, sir. The captain who collected her

said that it was at your request. I thought perhaps —”

“I gave no such orders! Who was the captain?”

“I don’t know, sir. The troopers on duty didn’t recognise him.”

Cratyn leapt to his feet, knocking over the chair in his haste. “It was

Tarja Tenragan! I’d stake my life on it!”

“I don’t see how —”

“He was with them! Don’t you see? That’s why we’ve found no sign

of the Hythrun. They’ve been hiding, waiting for their chance to rescue

the demon child. Who else could it be?”

Terbolt thought about it for less then a minute. “How long ago did they

take her, Captain?”

“A quarter of an hour, perhaps, my Lord, no more.”

“Then they’ll still be in the camp somewhere. Rouse your men,

Captain! We have intruders among us. R’shiel must not be allowed to

escape. And I want Tarja Tenragan. I don’t particularly care whether

he’s dead or alive.”

The Defender saluted sharply enough, but it was clear, even to Mikel,

that he did not care for his orders. Cratyn was pacing the tent

impatiently. As soon as the Medalonian had left, he turned to Terbolt.

“If Tarja is here, then Wolfblade is out there somewhere too. And that

means Adrina is with them.”

Terbolt nodded and reached for his sword. “Then the hunting should be

good tonight. Tarja Tenragan’s head will make an excellent trophy.”

“You can mount it over the gates of Yarnarrow Castle,” Cratyn agreed

with bloodthirsty enthusiasm. “Right next to that bitch Adrina’s.”

CHAPTER 62

As R’shiel’s days blurred into each other, she knew they were getting

closer and closer to Karien. Every day took her nearer to the decision

she realised she would soon have to make. The decision that might cost

her her life.

Xaphista spoke to her often, coaxing one minute, taunting the next. As

they neared the border his attempts to win her over developed an edge of

desperation which R’shiel found inexplicable. They were nearing the

place where he was strongest. If anything, she thought he might have

begun to relax.

She was led to her tent once the camp was set up, and went inside without

complaint. The priests left her alone now. Even Terbolt showed no

interest in her. She was simply the package that he was escorting north.

He had no interest in social intercourse, even assuming that R’shiel

would have responded to it.

Loneliness can destroy the soul, R’shiel.

How can I be lonely with you filling my head, day and night?

I would be a good friend, demon child. I would never allow you to be

lonely.

You need to study humans a bit more, Xaphista. Promising that you’ll

never leave me alone is hardly a pleasant thought.

Is it pleasure you seek? I can give you more pleasure than you could

possibly imagine.

You don’t understand pleasure.

Then you shall teach me to understand. Tell me what you want and I will

learn.

Why are you so desperate?

Why are you so stubborn?

When R’shiel refused to answer, he went away.

Later that evening, after her barely touched meal had been removed by a

silent priest, she lay on her pallet and pondered her fate consciously

for the first time since her capture.

Her chances of rescue were remote. Brak would have come to her already if

he could. The demons were linked to her power and she could not call them

without invoking the pain of the collar. Tarja was on the border,

probably already in the custody of the Kariens and awaiting execution.

Damin Wolfblade was either a prisoner of the Kariens himself or fleeing

for Hythria. The Harshini would not bestir themselves from Sanctuary with

so many Karien priests abroad and the Primal gods . . . well, if Xaphista

were to be believed, it was their fault she was in this mess in the first

place.

As she ran through the list of those who might come to her aid, she

realised that she was truly on her own. If she was to be saved — if she

wanted to be saved — she was going to have to do something about it

herself.

The Harshini power that made her what she was lurked tantalisingly out of

reach. She knew it was there; could feel it beckoning, but the pain that

barred her way was stronger than any wall. The only way to access it was

to get rid of the collar, and Xaphista would not allow that to happen

until he was certain that she was completely and utterly his. There was

no point in pretending. He was a god. He could see into her soul. If he

willingly removed the collar, it would be because he knew that she was no

longer a threat to him.

Escape that way was no escape at all.

Or perhaps it was. Perhaps he was right. Why should she do the bidding of

the Primal gods who had been responsible for so much of her suffering?

Why shouldn’t she join with Xaphista? A lifetime of comfort lay down

that path. As the High Priestess of the Overlord, she would know

unlimited power. She could have anything she wanted. Xaphista would

destroy Loclon if she asked. He could spare Tarja if she demanded it.

Anything you want.

The idea was very, very tempting.

Come to me, demon child. Now!

R’shiel did not answer immediately. Besides the weighty nature of the

decision she faced, there were voices outside that sounded vaguely

familiar. She sat up, straining to hear the exchange. Then the tent flap

opened and Tarja stepped through.

He stared at her wordlessly for a moment. The guttering candle by the

pallet only served to highlight his shock at her appearance. Her bruises

had faded, and her hair had grown out enough so that at least she

didn’t have bald patches any more, but she knew she looked terrible.

She was thin and wasted and so deep into herself that she found herself

unable to return.

“R’shiel?”

Do I look so bad that he doesn’t recognise me?

Turn away from him, demon child. He cannot offer you the succour that I

can. Come to me now, child. Everything you ever wanted rests with me.

But Xaphista was wrong. Everything she ever wanted stood before her, with

a look of shock and despair on his face.

His presence seemed to give her an anchor. She clung to it, like a

climber pulling himself hand over hand up a long rope, out of a hole so

deep the top was merely a speck of light in the distance.

“R’shiel? Do you know who I am?”

She nodded. It was the best she could do.

A small relieved smile flickered over his lips then he stepped closer and

gently took her hand.

“I’m taking you out of here,” he explained, as if he knew how hard

she was trying to comprehend. “We have to walk away like nothing’s

wrong.”

You will never know peace if you turn from me now!

She nodded again, not capable of speaking. Tarja held open the flap and

she walked forward, her footsteps taking all her concentration.

He doesn’t even love you! Not really. Kalianah forced it on him. Only I

can love you like you want to be loved.

R’shiel fell in with the guard brought to escort her from the tent.

Tarja walked by her side. He was so tense she could feel it radiating off

him like light from the sun.

You will not defeat me, demon child.

She ignored him, understanding now that her responses gave him power over

her. Acknowledging his presence was only a step away from worshipping him

and it was worship that gave this elevated demon his strength.

You will find that all you believe in is a lie. Then, when you come to

face me, I will not be so understanding. You will suffer for this.

Then the collar started to burn.

CHAPTER 63

Adrina waited in the darkness with Tamylan, holding the six horses that

would take Damin, her and Tamylan, Almodavar and the two other Raiders

Damin had chosen to accompany them to freedom. The entire band would

split into similar small groups and scatter in every direction. The plan

was to give the Defenders so many targets that they would not know which

was the one they sought. She wasn’t even sure which direction they

would head, but it would be opposite to the one Tarja and Brak took with

R’shiel. There was no point in making things any easier for their

adversaries than it already was.

They had said their goodbyes earlier and Tarja had surprised her by

seeking her out. As he had always maintained a distance between them, the

spectre of her brother’s death prevented them ever becoming close, she

found his gesture quite out of character. He had led her away a short

distance from the others as they were preparing to depart.

“If we succeed, we may never meet again, your Highness.”

“I respect you, Tarja, but not enough to hope we fail on the off-chance

we might become friends.”

“Then can a would-be friend give you some parting advice?”

“If you think it will do any good. Listening to advice isn’t one of

my strong suits either.”

He smiled for a moment, then his expression grew serious. “Decide what

you plan to do about Damin, and sooner rather than later.”

“What’s to decide? I know he’s your friend, Tarja, but don’t

mistake his actions for anything noble. He doesn’t want a Karien heir

to my father’s throne. It’s really that simple.”

Tarja shook his head. “Kid yourself all you want, Adrina. He’s in

love with you. Probably almost as much as you are with him.” He held up

his hand to forestall her protest. “Don’t bother to deny it. The only

two people in Medalon who can’t see what’s going on are you and

Damin.”

“You’re imagining things!” she scoffed.

“Am I?” he asked. “In that case, it doesn’t matter where you go,

simply that you stay free of Cratyn. I’ll go and tell Damin you’ve

decided to come with R’shiel and me instead, shall I? That way he’s

free to head back to Hythria and you can —”

“No!” Her panic at his suggestion had surprised her.

He smiled. “See? It’s not really that simple at all, is it?”

Adrina was not willing to concede the unthinkable. “You’re jumping to

conclusions, Tarja. If I go with Damin, I’ll be closer to home. The

gods alone know where you and R’shiel are liable to wind up.”

Tarja shook his head and smiled knowingly. “Have it your way, your

Highness. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, then led her back to the others.

Have it your way. Adrina stamped her feet against the cold and replayed

the conversation in her mind. It was her own fault, she knew. These

Medalonians simply didn’t understand. She’d had scores of lovers . .

. well, that was an exaggeration, but she’d had several. They were fun

for a while and then they left. Of course, they had all been court’esa,

and in the employ of her father, but that didn’t make them any less

intimate . . . well . . . maybe it did. A court’esa’s livelihood

depended on their ability to satisfy and entertain their employer. She

was the king’s daughter so she had only ever been provided with the

very best.

Damin was her first — her only — lover who did not need her approval

or her patronage. He did not need her wealth. He did not need her

position to advance himself. He could not even marry her as she was

already married to someone else. On the contrary, he courted danger by

courting her.

Perhaps that was the attraction for him. It certainly wasn’t love. The

heir to the Hythrun throne did not fall in love with the King of

Fardohnya’s eldest daughter. That, along with lovers who rode all day

and made love all night, belonged in a bard’s tale. It was the sort of

plot one could expect to find in a badly acted tragedy by a band of

travelling minstrels. It simply didn’t happen in real life.

She would not allow it to happen.

One of the horses snorted irritably. Adrina patted the gelding’s neck,

whispering soothing nothings to him, hoping nobody could hear them. What

in the name of the gods is taking them so long? Adrina peered into the

darkness, wishing she knew how long they had been waiting. It seemed to

be forever, but she was not good at judging time. Others who took care of

such mundane things had always regulated her life. She glanced at Tamylan

who was standing by the other horses. The day’s rest had done her good,

but she was still stiff and sore. She held the reins, standing close to

the horses for warmth, her whole body listening for danger.

Perhaps I should ask Tam what she thinks?

Adrina knew that if asked for, Tamylan’s opinion would be as honest as

it was tactless.

I should do something for her when we get home. Free her, maybe, and gift

her with some property. Enough that she need never work again. She really

has been a tower of strength through all of this. I wonder what I ever

did to deserve such loyalty?

Not much, that Adrina could recall.

How did I ever come to this? she wondered. I am standing here in the dead

of the night, freezing to death, a bare fifty paces from a camp full of

Defenders, in the middle of nowhere and the only people I can count as my

friends are a slave, a man wanted for murder and an enemy warlord.

Which brought her back to wondering about Damin.

She was determined not to believe what Tarja told her, but when they had

sneaked away into the darkness Damin had slipped back to kiss her

goodbye. It was, short, hard and passionate. Not the kiss of a lover, but

the kiss of a daredevil stealing a moment of pleasure in the midst of

danger.

He wasn’t in love with anyone but himself.

All thoughts of Damin Wolfblade’s failings were suddenly forgotten as a

high-pitched, agonised scream split the night. The horses reared at the

sound, almost jerking Adrina’s arm out of its socket. She and Tamylan

struggled to keep the beasts under control as all hell broke loose in the

Defenders’ camp.

Torches flared brightly as the camp was roused, the sound of shouting, of

orders issued then countermanded, overlaid the screams that tore into

Adrina’s soul.

The screams were female. Whoever it was, she sounded like she was dying.

“Mount up, Tam!” she whispered urgently. When Damin and the others

made it out of the camp, every second would count. The shouting grew

closer and the torches were so near that she could see the flames

clearly, although the fold of the land still concealed their bearers. Tam

scrambled into the saddle of the nearest horse, but dropped the reins of

the other two. With a curse, Adrina kicked her mount forward and leaned

down to reach for the reins of the nearest beast.

“Go! Get out of here! Now!”

She turned toward the shout and discovered Damin, Almodavar and one of

the Raiders barrelling down the small slope behind them. On their heels

were so many Defenders she could not begin to count them. She froze for a

moment, torn between escape and assuring herself that Damin would win

free of his pursuers.

“Run!” Damin screamed, seeing her hesitation.

The slope was swarming with Defenders now. Torches dotted their ranks,

lighting their red coats in scattered patches along the ridge like drops

of hot blood. Tam gave up trying to catch the other horse and looked to

her mistress desperately.

“Adrina! Let’s go!”

She wavered for another instant. Long enough to see first Almodavar and

then the Raider, overcome by the Defenders. But Damin still ran free.

Turning her horse savagely, she galloped toward him. Tam’s desperate

cry of protest was drowned out by the shouts of the Defenders and the

tortured screams that tore relentlessly through the darkness. The gap

between them narrowed as the distance between Damin and the Defenders

closed even faster.

The arrow, when it hit her in the shoulder, took her completely by

surprise. She toppled from the saddle just as Damin reached her and that

was only seconds before the Defenders overcame them both.

She had time to notice that the screams had stopped, just before she

fainted.

When Adrina came to she was in a tent, which was bare of anything but the

centre pole supporting the roof. She realised there was another body that

lay groaning softly on the other side of the tent. She rolled over and

cried out in pain. Her shoulder ached abominably and her fingers came

away sticky with blood when she gently probed the source of her agony.

She tried to recall what had happened, but the details were sketchy. She

remembered trying to help Damin. And the screams. Gods, she would never

forget the screams. Something had hit her and she had fallen. Had Damin

won free? She seemed to recall seeing his face, his eyes full of anger.

Why had he been angry? Because she had tried to come to his rescue?

Typical.

And what in the name of the gods had happened to Tam? Her last sight of

the slave was her desperately calling Adrina back. Had she been captured

too? Why wasn’t she here? The fate of a female slave in a Fardohnyan

war camp was a foregone conclusion, but the Defenders were better

disciplined. The Sisterhood who ruled them would not countenance such

behaviour. Tamylan’s absence meant she had escaped — or she was dead.

Adrina prayed it was the former. She feared it was the latter.

The body groaned again and Adrina stopped thinking of her own troubles

long enough to wonder who it was. She sat up carefully and moved across

the small gap separating them on her knees. Her companion was a young

woman with short-cropped red hair wearing dark, close-fitting leathers

and a silver collar smeared with dried blood.

“R’shiel?”

It couldn’t really be anyone else, but she was hardly what Adrina had

envisioned. The girl was younger than she expected, and in her present

condition she was far from the matchless beauty Damin had described.

What did one say to the fabled Harshini demon child?

“I’m Adrina,” she said, unable to think of anything else.

R’shiel stared at her uncomprehendingly.

“We have a mutual friend,” she added inanely. “Tarja Tenragan.”

I sound like Lady Chastity.

The demon child blinked at the mention of Tarja’s name, but that was

the only reaction Adrina could get from her.

“R’shiel?”

She shook her shoulder, gently at first, and then quite roughly when that

had no effect. Although R’shiel’s eyes were open, there was no light

of comprehension in them. Adrina shrugged and immediately regretted it.

Her shoulder was pounding and there was no point speaking to someone who

was so obviously not listening. Brak had said something about that.

Something about R’shiel retreating so far into herself that she was

almost comatose.

“Well, I hope you don’t stay away for too much longer,” she told

R’shiel irritably. “Right now the only thing that’s going to save

either of us is a bloody miracle, so if you don’t mind, get over

whatever it is that’s upsetting you girl, and come to your senses.

There are people here who need you.”

Her reprimand delivered, Adrina sat back on her heels and waited for them

to come for her.

CHAPTER 64

There are people here who need you.

The words filtered down through R’shiel’s pain. She did not know who

had voiced them, but they echoed through the emptiness like a reproach.

I warned you, demon child. If you will not come to me through love, you

will come to me through fear. The end result is the same.

The memory of the pain was too fresh for R’shiel to deny Xaphista’s

claim. But if she could not face him, she could run from him.

There are people here who need you.

R’shiel clung to the thought, clawing her way back to sanity with every

scrap of her remaining strength.

She blinked suddenly and looked around. Canvas walls surrounded her and

the ground where she lay was cold and hard. She turned her head, ignoring

the pain the movement caused as the square of bright light intruded. It

was blocked a moment later by the figure of a man stepping through,

followed by several others. They were Defenders, but that meant nothing.

The Defenders were her enemies now.

Someone pulled her to her feet, along with another prisoner. R’shiel

did not have time to wonder who she was before they were both hustled out

of the tent and led through the camp to Lord Terbolt’s tent.

Waiting inside was Lord Terbolt, a young man with brown hair and angry

eyes, and in the corner, the young Karien boy who had been a prisoner in

the Defenders’ camp. She could not imagine how he came to be here.

“Your Highness,” Terbolt said with a short bow.

R’shiel was a little surprised to hear her fellow prisoner being

addressed so formally. It hurt too much to move her head so she tried to

study her out of the corner of her eye.

She was shorter than R’shiel, but even her rough clothing and her

dishevelled appearance could not conceal her innate beauty. She was

foreign; her skin was dusky and her hair much darker than R’shiel’s,

and she had startling green eyes. Perhaps she was Fardohnyan. She

certainly wasn’t from Medalon and Karien never produced such exotic

looks.

“And this is supposed to be the demon child?” the young man asked

sceptically. “She doesn’t look much, does she?”

“I recall thinking the same thing when I met you, Cretin,” the woman

snapped with a surprising amount of venom.

The young man leapt to his feet angrily. “You will only speak when

spoken to, whore!”

R’shiel fought to stay conscious, the argument between the angry young

Karien and the beautiful Fardohnyan woman giving her something to focus

on. She didn’t know either of them, but their conflict kept the

nothingness at bay. It kept away Xaphista’s persistent attempts to coax

her back down into the hole. If she went back now, she would never

escape. She knew that with a certainty.

“Don’t you dare speak to me in such a tone!” the Fardohnyan

declared. “When my father hears about this —”

“When he hears about what, Adrina? Your treachery or your Hythrun

lover?”

Adrina. Damin’s floozy in the see-through dress. Hysterical laughter

bubbled up inside her but she fought it down. The sobering process was

helped considerably by the realisation that this young man was probably

Prince Cratyn. And the Hythrun lover? Even in her semi-conscious state,

R’shiel could easily guess who that was.

“What lover?” Adrina scoffed. “Is this some pathetic story you’ve

invented to provide an excuse to have me stoned? No one will believe you,

Cretin. I am a loyal and dutiful wife. It is you who could never get the

job done.”

Cratyn smiled coldly. “I have a witness, Adrina.”

R’shiel’s eyes fixed on the Karien boy, who looked as if he would

rather be any place but in this tent. He was so guilty he was trembling

with it.

Adrina glanced at the boy also, then laughed. “Mikel is your witness? A

boy who’s spent as much time with the enemy as he has with you? He’s

not even a disciple of the Overlord. He follows Dacendaran, the God of

Thieves, and I have that from the god himself.”

“There are no other gods,” Cratyn retorted.

Good, then you don’t need me, R’shiel said to herself.

Terbolt turned to the boy who cowered under his gaze.

“Is this true, boy? Do you follow a false god?”

“No!” he cried. “I follow the Overlord.”

“That’s not what Dace says,” Adrina said smugly.

“Dace?” The boy looked utterly confused. “But he’s just a

thief.”

“Then you do know him?” Terbolt asked.

“Well, yes, but —”

Cratyn grabbed the boy and shook him savagely. “Is this true? You are

an agent of the God of Thieves?”

“Pick on someone your own size, Cretin.”

He threw the boy down and turned on the princess, slapping her with a

vicious backhanded blow. “Shut up!”

Adrina stumbled backward but when she looked back at him, once she

regained her balance and wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth,

her eyes were full of defiance.

“It’s not going to work, is it, Cretin. What was your plan? Hunt me

down and kill me and claim the Hythrun did it? Only the Defenders found

me first, so you had to fall back on your other plan, didn’t you?

Accuse me of adultery and have me stoned. But your star witness can’t

testify for you, can he? He isn’t just a disciple of Dacendaran, he

counts him as a friend! Now what are you going to do?” Cratyn hit her

again. Adrina staggered backwards, then turned on R’shiel. “Hey!

Demon child! If you’re thinking of doing anything useful, now would be

a pretty good time!”

Cratyn struck her again. His anger had slipped beyond reason.

“Leave the princess alone!” Mikel cried in protest but Lord Terbolt

held him back.

Come to me, R’shiel. Through love or fear, the end result is the same.

The boy struggled against Terbolt as Adrina launched herself at Cratyn.

She hit him with a clenched fist, almost knocking him off his feet.

Princess she might be, but she fought like an alley cat, although she

cried out as fresh blood seeped from the wound in her shoulder. But

neither the pain nor the fact that Cratyn was bigger and stronger than

she was seemed to deter her.

There are people here who need you.

It was Adrina who had spoken those words, R’shiel realised with a start.

Cratyn managed to push Adrina off him and draw his sword. At the sight of

the blade, Adrina knew she was done for, R’shiel could tell by the look

in her eyes. Mikel was sobbing as he realised what Cratyn intended.

But not Adrina. She was defiant to the last.

“Go on, Cretin. Kill me. But before you do, I want you to know that I

did take a lover. And do you know what? It was wonderful! He was strong

and passionate and I made love to him every chance I could, anywhere I

could. But the best part . . . the best part . . . was that he made me

forget you and your evil, insidious Overlord.”

If you’re planning to do anything useful, now would be a pretty good

time.

Your evil, insidious Overlord.

Cratyn raised his sword at the same time that R’shiel reached into her

boot and drew the small dagger that Garet Warner had given her. Her aim

was unerring. It took Cratyn in the chest with a solid thunk.

The young prince looked down in astonishment at the blade that was buried

up to the hilt in his tabard, before his eyes rolled back in his head and

he dropped to the floor.

Adrina stared at R’shiel for a moment then smiled. “I’ll give you

one thing, demon child, your timing is impeccable.”

She had no chance to reply. Terbolt threw the boy aside and opened his

mouth to call the guards. R’shiel’s eyes darkened as she drew on her

power. The burning seared through her but she ignored it.

She understood now. The collar worked on fear as much as pain. Xaphista

had told her that himself. Come to me, R’shiel. Through love or fear,

the end result is the same. Fear, not pain. It was her fear of the pain

the blocked her power, not the pain itself. If Adrina could stand

fearlessly in the face of death, R’shiel could cope with a little

burning agony.

She raised her arm and pointed at Terbolt. The duke dropped to the ground

before he could utter a word, dead or unconscious — even R’shiel

didn’t know for certain. She turned her attention inward then and

focused on the collar. It disintegrated with a thought, falling away from

her neck like sparkles thrown at a children’s party. With it went the

pain. In the back of her mind she caught the echo of an anguished cry.

Xaphista realising she was lost to him.

For the first time in weeks, R’shiel felt whole again. The power

coursing through her eased her pain and healed the burns. The feeling was

the closest thing to pure ecstasy she had ever experienced.

R’shiel turned her black eyes on Adrina. She liked this fearless

Fardohnyan princess. She reached out and touched her shoulder, felt the

muscle and skin knit beneath her hand.

Adrina stared in wonder for a moment, flexing her healed shoulder, then

she frowned at R’shiel. “Thank you. Now, are you just going to stand

there looking majestic, or are we going to help the others?”

“Where are they?”

“How should I know? Mikel!”

The boy edged his way past the bodies of Lord Terbolt and Prince Cratyn.

Adrina caught his sleeve as he neared the entrance and pulled him to her,

squatting down so that she was eye to eye with the terrified child.

“Do you know where they’re holding the others, Mikel?”

He nodded dumbly.

“Good. Then we shall go and rescue them. You needn’t be afraid.

R’shiel is Harshini and she’ll protect us with her magic.” The boy

began to cry. Adrina rolled her eyes, but she put her arms around him and

hugged him gently. “There, there, Mikel. Don’t let it upset you.”

“But I’ve betrayed the Overlord. And my prince.”

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over that, child. You have

Dacendaran to pray to now and Cratyn isn’t worth crying over. Now, are

you going to help us or not?”

Mikel wiped his eyes and nodded.

“Good boy. Shall we go then?” She looked up at R’shiel

questioningly.

“This could get messy,” she warned. “The priests can feel me now

and I’m really not very good at this.”

Adrina looked around the tent and shrugged. “You seem to be doing just

fine to me.”

They stepped out of the tent and into chaos. The priests rushed toward

Terbolt’s tent clutching their magic-killing staffs, shouting

conflicting orders to the Defenders. As R’shiel emerged into the

sunlight with Adrina and Mikel, the priests halted their headlong rush.

They stood before her cautiously, their lips moving silently as they

prayed to their god.

Garanus stepped forward, holding his staff before him. The Defenders, for

whom religion was a quaint foreign custom, stood back to give him room.

They were curious, not alarmed. Two women and a child hardly warranted

their attention and they had no idea what lay inside the Karien lord’s

tent. The priests’ antics were more entertaining than threatening and

they were reluctant allies at best.

“I call on the Overlord to strike you down, demon child!” Garanus

chanted as he approached. He knew she was drawing on her power, his staff

would have warned him, even if her eyes did not. “I call on Xaphista to

vanquish your evil!”

“Vanquish?” Adrina muttered behind her. “Where do they come up with

this nonsense? Do something about him R’shiel. We haven’t got time

for this.”

Brave she might be, but Adrina certainly wasn’t blessed with patience

in any great quantity.

Garanus was chanting loudly, in unison with the other priests. Her skin

tingled as the magic they tried to raise washed over her. It was stronger

than it should have been. Xaphista was lending them a hand.

Without warning a bolt of bright light exploded from the tip of

Garanus’ staff. R’shiel raised her arm deflected the bolt with a

thought. It landed with crash amidst the tents a few paces away, sending

Defenders scurrying for safety. Another bolt followed it and then

another. Xaphista wanted to destroy her. There was no question about that

now. She had chosen sides and in His mind, chosen the wrong one.

I am the demon child, she told herself, and Xaphista has only a

smattering of believers here. This battle, at least, I can win.

R’shiel deflected another blinding bolt of lightning and then pointed

at the staff Garanus carried. It exploded in a burst of shattered gems,

sending the few Defenders left standing diving for cover. The staffs of

the other three priests behind him exploded almost immediately after.

She looked past them and discovered Brak, his eyes as black as hers,

standing behind the priests. He nodded as she caught his eye, but made no

move to aid her. R’shiel smiled briefly, then focused her disconcerting

eyes on the Kariens.

“If you leave now, I will let you live. If you choose to stay, you will

meet Xaphista a lot sooner than you expected.”

To his credit, Garanus hesitated. Without his staff he had no more power

than any other mortal. He debated the issue for a moment or two then

glanced over his shoulder at Brak. He might be brave enough to tackle one

simple girl, but two Harshini filled with a power he was helpless to

combat, was enough to sway him. He conceded defeat with ill grace.

“This is a temporary victory only, demon child. You cannot defeat the

Overlord.”

“We’ll find that out some other day. Now go, before I change my

mind.”

The priests fled as the Defenders emerged from their cover. Their faces

ranged from confused to completely stunned. Others hurried to put out the

scattered fires that she had started as she deflected the lightning. For

weeks they had ridden under the command of Terbolt and his priests.

R’shiel’s dismissal of them left them speechless. Brak walked toward

her and treated her to a rare smile of approval.

“Where have you been?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied.

Not all the Defenders were at a loss for words, however. A captain

stepped forward, blocking their path, his sword drawn. R’shiel

recognised him as Denjon, one of Tarja’s classmates when they were

cadets.

“Where is Lord Terbolt, R’shiel?”

“In the tent with Cratyn,” Adrina answered for her, rather more

cheerfully than the situation warranted. “You might want to take

command now, Captain. Lord Terbolt is indisposed and it seems I’m a

widow.”

The captain stared at them for a moment, then allowed himself a thin

smile. “That’s tragic news, your Highness. You have my condolences.”

“Thank you, Captain, but don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be able to

deal with my grief.”

“Where are Tarja and the others, Denjon?”

“The Hythrun and the Defenders who tried to free you are being held

down near the picket line. Tarja’s in the Infirmary tent.”

R’shiel’s heart skipped a beat. “Where? What happened?”

“What do you think happened, R’shiel? He doesn’t believe in giving

in gracefully. He took a sword in the belly trying to get you out of

here.”

There was a reprimand in his words that startled R’shiel. “You sound

as if you think this is all my fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Denjon asked. He met her alien eyes for a moment then

looked away. “Sergeant! Find Captain Dorak and tell him to go to Lord

Terbolt’s tent. And then go down to the picket line and . . . .

who’s in charge of the Hythrun?”

“Lord Wolfblade,” Adrina told him.

“The Lord Wolfblade?” He had obviously not been aware of the

importance of his prisoner. Adrina nodded, rather amused by his

expression. Denjon turned back to the sergeant. “Bring Lord Wolfblade

to me. And do it tactfully, Sergeant. The last I heard he was supposed to

be on our side.”

“Sir!” The man saluted and turned to go, but Denjon called him back

before he had taken more than two steps.

“Send someone to fetch Captain Kilton and Captain Linst, too. I’ll be

in the Infirmary.”

The sergeant left to carry out his orders and Denjon turned back to

R’shiel.

“I have to warn you, he’s in a bad way.”

“Just take me to him, Denjon.”

“As you wish.”

The captain turned and led the way through the camp followed by

R’shiel, Brak, Adrina, Mikel and the curious eyes of a thousand

Defenders who sensed that something very significant had just occurred.

Just how significant it was would not be known until the officers had

decided what to do now that they were effectively free of Karien control.

They had two choices, R’shiel knew: obey their orders and continue on

to the border, or defy them and choose a much more dangerous path.

She was certain the latter was what they wanted to do, but she was not at

all certain that they would act on it. The Defenders took their duty very

seriously. Of all the men she knew in the corps, only Tarja and Jenga had

ever had the strength to defy their oath when faced with something they

found they could not stomach.

As Denjon pushed back the flap to the large Infirmary tent and the

sickening smell of blood and death washed over her, she could only hope

that Tarja’s brother captains, when it came to the crunch, were made of

the same stuff.

CHAPTER 65

The first thing that R’shiel noticed in the long tent was the absence

of any physics. An occupation almost entirely restricted to Sisters of

the Blade, it did not seem possible that the Defenders would undertake

such a journey without some of them in attendance. When she questioned

Denjon about them, he shrugged.

“It was Lord Terbolt’s decision. There are no sisters in the camp at

all. I don’t think he trusts them. Besides,” he added. “We were

simply escorting him to the border. We weren’t expecting any trouble.”

“Why would Terbolt want a thousand-man escort? That seems a bit

excessive, even for a Karien.”

“Because when the Fardohnyans cross the southern border, the Defenders

will send for reinforcements,” Damin remarked, pushing through the tent

flap behind them. “If the troops are in the north, even if the

Sisterhood wanted to, they couldn’t send help. What the Kariens don’t

know is that Hablet is playing his own game. He’s not coming to help

the Kariens, he’s heading for Hythria.”

Adrina spun around at the sound of his voice and flew at him. Damin

caught her in a brief hug then held her at arm’s length. “Are you

alright?”

“I’m fine. R’shiel came through in the nick of time.”

At the mention of her name, he looked up, unable to hide his shock. With

her hair cut close and her eyes black with the power she refused to

relinquish, she must look nothing like the girl he remembered.

“Where’s Tarja?” he asked.

The sergeant must have told him what was happening, or what little he

knew, at any rate.

R’shiel glanced at Denjon, who pointed to the narrow pallet at the far

end of the tent. Only a few of the beds were occupied, and the men in

them all looked seriously injured. The Defenders had a fairly generous

definition of “walking wounded”. If a man could stand, he wasn’t

sick enough to be confined to bed. These men were simply the worst of the

night’s casualties. There would be many more out in the camp suffering

the effects of Tarja’s abortive rescue attempt.

Afraid of what she would find, she pushed past Denjon and the medic in

attendance and approached him cautiously. Her throat constricted as she

neared him. He was paler than death and barely breathing.

“If you’ve anything important to say to him, make it quick,” the

medic suggested with cold practicality. “He’s going fast. Lost so

much blood it’s a wonder he’s still got anything for his heart to

do.”

R’shiel stared at the man in horror then sought Brak out among those

crowded into the tent. He had released his hold on the power and his

faded eyes were clouded with doubt.

He knew what she wanted. She did not have to ask.

“I don’t know, R’shiel.”

Adrina still clung to Damin but she looked at them both with wide eyes,

confused by their doubt.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re Harshini. You can heal

him, can’t you? R’shiel fixed me up with just a touch.”

R’shiel knelt beside the bed and placed her hand on Tarja’s forehead.

His skin was cold and clammy. He was deeply unconscious, a step away from

death and heading in the wrong direction. The power seemed to both

sharpen and deaden her senses at the same time. She could feel the life

slipping away from him, but she was insulated from the grief somehow.

Perhaps it would hit her later, once she let the power go.

“Get out,” she ordered softly. When no one seemed inclined to heed

her, she looked up, her eyes blazing. “Out! All of you!”

Startled by her tone, they did not argue. As they filed from the tent,

she turned back to Tarja, wishing she knew where to start. Healing

Adrina’s fresh, uncomplicated arrow wound was one thing. Bringing

someone back from the brink of death was quite another.

R’shiel waited until she knew she was alone, except for the one person

she was certain would not leave her while she was drawing on this much

power. She didn’t know if it was loyalty or distrust that kept him

there. Nor did she care.

“I can’t do this, Brak. I don’t know enough about healing.”

“I’ll not be much help to you, R’shiel. Like yours, my talent lies

in the other direction.”

She looked up sharply, wondering how he could be so callous.

“I have to try.”

“Have you considered the possibility that this was meant to be?”

“What do you mean?” He could not meet her eye. “Brak! What do you

mean?”

“Death decides when one’s time is up, R’shiel, not you, or me, or

anyone else for that matter.”

“You’re telling me Tarja’s time is up?”

“I’m telling you Death doesn’t negotiate.”

She pushed the hair from Tarja’s forehead gently. “What if I speak to

Death? Can’t I ask him not to take Tarja?”

“Not without offering a life of equal value in return.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because that’s what happened when the Harshini healed you,

R’shiel. Death demanded a life in return.”

“Whose life? Who could make that kind of decision?”

When he did not answer she looked up, her face drained of colour. “It

was you, wasn’t it?” R’shiel looked down at Tarja for a moment then

slowly climbed to her feet. “Was it Tarja, Brak? Is that why you want

me to let him die? So you can fulfil your bargain with death?”

“R’shiel —”

“Tell me, Brak!” she cried, turning on him angrily. “Who is going

to die? Whose life did you trade for mine? You bastard! How could you do

such a thing?”

“I couldn’t let you die, R’shiel.”

“You think I want to live knowing some poor sod carries a death

sentence so I can keep breathing? Who, Brak? Who did you condemn to

death? It was Tarja, wasn’t it? Tarja has to die, so I can live. A soul

of equal value, you said . . .”

Brak grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. Hard. She stopped her

tirade and threw her arms around him, sobbing.

“It wasn’t Tarja,” he told her gently as he held her.

She pulled away from him and wiped her eyes. “Who was it, Brak?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“Yes I do.”

“No, you don’t. And I’m not going to tell you, at any rate. See to

Tarja. Perhaps he’s destined to die, perhaps he isn’t. I don’t

know.”

“I don’t believe in destiny.”

“Which accounts for most of the trouble you’ve found yourself in

lately.” He led her back to the pallet and knelt beside her, studying

Tarja’s unconscious form with a much more experienced eye. “He’s

close to death, R’shiel. Even Cheltaran would find it hard to bring him

back.”

“I have the power to flatten mountains, Brak, you said that yourself.

If you could just show me . . .” She stroked Tarja’s clammy forehead,

her desperation almost severing her hold on the power. “Can’t you do

what Glenanaran did for me? Stop time?”

“And hold him on the edge of death to what purpose, R’shiel? The

problem isn’t the wound, it’s the blood he’s lost. You can knit

bones and flesh easily enough, but not even the gods can manufacture

blood out of thin air.”

“But I can feel him dying!”

“I know.”

“Then tell me what to do!” she cried. “Should I call Cheltaran?

He’s the God of Healing. He should —”

“He won’t come, R’shiel,” Dacendaran told her miserably, as he

appeared at the foot of the bed. “Zegarnald won’t let him.”

Anger surged through R’shiel, its edge honed by the power she held. How

dare Zegarnald deny Tarja his only chance at life? ‘What do you mean?

He won’t let him come?”

The young god shrugged uncomfortably. “He said something about you

taking the easy way too often.”

“You mean Tarja is dying as some sort of test?” she gasped furiously.

“What sort of sick breed are you, Dace? That’s inhuman!”

“Now you finally begin to understand,” Brak said.

Dace tugged on a loose thread on his motley shirt, avoiding R’shiel’s

accusing eyes. “It’s not my fault. I’m not even supposed to be

here. But Kali likes Tarja, so she’s keeping Zegarnald busy.”

“What did Kalianah say, Dace?”

R’shiel looked at Brak, wondering at the question.

“She said to tell R’shiel that love will prevail.”

“Oh, well that’s a big help,” R’shiel scoffed.

“Don’t be like that. I’m just the messenger. She said to tell you

that you have guardians that protect you and that protection will embrace

all who love you truly. That’s why she did what she did, I think. She

knows things sometimes . . . ” Dace trailed off with a sigh. “I’m

sorry, R’shiel. I have to go. I wish you’d been a thief. I could have

helped you a lot more.”

R’shiel felt the god leave, but she was too concerned about Tarja to

care much. She was terrified that he would slip away before she could

intervene, and afraid of what would happen if she did. Living without him

would be hard enough; contributing to his death would be intolerable.

“You should never ignore a message from the gods, R’shiel,” Brak

warned. “Particularly one as powerful as Kalianah.”

“Love will prevail,” she repeated caustically, in a fair imitation of

Dace.

“She also said you have guardians that protect you, and that protection

will embrace all who love you truly.”

“What guardians?”

Brak did not answer. He merely waited for the answer to come to her. When

it did, she could have cried, but whether from anger at her own

stupidity, or sheer relief, she could not tell.

“The demons!”

She had barely framed the thought when Dranymire popped into existence at

the foot of the bed. His appearance was followed by a high-pitched

squeal, as the little demon who had grown so fond of sleeping in their

bed scrambled thoughtlessly across Tarja and jumped into her arms. The

little demon appeared to have recovered from her ordeal in the Citadel.

She hugged the creature and turned to Dranymire.

“We were wondering when you would remember us,” the demon said in his

unnaturally deep voice.

“I’m sorry, Dranymire. But after the Gathering . . . so much has

happened . . .”

The demon shrugged. “You have nothing to apologise for, except perhaps

for not thinking of us sooner. What grieves you, demon child?”

“Can you show me how to heal Tarja?”

“Did you learn nothing at Sanctuary?”

“But he’s lost so much blood!”

“Don’t human bodies make their own blood?” Dranymire asked

curiously. “They certainly spill enough of it to make one think it was

readily replaced.”

“He’ll die before his body can replace what he’s lost,” Brak

explained.

“Then you need blood to keep him alive, long enough for his own body to

repair itself.” He looked at R’shiel with his too-big eyes. They were

filled with compassion. “This human’s death would cause you much

pain, I suspect.”

“More than anything I have ever suffered.”

Dranymire nodded solemnly. “We could do nothing to protect you from

pain the gods imposed on you, but we can do something to prevent this.”

“What can you do? I don’t understand.”

“We shall be his blood.”

“What?” R’shiel began to wonder if she had slipped back into the

realms of her living nightmare.

“We shall meld and become the blood that he requires.”

“You can do that?” She looked at Brak for confirmation. The idea was

too bizarre to comprehend.

Brak nodded. “Wounded Harshini have been saved by their bonded demons

entering their bodies until they could reach help. It’s not unheard

of.”

“It is where I come from.”

He smiled faintly. “You still have so much to learn, don’t you?”

“Will this really work?”

Brak glanced at Dranymire who shrugged. “Humans and Harshini are not so

different.”

“Then let’s do it,” she announced, reaching for the thin blanket

that covered Tarja.

Brak laid a restraining hand on hers. “A word of caution, R’shiel.

This will mean that until he’s recovered enough to survive on his own,

Tarja will be literally possessed by demons. Not even Dranymire knows

what that will do to him if he survives. Are you prepared for that?”

She thought for a moment before replying.

“One problem at a time. I’ll deal with the consequences later.”

He shook his head. “Just so long as you understand that you could be

making a big mistake.”

R’shiel did not reply. Rather she pulled the blanket down, revealing

the blood-soaked bandages that bound Tarja’s midriff.

“I mean it, R’shiel.”

She looked up at him and shrugged. “I don’t make mistakes, Brak.

Everything I’ve ever done in my life seemed like the right idea at the

time.”

CHAPTER 66

Denjon led Adrina and the others away from the Infirmary tent, obviously

glad to be gone from such blatant proof of the continuing existence of

the Harshini. R’shiel had obviously been acquainted with the captain

and he seemed to know Tarja quite well, too. It was more than likely the

reason he had not struck them down when they emerged from Terbolt’s

tent. On the other hand, if Jenga’s reaction had been anything to go

by, surrender was an alien concept to these men. Perhaps R’shiel had

merely provided them with the excuse their training and their oath denied

them.

Whatever the reason for their cautious cooperation, three other captains

awaited them outside Terbolt’s tent. Denjon introduced them as Dorak,

Kilton, and Linst. The men all wore that same serious, wary expression

that she had come to associate with the Defenders. Between that and their

identical uniforms, she found it hard to tell them apart.

“The Karien Prince is dead,” Dorak told Denjon, casting a wary eye

over Adrina and Damin as they approached. “He was stabbed. Terbolt’s

dead too, although there’s not a mark on him. It could have been

poison.”

“It wasn’t poison,” Denjon replied. “Are they still in there?”

Dorak nodded.

“Let’s talk in the mess tent. I’d rather this wasn’t

overheard.” He glanced at Mikel meaningfully.

The child followed Adrina like a faithful shadow, afraid to let her out

of his sight.

“Mikel, why don’t you go down and join Captain Almodavar and the

others. I’m sure he’ll look after you until we finish here.”

“Am I a prisoner now?”

“No. Just go down and tell him everything will be sorted out soon,”

Damin added, with surprising gentleness. “Your brother’s down there

somewhere too. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

He nodded doubtfully. “Is he all right?”

“Why don’t you go and find out?”

With one last cautious look, the boy turned and ran towards the picket

lines.

The captains led the way to another long tent. The only difference

between this one and the infirmary was the interior. The mess tent was

lined with collapsible tables and benches rather than beds. The smell was

marginally better, too. Once inside, Denjon dismissed the cooks and

waited until he was certain they were gone before he turned to the others.

“We have a decision to make, gentlemen.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to tell us what’s going on?” one of the

captains said. It was Linst or the other one. Adrina really couldn’t

remember which one was which.

“I would if I knew. Perhaps you could enlighten us, your Highness?”

After so long among the Kariens, who considered the input of a woman no

input at all, Adrina wasn’t really expecting to be included in the

conversation. But these men served the Sisterhood. They suffered no

illusions about the ability of women. She glanced at Damin who squeezed

her hand in encouragement.

“I want to know what happened to my slave, first.”

“What slave?” Denjon asked.

“The young woman who was with me when we were captured.”

The captains glanced at each other and shrugged. “There were no other

women captured, your Highness. She probably escaped in the confusion.”

“Could you send some men out to find her, Captain? She’s alone in a

foreign country and not equipped to survive on her wits. Not in the

wilderness, at least.” Denjon nodded to Linst, who left the tent to

issue the order. That worrying detail taken care of, Adrina felt a lot

more secure about her future among these men. “Thank you. Now what did

you want to know?”

“Let’s start with what you’re doing here,” Denjon suggested.

“I fled Karien. The Defenders offered me their protection and when the

order for the surrender came from the Citadel, I decided to leave, rather

than return to my husband. Lord Wolfblade kindly offered to escort me.”

“Did you kill Cratyn?” Kilton asked curiously.

“No. R’shiel did.”

“No offence, ma’am, but I can’t say I’m sorry. He was an

obnoxious little bastard.”

Adrina immediately warmed to the captain. Cratyn must have made quite an

impact in the short time he was in the Defender’s camp.

“No need to apologise, Captain. You merely demonstrate that you are an

excellent judge of character.”

“Where are the rest of the Hythrun?” Denjon asked Damin, anxious to

stick to the business at hand, although he did allow himself a small

smile at Adrina’s comment. None of these men seemed the least bit

bothered by Cratyn’s demise. “Rumours in the Citadel had it that you

had near a thousand men on the border.”

“I don’t share the Lord Defender’s enthusiasm for following orders,

Captain. The bulk of my men left as soon as I realised Jenga intended to

surrender. We were the last to leave.”

“And Tarja?”

Damin smiled at the Captain’s expression. “He was following Jenga’s

orders. I believe the plan was to make life as difficult as possible for

your new masters. The Defenders he took with him were all he thought he

could sneak out without the Kariens noticing.”

Denjon nodded, looking rather relieved. “Following the Lord

Defender’s orders, you say? Well that makes our decision somewhat

easier.”

“Making life difficult for the Kariens does seem a rather noble

cause,” Kilton agreed with a grin.

Linst returned from arranging Tamylan’s rescue party and looked at his

brother captains with a shake of his head. “You can’t seriously be

considering joining him?”

“I doubt Tarja will live long enough to join anything,” Dorak added.

“But if the Lord Defender ordered him to undertake a special mission,

aren’t we duty-bound to pick up where he left off?”

“There’s a thousand men in this camp! How many of them do you think

will want to follow you on such a damned fool mission?”

“Most of them, I imagine,” Kilton shrugged. “Bring me one man in

the camp, from the lowliest kitchenhand to the highest ranked officer,

who was pleased to be marching anywhere under Karien command.”

Linst nodded in agreement, albeit reluctantly. “Aye. But if we follow

the Lord Defender’s orders, aren’t we disobeying the Sisterhood?”

“Ah, but there are no Sisters of the Blade here. In the absence of

orders to the contrary, we have no choice but to follow the orders of the

Lord Defender.”

Adrina smiled at Kilton’s rather liberal interpretation of the law.

“That seems fairly cut and dried,” Denjon agreed. “And what about

you, Lord Wolfblade? Are you still allied with Medalon?”

“You’re holding my men prisoner, Captain.”

“Then you should consider your answer most carefully, my Lord.”

Damin smiled faintly. “Much as I hate to turn down a good fight, I’m

afraid I must return to Hythria. The Fardohnyans will be standing at my

border come spring. I plan to discourage them from crossing.”

“Pity,” Kilton sighed. “Your Raiders are quite good in a fight.”

Judging by the surprised look on Damin’s face, such an admission was

high praise indeed.

“You and your men are free to go, Lord Wolfblade. If you stay clear of

the Citadel, you should be able to make it home by spring,” Denjon told

him. “You were right when you said the bulk of our forces are in the

north. By the way, I heard that the Warlord of Elasapine withdrew from

Bordertown as soon as he heard of the surrender.”

“Narvell’s no better at following orders than I am,” Damin said.

“It’s a pity, though. He’ll be too far into Hythria to call him

back, by the time I get there.”

“Then we have to stop my father attacking Hythria,” Adrina said.

“How?”

“By offering him an alliance.”

“He’s already allied with Karien.”

“The alliance was dependent on my marriage to Cratyn. As that is no

longer the case, the treaty can reasonably be assumed to be null and

void.”

If Kilton could twist the law to suit the outcome he desired, there was

no reason Adrina couldn’t do the same thing.

“I doubt if Hablet will see things quite so clearly,” Damin warned.

“Then we’ll have to make him see.”

“Marry her, Damin, then he won’t have a choice.” The demon

child’s unexpected entrance gave Adrina a chance to recover from the

shock of her suggestion. R’shiel had finally shed the power she had

used to destroy Terbolt and intimidate the Karien priests, and her eyes

had returned to normal. They were an unusual shade of violet, wide set

and clear. She was very tall — almost as tall as Damin — and she

carried herself with an unconscious aura of power. The comatose,

uncertain child who had been led into Terbolt’s tent had emerged a

woman, sure of her power and certain of her purpose.

“Is Tarja . . .?” Denjon ventured cautiously.

“Dead? No. He’ll live. Brak is with him. He’s not to be moved, nor

is anyone to approach him until I say so. Is that clear?”

Denjon and the others nodded their agreement. Adrina doubted anyone would

deny her when she used that tone. She then turned to Damin and smiled. It

was obvious R’shiel was fond of the Warlord and the thought sent an

unexpected spear of jealousy through her.

“I wasn’t kidding, Damin. If you marry Adrina, and Hablet still wants

to attack Hythria, he’ll have to go over the Sunrise Mountains.

Fardohnyan law demands a peace treaty between both Houses in the

marriage. It may not keep him out of the rest of Hythria, but at least he

won’t be able to take the easy road. He’ll be unable to set foot in

Krakandar Province until he figures a way around the marriage contract.”

Damin nodded thoughtfully. He seemed to accept the suggestion with

remarkable composure. “It would delay him, I suppose, assuming I was

willing to go along with such a ludicrous plan. But he could just as

easily deny the marriage had taken place and carry on regardless.”

“I’ll have Jelanna perform the ceremony herself, if that’s what it

takes.”

Adrina gasped. Somehow the idea that this girl could command the Goddess

of Fertility, the goddess her father worshipped with almost fanatical

intensity, was more terrifying than anything else she had done this

morning.

But things were moving a bit too fast and R’shiel had not even asked

her what she thought about this rather hasty decision.

“Do I get a say in this?”

“Why?” R’shiel asked. “Were you planning to object?”

“That’s not the point. But as a matter of fact, I was planning to

object. I’ve had all the arranged marriages I want, thank you. Besides,

I’ve been a widow for just over an hour. It’s indecent.”

“Don’t be such a hypocrite,” R’shiel said bluntly. “You’ve

been sleeping with Damin for ages and he obviously loves you, or he would

never have been so stupid as to try to keep you from returning to

Karien.”

Adrina felt herself blushing, something she had not done since she was

sixteen and was introduced to her first court’esa. She glanced at Damin

who actually looked embarrassed. The captains were fighting to maintain

straight faces.

R’shiel did not seem to notice, or care, about their feelings.

“Denjon, if you truly mean to undermine the Karien occupation of

Medalon, then the first useful thing you can do is give me a few

experienced men and enough supplies to reach the Citadel.”

“I’d have thought the Citadel was the last place you’d want to

go.”

“There is something that I have to take care of. Or rather, someone. I

had it pointed out to me very recently that I take the easy way out, too

often. That’s about to change.”

“I’ll see to it,” Denjon agreed. “Unless you want to wait until

Tarja . . .”

“No. This can’t wait and I’ve done all I can for him. Brak will

watch over him until he regains consciousness. In the meantime, you’d

better do something about those priests I let loose. You don’t want

them reaching the border and warning the Kariens about what’s happened

here.”

“There’s the rest of Cratyn’s troop out there, too,” Damin

reminded them. “You’d be well advised to do something about them

before the day is out.”

“We can take care of a few hundred Kariens,” Denjon assured him.

“As for you two,” R’shiel said, turning on Damin and Adrina. “Get

one of the captains to marry you; they can perform the ceremony at a

pinch under Medalonian law. Once Tarja has recovered, Brak can go to

Talabar to deliver the news to King Hablet. If one of the fabled Harshini

walking his palace halls doesn’t convince him, nothing will.”

Damin was no more able to argue with her than Adrina was. This was not

R’shiel speaking, this was the demon child finally come into her power.

She had no intention of marrying Damin Wolfblade and was quite sure he

did not want to marry her; but she would wait until R’shiel left for

the Citadel before she announced it. Adrina was not foolish enough to

defy R’shiel in her current mood.

“There’s a vineyard just south of Testra, that we used as a

headquarters during the rebellion,” she continued, addressing the

captains once more. “My guess is that Tarja sent his troops there.

You’ll need to get a message to them. Once I’ve taken care of what I

have to do at the Citadel, I’ll join you.”

“And then what, R’shiel?” Damin asked cautiously.

She hesitated for a moment, as if some weighty decision hung in the

balance.

“And then I’m going to put a stop to this insanity, Damin. I am going

to kick the Kariens out of Medalon and make damned sure they never stick

their noses over our border again.”

“I don’t know how you think you can manage that,” Dorak scoffed.

“It’s quite simple, Captain,” the demon child replied. “I am

going to bow to the inevitable and fulfil my destiny. I am going to

destroy Xaphista.”

CHAPTER 67

R’shiel rode far from the Defenders’ camp under a leaden sky, her

face flushed and tingling from the cold. She had told nobody the reason

for her journey, just that she needed to be alone. She had especially

avoided Brak. He may have guessed what she was planning and she did not

want to give him the opportunity to object.

The Hythrun mare stretched her legs as the camp dwindled behind them. She

had no particular destination in mind and in truth, for a good while she

simply enjoyed the ride and the speed of the magnificent sorcerer-bred

horse. It was the first time in a very long while she had done anything

for the sheer joy of it, and she was reluctant to end it too soon.

Eventually, she came to a small rise on the undulating plain and looked

back to discover the Defenders’ camp was completely obscured by the

fold of the land. She dismounted and stroked the lathered mare’s neck,

urging her to seek out what feed she could on the sparse winter plain.

With a nicker of understanding the mare wandered off. When R’shiel was

certain the horse was a safe distance from the knoll, she turned and

looked up at the sky.

“Zegarnald!”

She received no answer other than the soughing wind rustling through the

dried grass like a satin skirt brushing against a taffeta petticoat.

“Zegarnald!”

“Demon child.”

She spun to find the War God standing on the knoll behind her. He was

dressed in golden armour that glittered in the dull afternoon light. He

was enormous. The battles that were tearing this world apart had made him

as strong as he had ever been.

“You defied Xaphista, I see.”

“No thanks to you.”

“Brakandaran seems to have taught you disrespect, along with

survival.”

“Brak didn’t teach me survival, and I don’t need any lessons in

being disrespectful from anyone,” she retorted.

“Then why did you call me, demon child?”

“My name is R’shiel.”

“You are the demon child.”

“I am R’shiel!” she insisted. “The demon child is a creature you

invented. It’s not who I am!”

“Then you refuse your destiny?” The god sounded puzzled. Such fine

distinctions were beyond his ability to comprehend.

“I’m not refusing it, Zegarnald. I’m accepting it. I will do as you

ask. I will restore the balance and destroy the gods who have skewed

things by becoming too strong.”

“Gods? Surely you mean only one god?”

R’shiel smiled ingenuously. “You surely don’t think I can just

remove Xaphista without affecting any other gods, do you?”

Zegarnald pondered the problem for a moment and then nodded slowly.

“Yes, I see. I had not considered that.”

“Then you will leave me to do fulfil my destiny as I see fit?”

The War God frowned. “You will go to Slarn and destroy Xaphista. What

else is to be done?”

“Xaphista’s power is drawn from his believers in Karien. I can’t

destroy him without destroying that too.”

He thought on that and then nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Then you’ll leave me be? No more tests? No more tempering?”

“But . . .”

“Zegarnald, you have to trust me. I’m the only one who can do this.

You have to let me do it my way. I’m half human. I know how humans

think. I need you to promise that you will not interfere unless I ask you

to.”

“You ask a great deal of me, demon child.”

“You’re asking a great deal of me,” she pointed out.

The God of War thought over the problem for a while before he nodded his

agreement.

“Very well. I will do as you ask.”

“Give me your oath.”

“You doubt me?” He swelled at the implied insult.

“No. That’s why I want your oath.”

“Very well, I give you my solemn promise I will not interfere in your

handling of this affair unless you ask it.”

“No matter what happens?”

“No matter what happens,” he agreed unhappily.

R’shiel smiled at him. “Thank you, Divine One. Now, just to prove

that I will need your help from time to time, I have a job for you.”

“A job?”

“Yes. I want you to find Damin’s brother, Narvell, the Warlord of

Elasapine and get him to turn back. Tell him he has to protect Krakandar

from a Fardohnyan invasion.”

“I AM NOT YOUR MESSENGER!” the god boomed, making the ground shake

with his indignation.

“As you wish,” she shrugged, turning away from him. “If Hablet

crosses the Hythrun border too easily, there won’t be a battle. On the

other hand, if Narvell turns back, there should be a nice little

bloodbath. But, if you’d rather not . . .”

“Perhaps I could consent to do this one favour for you,” the god

conceded with ill grace. “But I am not your messenger, demon child. Do

not presume to use me in such a manner again.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Divine One.”

It was nearly dark when R’shiel returned to the camp and she rode

straight to the infirmary tent to check on Tarja.

Outwardly, his condition had not changed. He still lay as pale as death

and barely breathing, but the fact that he still lived at all was a good

sign. As she knelt beside the pallet, she was shocked to see his hands

and feet bound to the bed with sturdy ropes.

Angrily, she turned on the medic who was changing the bandages of a man

on the other side of the tent.

“Who did this?” she demanded.

“That man who came with you,” the medic shrugged. “Jack, or Brak,

or whatever his name is. He said things might get a bit rough and that

tying him down was for his own protection.”

R’shiel was horrified and fully intended to confront Brak about such a

barbarous practice, but she was not so sure of herself that she untied

the ropes. She sat with Tarja for a time, stroking his pallid forehead,

trying to will him to live, before she left the Infirmary to seek Brak

out.

It was fully dark when she emerged from the Infirmary and she looked

about with a frown, realising she had no idea where Brak would be. She

was still pondering the problem when faint voices raised in anger reached

her. One of the voices was unmistakably female and R’shiel could easily

guess who it was.

Curiously, she followed the sound to a tent not far from the one where

she and Adrina had been held prisoner. She could see Adrina’s

silhouette through the canvas wall as she paced in front of the lamp.

They could probably hear her in Talabar.

“In case you’re interested, the whole camp can hear you

screeching,” she announced as she pushed the flap back.

Adrina spun around angrily. Damin was sitting on a small campstool on the

other side of the small table that held the flickering lamp looking

thoroughly miserable. A glowing brazier in the corner warmed the tent,

almost as much as Adrina’s anger.

“I DO NOT . . .” she began, then took a deep breath. “I do not

screech.”

“You do,” R’shiel said. “I take it this . . . argument has to do

with my declaration that you two should get married? So who’s the

dissenting party?”

“R’shiel, perhaps it’s not such a good idea . . .” Damin began.

“Not a good idea! It’s downright insane!” Adrina retorted.

“Hablet will have a fit when he hears about it, and the first thing the

Hythrun Warlords will do is hire an assassin to have me killed.”

“You’ve both lived with the threat of assassins all your life —

what difference will another make? As for Hablet, we’ll just have to

convince him there’s a profit in it.”

“And what about how I feel?” Adrina asked, unable to deny the truth

of R’shiel’s words. Anything that was profitable was fine by her

father.

“How do you feel, then?”

“Used!” she snapped without hesitation.

“I need Hythria and Fardohnya at peace, Adrina. I can’t face Xaphista

any other way.”

Adrina turned to Damin for support. “Even if this marriage stays my

father’s hand for a time, the Hythrun Warlords will never accept me as

their High Princess.”

“She has a point, R’shiel.”

“The High Arrion will support you — she’s your sister isn’t she?

There are already Harshini in Greenharbour. With the Sorcerers’

Collective backing you and once it’s known that the demon child has

sanctioned your union . . .”

“The demon child is still a legend in Hythria,” Damin reminded her.

“The only way this will work is if you return to Hythria with us. If

you want to stop a civil war and want the other Warlords to believe in

the demon child, then you’re going to have to show them the demon

child.”

“I can’t go to Hythria, Damin. I have to take care of something at

the Citadel. Tarja will need my help when he’s recovered and I still

have to figure out how I’m going to deal with the Kariens.”

“None of which you will be able to give your full attention to, until

Fardohnya and Hythria are at peace,” Damin pointed out, turning her own

argument back on her. “What’s the hurry, anyway? It’ll take months

before Tarja and the other captains can get the Defenders under their

command organised enough to mount an effective resistance. The Citadel is

under the control of the Kariens and you’re not going to be able to do

anything about that until you’ve destroyed Xaphista. The war in Medalon

is over for now.”

“I have to return to the Citadel. You don’t understand . . .”

“No, you’re the one who doesn’t understand,” Adrina cut in.

“You want to change the whole world to suit your liking, then run off

on some personal vendetta while the rest of us get killed trying to carry

out your orders. Nobody wants to see the Kariens brought to their knees

more than I, R’shiel, but Damin is right. If you want us to do this,

then you’re going to have to do it with us. Your mission to the Citadel

will have to wait.”

R’shiel glanced at the two of them and sighed. They were both such

stubborn, strong-willed personalities and she needed this marriage to

take place. She would have called on Kalianah to intervene, but Damin was

one of Zegarnald’s favourites. The War God would know she was up to

something if another god interfered with Damin.

Frustration welling in her, she was forced to concede that they were

right. Sending Damin back to Hythria with Adrina as his bride without

proof of the demon child’s existence would be akin to a death sentence.

“Very well, I’ll come. But only long enough to convince the Warlords.

After that, it’s up to you two.”

Damin glanced at Adrina, who nodded in agreement, although her scowl made

it clear that she was less than enthusiastic about the whole idea.

“So, I’m to be the High Princess of Hythria.”

“First a princess of Fardohnya, then Karien and now Hythria,” Damin

remarked. “You do get around, Adrina.”

She turned on him angrily and R’shiel left the tent to continue her

search for Brak, before she became even more embroiled in their argument.

Damn them, she though as she strode through the camp. Damn them for being

so obstinate. Damn them for being right.

Brak had told her once that destiny had a way of catching up with you.

Well, maybe it had. But just because it had caught her, didn’t mean she

couldn’t make things happen her way. She would bring peace to the

south, even if it meant delaying her inevitable confrontation with

Loclon. That she would have to face him before this was over was as

certain as her destiny was to destroy a god.

Any god . . . or all of them. It didn’t really matter which . . .

The trick, R’shiel decided, as she moved through the firelit

Defenders’ camp, would be to manage affairs in such a way that nobody

realised what was happening until it was too late to stop it.

GLOSSARY

Medalon

AFFIANA—Innkeeper in Testra. Brak’s great-great grand niece.

B’THRIM SNOWBUILDER—Villager from Haven. Elder sister of J’nel.

BASEL—Sergeant of the Defenders stationed on the southern border.

BEK—Prisoner at the Grimfield. Sentenced to five years for arson.

BELDA—Sister of the Blade at the Grimfield.

BERETH—Former Sister of the Blade. Now a pagan.

CRISABELLE CORTANEN—Wife of Wilem Cortanen, Commandant of the Defenders.

DAVYDD TAILORSON—Lieutenant of the Defenders attached to the

Intelligence Corps.

DAYAN JENGA—Quartermaster of the Defenders stationed in Bordertown.

Younger brother of the Lord Defender.

DENJON—Captain of the Defenders.

DRACO—First Spear of the Sister and ceremonial bodyguard.

FOHLI—Corporal of the Defenders in the Grimfield.

FRANCIL ASHAREN—Sister of the Blade. Member of the Quorum. Longest

standing member. Mistress of the Citadel.

GARET WARNER—Commandant of the Defenders. Head of Defender Intelligence

and second most senior officer in the Defenders.

GAWN—Captain of the Defenders posted to the southern border.

GEORJ DRAKE—Captain of the Defenders. Tarja’s best friend.

GHARI RODAK—Rebel Lieutenant. Brother of Mandah.

GWENELL—Physic. Sister of the Blade in charge of the Sisterhood’s

Infirmary at the Citadel.

HARITH NORTARN—Sister of the Blade. Member of the Quorum. Mistress of

Sisterhood.

HEANER—Mistress of the most notorious brothel in the Citadel.

HELLA—Joyhinia’s maid at the Citadel.

HERVE RODAK—A Rebel from Testra. Mandah and Ghari’s cousin.

J’NEL SNOWBUILDER—Died in Haven from complications of childbirth

without naming the father of her child.

JACOMINA LAROSSE—Sister of the Blade. Member of the Quorum. Mistress of

Enlightenment.

JOYHINIA TENRAGAN—First Sister of the Sisters of the Blade following

Mahina’s impeachment.

JUNEE RIVERSON—Probate at the Citadel.

KHIRA—Pagan Rebel and Physic in the Grimfield.

KILENE—Probate at the Citadel.

KORGAN—Deceased. Former Lord Defender. Rumoured to be Tarja’s father.

LENK—Corporal of the Defenders at the Grimfield.

L’RIN—Innkeeper of the Inn of the Hopeless in the Grimfield.

LOCLON—Wain Loclon. Lieutenant of the Defenders and Champion of the

Arena. Promoted to Captain following the Purge.

LOUHINA FARCRON—Sister of the Blade. Appointed to the Quorum following

Joyhinia’s elevation to First Sister.

LYCREN—Sergeant of the Defenders in the Grimfield.

MAHINA CORTANEN—First Sister. Mother of Wilem.

MANDAH RODAK—Formerly a novice and now a pagan rebel from Medalon.

Elder sister of Ghari.

MARIELLE—Prisoner at the Grimfield, sentenced with R’shiel.

MARTA—Probate at the Citadel.

MYSEKIS—Captain of the Defenders stationed in the Grimfield.

NHEAL ALCARNEN—Captain of the Defenders.

PADRIC—Pagan rebel.

PALIN JENGA—Lord Defender. Commander in Chief of the Defenders. Brother

of Dayan Jenga and rumoured to be R’shiel’s father.

PENY—Court’esa working for Mistress Heaner.

PROZLAN—Sister of the Blade stationed at the Grimfield, responsible for

discipline among the female prisoners.

R’SHIEL—Probate. Daughter of the First Sister.

SUELAN—Sister of the Blade. The First Sister’s Secretary and

Harith’s niece.

SUNNY—Sunflower Hopechild. Court’esa from the Citadel who befriends

R’shiel on their journey to the Grimfield.

TARJA—Tarjanian Tenragan. Son of the First Sister, Joyhinia. Captain of

the Defenders.

TEGGERT—Former convict. Works as a cook in the Commandant’s household

in the Grimfield.

UNWIN—Sister of the Blade at the Grimfield in charge of the

Grimfield’s Kitchens.

VERKIN—Kriath Verkin. Commandant of Bordetown.

WANDEAR—Probate at the Citadel.

WILEM—Commandant of the Grimfield. Son of Mahina and married to

Crisabelle.

WYLBIR—A rebel. Former sergeant of the Defenders.

ZAC—Prisoner in the Grimfield.

Harshini

BRAK—Lord Brakandaran té Carn. Only other living half-breed Harshini.

DRANYMIRE—Prime Demon bonded to the house of té Ortyn.

GLENANARAN—Harshini sorcerer who leaves Sanctuary to help Brak.

KORANDELLAN TÉ ORTYN—King of the Harshini. Nephew of Lorandranek and

brother of Shananara.

LORANDRANEK TÉ ORTYN—Deceased. Former king of the Harshini, driven mad

by the task laid on him by the gods.

SHANANARA—Her Royal Highness, Shananara té Ortyn. Daughter of

Rorandelan. Sister of Korandellan.

The Gods

BREHN—God of Storms.

CHELTARAN—God of Healing.

DACENDARAN—God of Thieves.

GIMLORIE—God of Music.

JASHIA—God of Fire.

JAKERLON—God of Liars.

JELANNA—Goddess of Fertility.

JONDALUP—God of Chance.

KAELARN—God of the Oceans.

KALIANAH—Goddess of Love.

LEYLANAN—Goddess of the Ironbrook River.

MAERA—Goddess of the Glass River.

PATANAN—God of Good Fortune.

VODEN—God of Green Life.

ZEGARNALD—God of War.

Hythria

ALMODAVAR—Hythrun Raider. Captain of Damin Wolfblade’s Raiders.

CYRUS EAGLESPIKE—Hythrun. Warlord of Dregian Province. Damin

Wolfblade’s distant cousin.

DAMIN WOLFBLADE—Warlord of Krakandar and heir to the High Prince’s

throne. Son of Princess Marla and nephew of Lernen Wolfblade, High Prince

of Hythria.

KALAN—High Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective in Hythria. Damin

Wolfblade’s half sister, also known as Kalan of Elasapine. She has a

twin brother, Narvell Hawksword.

LERNEN WOLFBLADE—High Prince of Hythria. Damin’s uncle. A known

pervert with no desire to produce an heir and rather exotic sexual

appetites.

MARLA WOLFBLADE—Princess of Hythria. Sister of Lernen Wolfblade and

mother of Damin. Married 5 times she is also the mother of Kalan and

Narvell Hawksword of Elasapine.

RORIN—Seneschal to the High Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective.

SOOTHAN—Captain of a Hythrun fishing boat.

Karien

ARINGARD—Queen of Karien. Married to Jasnoff and mother of Cratyn.

CHARITY—Karien noblewoman. Granddaughter of Baron Lodnan.

CHASTITY—Daughter of Terbolt. Adrina’s Lady-In-Waiting. Formerly

betrothed to Cratyn.

CRATYN—Crown Prince of Karien. Son of Jasnoff and Aringard.

DRENDYN—Karien. Earl of Tiler’s Pass. Cratyn’s cousin and nephew of

King Jasnoff.

ELFRON—Karien priest sent to the Citadel with Lord Pieter to denounce

the Sisterhood’s handling of the pagans.

GARANUS—Karien Priest sent to the Citadel with Terbolt, the Duke of

Setenton.

HOPE—Adrina’s Lady-In-Waiting.

JASNOFF—King of Karien. Married to Aringard. Father of Cratyn and uncle

to Drendyn.

JAYMES OF KIRKLAND—Karien page attached to Lord Laetho’s retinue. Son

of Lord Laetho’s Third Steward, he cannot by knighted due to his common

birth.

LORD PIETER—Karien Envoy to Medalon.

MIKEL OF KIRKLAND—Karien page attached to Lord Laetho’s retinue.

Jaymes’ younger brother. Appointed as Adrina’s page following his

escape from Medalon.

OVERLORD—See Xaphista.

PACIFICA—Adrina’s Lady-In-Waiting.

TERBOLT—Karien. Duke of Setenton and father of Chastity.

VONULUS—Karien Priest appointed as Confessor to Adrina.

XAPHISTA—The Overlord. God of the Kariens.

Fardohnya

ADRINA—Princess of Fardohnya. Eldest legitimate child of King Hablet

and his first wife. Adrina’s mother was beheaded for trying to

assassinate her husband’s mistress and her illegitimate son Tristan.

CASSANDRA—Princess of Fardohnya. Adrina’s younger sister and second

legitimate child of Hablet.

HABLET—King of the Fardohnyans. Has 14 illegitimate sons and thirteen

legitimate daughters. He refuses to name his heir hoping one of his wives

will give him a legitimate son.

JAPINEL—Fardohnyan tailor, alchemist and con-man.

LECTER TURON—Chamberlain of the Fardohnyan Court. Lector is a eunuch

who makes his fortune collecting bribes.

RAVEN—Head of the Assassins’ Guild that operates in Hythria and

Fardohnya

TERIAHNA—The Raven. Head of the Assassins’ Guild.

TAMYLAN—Fardohnyan slave raised to serve Adrina. Lover of Tristan on

Adrina’s orders.

TRISTAN—Bastard son of King Hablet of Fardohnya. Adrina’s

half-brother and Captain of her Guard sent to Karien.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jennifer Fallon was born in Melbourne, Australia, and at the age of 11

moved to the nation’s capital, Canberra, when her father, a senior

public servant in the Defence Department, was transferred. She lived in

and around Canberra for about eight years. She is the ninth child in a

family of 13 girls.

Jennifer has lived in the ‘Top End’ of Australia, the Northern

Territory, since 1980, although at present she is based in Melbourne for

work commitments. She has two daughters and a son. Over the years,

Jennifer has also had 32 foster children. Friends refer to her home as

‘the ashram’ due to the large number of stray teenagers that still

inhabit her house at irregular intervals.

Jennifer has worked in a wide variety of occupations and at present is a

director of Business Innovations Group Pty Ltd, and the main creative

force behind Mr Big, the Web Wizard. She is an accredited workplace

trainer and also a partner in the US company CISDesigns. She currently

works as a consultant in e-commerce and VoIP and travels around Australia

for her work. She is a member of the Business & Professional Women’s

Association, the Phenomenal Women of the Web Association and is often in

demand as a guest speaker.

Like many other aspiring writers, in 1981 Jennifer wrote a Mills & Boon

that dutifully got rejected. (She later burned the manuscript.) She

changed to fantasy in 1990 when she decided she would be better writing

something for herself, rather than trying to please everyone else. In

1995, Jennifer decided to either get published by the year 2000 or give

up writing and get a real job. Her first series, The Demon Child Trilogy,

was released in August 2000 and hit the bestseller list the first week it

was released.

Her first e-book, Medalon, Book One of The Demon Child Trilogy, was

released globally as an e-book by PerfectBound in May 2001.

Visit her website at http://www.jenniferfallon.com

Shananara flung herself into one of the chairs opposite the window.

“The Demon Child? That unreliable, spoilt, half-human atheist brat? If

that’s who you’re relying on to save us, brother, we are doomed.”

Medalon has surrendered to Karien and Tarja is once more an outlaw. The

Defenders are scattered and their only hope for aid is Damin Wolfblade

and the vast army of Hythria. But Damin has his own problems to solve

first, including false claimants to the throne, civil war . . . and, of

course, Adrina.

R’shiel has finally accepted her destiny, and is searching for answers.

But time is running out. She must defeat Xaphista soon, for the Harshini

king cannot hide Sanctuary for much longer. But how can she defeat a God?

Medalon and Treason Keep, Books One & Two of The Demon Child Trilogy,

were instant bestsellers. This, the final book in the trilogy, is as

unpredictable and glorious as its characters.

“Jennifer Fallon is a writer to watch . . .”

Peter McNamara, 5EBI FM

“Jennifer Fallon captures the reader from the opening paragraph and you

can only break from her grasp when you reach the final page.”

Altair

EXCERPT FROM BOOK THREE, HARSHINI

CHAPTER 1

Korandellan té Ortyn, the last King of the Harshini, waited until the

end of the concert before he left the natural amphitheatre in the centre

of Sanctuary to return to his apartment. But first, he congratulated the

performers. He admired the clever scenery they had devised, which used a

mixture of magic and everyday objects, and graciously thanked them for

their efforts. He moved among them, smiling and waving, as the glimmering

twilight, that was as close to night as it came in this magical place,

descended over the valley. Sanctuary’s tall, elegant white spires

towered over the hidden city, touched with silver as evening closed in.

The people were trying so desperately hard to be happy. He did his best

to seem happy for them in return.

There was a brittle edge to the serenity of Sanctuary these days. An edge

that Korandellan, more than any other Harshini, could feel. The happiness

here was fragile; the cheerfulness an illusion. The Harshini were running

out of time. Quite literally. Only Korandellan knew how close they were

to the end.

Perhaps Shananara suspected. She fell in beside him, dressed in the long

loose robes that most of the Harshini favoured, which surprised him a

little. Shananara had been in and out of Sanctuary a great deal of late,

and he was more used to seeing her in Dragon Rider’s leathers. His

sister had always been more interested in the comings and goings of the

human population than he. With the demon child abroad, and the whole

world affected by her presence, Shananara was anxious to know what was

happening. Slipping her arm companionably through his, she walked with

him back to his quarters, waiting until the doors swung silently shut

behind them before she spoke.

“Let me help, Koran.”

The King sighed, letting his shoulders slump and his façade of vitality

crumble in her presence. He looked haggard.

“No. You cannot help, Shanan,” he told her, lowering his tall frame

into a delicately carved chair near the open doors that led to the

balcony. The tinkling sound of the waterfall drifted through the open

windows. The evening, as usual, was balmy and clear. “I need your

strength for other matters.”

“There won’t be any other matters if you falter,” she warned.

“Let me carry some of the load. Or do you enjoy being a martyr?”

He smiled at her wearily. She had been out visiting the humans again. Her

manner of speech always reflected her journeys among the mortals. “No,

I do not enjoy being a martyr, sister. But if I fail, our people will

need you to guide them. If you help me now, you will certainly ease my

burden, but it will weaken you at a time when one of us needs to be

strong. Only the demon child can lift the burden from my shoulders

completely.”

Shananara flung herself into one of the chairs opposite the window.

“The demon child? That unreliable, spoilt, half-human atheist brat? If

that’s who you’re relying on to save us, brother, we are doomed.”

“You shouldn’t speak of her so harshly, my dear. R’shiel will do

what she must.”

“She will do what suits her, Koran, and not a damned thing more. I

doubt if even the gods know if it will be what she was destined for.”

“Yet it is on her we must rely.”

“Then let me bring her back.”

“Here? To Sanctuary? For what purpose?”

“If you won’t let me ease your burden, then let R’shiel do it. The

gods know she’s strong enough. Let me bring her back, Koran. Let her

carry the load for a time, enough to let you recover, at least. Then you

can take up the burden again and R’shiel can do what she has to.”

The King shook his head. “Events unfold as they should, Shananara. We

cannot interfere.”

“What events?” she scoffed. “Where is it written that you should

destroy yourself holding Sanctuary out of time, while the demon child

sits on her hands trying to decide if she even believes that we exist or

not?”

“You did not speak to R’shiel before she left us. She has learnt

much.”

“She doesn’t know a fraction of what she needs to know. And who is

there to teach her? Brak?”

“I thought you were fond of him.”

“I am, but he’s hardly the one I would have chosen as the demon

child’s mentor. He doesn’t even like her. And he certainly doesn’t

trust her.”

“She will learn what she needs to know in Hythria.”

“But does R’shiel know that? She’s just as liable to head in the

other direction.”

“You worry too much, Shanan. These things have a way of working

themselves out. R’shiel will come to accept her destiny and will learn

what she needs in due course.”

“Before or after the Harshini are destroyed, brother?” Leaning

forward, she studied him intently, as if she could see through his skin

and into his soul. “Xaphista’s minions have control of Medalon. The

Defenders have surrendered to Karien. Hythria is on the brink of civil

war and Fardohnya is arming for invasion. And you are beginning to

weaken. I can see it in your eyes. You tremble constantly and cannot

control it. Your eyes burn. Your aura is streaked with black. A flicker,

a slight wavering in your hold on the spell that holds Sanctuary out of

time, and Xaphista’s priests will know where we are. Once that happens,

you will be able to count the days on the fingers of one hand before the

Kariens are standing at our gates.”

“R’shiel will deal with Xaphista before that happens,” he assured

her.

“I wish I shared your faith in her. But how long do we have, Koran? How

long can you keep draining yourself?”

“As long as I need to.”

She leaned back with a defeated sigh. “Then I can only pray to the gods

that it will be long enough.”

“The demon child will do what she must.”

Shananara did not look convinced. “You place far too much faith in that

uncontrollable half-breed.”

The Harshini King nodded tiredly. “I’m aware of that, Shananara, but

unfortunately that uncontrollable half-breed is our only hope.”

THE RUINS OF TREASON KEEP

THE RAIDERS ATTACKING TREASON KEEP

R’SHIEL AND TWO DEMONS

PRINCESS ADRINA OF FARDOHNYA

JOYHINIA TENRAGAN

DAMIN WOLFBLADE

DACENDARAN, GOD OF THIEVES

MAHINA CORTANEN

PRINCESS ADRINA OF FARDOHNYA

ILLUSTRATIONS BY

STEPHANIE PUI-MUN LAW

READING NOTES

1. Discuss the different role of women in Medalon, Karien and Fardohnya.

2. Dacendaren devotes a great deal of time trying to get Mikel to steal

something, even though the Karien boy consistently denies the existence

of any other gods. Discuss the reason for this and why it is so important

to the God of Thieves.

3. R’shiel has a long conversation with Xaphista, in which he tries to

seduce her into joining him. Why does he fail?

4. Is the Princess Adrina a product of her environment or simply a spoilt

brat?

5. The God of War demands that R’shiel leave Sanctuary because he fears

the Harshini will weaken her resolve. What affect would living in

Santuary have on R’shiel, both long term and short term?

6. The demons meld to save Tarja at the end of Treason Keep. What effect

could being possessed by a demon have on Tarja when (or if) he recovers?

7. Adrina tells Cratyn that her slaves are better off in slavery than as

his free serfs. Discuss the differences between being a slave living in

luxury, or a peasant living in abject poverty. Which would you prefer?

8. Brak explains the dangers of coercion to R’shiel at some length.

Discuss the reasons for his concerns and why R’shiel feels she has no

choice.

9. Many of the characters are confronted with evidence that the Primal

Gods exist, yet refuse to acknowledge their existence. Discuss why these

characters refuse to accept the evidence of their own eyes.

10. How would their lives have been changed if Adrina and Damin had met

in Greenharbour several years earlier?

CREDITS

Cover and illustrations by Stephanie Pui-Mun Law

Cover and text design by Darian Causby, HarperCollins Design Studio,

Australia

This e-book provides links and pointers to Internet websites, which are

contained and maintained by third parties. These links are provided as a

convenience, and do not constitute an endorsement of content, policies or

practices of the websites linked or referred to.

Table of Contents

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

Chapter 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

CHAPTER 58

CHAPTER 59

CHAPTER 60

CHAPTER 61

CHAPTER 62

CHAPTER 63

CHAPTER 64

CHAPTER 65

CHAPTER 66

CHAPTER 67

EXCERPT FROM BOOK THREE, HARSHINI

CHAPTER 1