Harshini

CHAPTER 11

Krakandar turned out to be nothing like Adrina imagined. She had somehow developed the impression that Damin's home was some sort of isolated, rustic abode with minimal amenities and barely literate servants, all scurrying about in rat-infested, thatch-covered huts. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, but she was unprepared for the large, walled city that confronted her some six weeks after she fled the border with Damin and Tarja.

Krakandar's population numbered close to twenty thousand. The city had been carefully planned and was laid out in a series of concentric rings. Not only that, but it was, even to the untrained eye, impregnable. There were three rings, each one protected by progressively more complex defences. The inner ring housed the palace and most of the government buildings, including a huge store, which was filled as insurance against a siege each year at harvest time. Just prior to the harvest, the past year's grain was distributed to the poor, and come harvest, Damin explained, the warehouses were filled again for the following year. The central ring was mostly housing, the residences progressively more imposing the closer one got to the inner ring. The vast outer ring was the home to the markets and industries of the city.

Built on a small hill, the palace commanded a view of the entire city, which sprawled across the surrounding slopes with geometric precision. The city was well maintained and constructed of the local dark-red granite, which they quarried not far from the city and formed one of Krakandar's major exports.

Damin told her this as they rode towards the city, the pride in his voice taking her by surprise. He obviously loved his home, and as they rode under the massive portcullis that protected the main gate, it was apparent the citizens of Krakandar loved their Warlord in return.

Almodavar had sent word ahead that they were coming and for entirely selfish reasons, Adrina was looking forward to finally reaching their destination. More than a month in the saddle, living off trail rations and what meat they had been able to hunt along the way, had left her tanned and fit - but desperate for the trappings of civilisation. She had even managed to put on a bit of weight, she thought with despair. When Krakandar came into view, all she could think of was a hot bath, clean hair and the smell of something else besides leather and horses.

As word spread through the city that the Warlord had returned the citizens of Krakandar lined the streets to catch a glimpse of him. It was only a few at first but as the news ran ahead of them, the crowd grew larger. The people stopped working and pushed forward to see him, waving and calling out to Damin, who returned their greetings with a grin, obviously delighted by the warmth of this welcome. Adrina rode behind him, with R'shiel at her side, unaccountably put out by his popularity. The demon child was looking about her with wide-eyed wonder. She could be utterly ruthless when the need arose, but she still showed traces of the young girl underneath when it was least expected.

“Well, the peasants seem fond of him,” Adrina remarked sourly.

R'shiel laughed. “You really are determined to make this as difficult as possible, aren't you?”

“I'm making things difficult? Don't try blaming me, R'shiel. This was your idea, not mine.”

“He adores you, you know.”

Adrina looked at Damin's back and scowled. He was waving to the people, calling out a greeting to a familiar face in the crowd. “Damin loves himself, R'shiel,” she retorted. “And his horse. He would probably be upset if anything happened to Almodavar, but that's about as far as it goes. He likes you because you are the demon child and your friendship will help him claim his throne. His only interest in me is political.”

R'shiel raised her brow with a quizzical expression. “Is that what those noises coming from your tent were? Political negotiations?”

Adrina frowned, trying to think of some cutting rejoinder. Then the silliness of the conversation struck her and she smiled reluctantly. “All right, I admit I've been... negotiating... more than is wise, but there wasn't much else to do for entertainment, was there?”

“I'm sure you could have found something a little less dangerous if you wanted to, Your Highness. Honestly, you're as bad as Damin. I should wave my arm and do something Harshini to make you both see sense.”

“Why don't you?” she said aloud, but she had wondered before why the demon child had not simply called on her power to bend them to her will.

“Just between you and me, I don't know how.”

“But you're the demon child! Doesn't that make you omnipotent?”

“Omnipotent, maybe, but it doesn't mean I know very much about my powers. Brak says I lack finesse.”

“R'shiel, can I give you some advice?”

“If you think it will do any good.”

“When you've turned someone's life upside-down, killed their husband, ordered them to marry an enemy Prince and told them to risk their life by announcing the fact to the entire world, please don't tell them you don't know what you're doing. It's very unsettling.”

R'shiel smiled, but did not answer as they rode under the portcullis of the second ring.

The ride through the central ring took even longer. The crowd had grown so large that troops had been sent out from the palace to hold the crowd back so that Damin's party could have a clear path. The palace guards surprised Adrina. Unlike the Raiders Damin had with him on the border, these men were uniformed in dark-red leather breastplates embossed with a large hawk.

“Captain?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder at Almodavar. “Why is the palace guard wearing a hawk? I thought Damin's emblem was a wolf?”

“It is, Your Highness. The hawk is the emblem of Elasapine. They are Lord Hawksword's men.”

R'shiel laughed aloud when she heard. “I don't believe it! Zegarnald actually did what I told him!”

“You told the God of War what to do?”

R'shiel nodded, looking inordinately pleased with herself. “I wasn't really sure that he would. I asked him to turn Damin's brother back, in case we didn't make it here before your father tried invading Hythria.”

“His brother? Dear gods, you mean there's more of them?”

“It's his half-brother. Don't worry, Adrina. If Damin dies, I won't make you marry him.”

“I'll hold you to that,” Adrina promised.

As they rode on towards the inner wall, Adrina looked around, surprised at the affluence of the city and the people. Even the beggars in the streets of the outer ring had looked quite healthy under their rags and their professional air of misery. Here in the residential district, mothers held up their babies for Damin's blessing, plump slaves fanned their masters and mistresses as they leaned over their balconies, and more than a few young ladies, noblewomen, peasants and court'esa alike, called out quite preposterous proposals, which Damin acknowledged with a laugh. One woman standing on the balcony of a very elegant, red-brick house, bared her breast and called out a suggestion that made even Adrina blush. Somewhat to her chagrin, Damin actually responded with a promise to take her up on her offer some other time.

“The man has no morals,” she muttered.

“That's a bit rich, coming from you,” R'shiel remarked with a grin.

“You'd never catch me making a public spectacle of myself like that.”

“Of course not. You prefer to negotiate, don't you.”

Adrina was feeling sufficiently put out that she did not deign to answer as they rode through the massive iron-reinforced gates into the inner city.

The noise of the crowd behind them faded as they rode forward, the clatter of the horses' hoofs loud on the cobbled pavement. The road opened out into a vast courtyard, surrounded on three sides by impressive buildings. To the left and right of the square were the government buildings, three storeys high, gracefully symmetrical and uniform. In front of them lay the sweeping steps of the palace itself, lined with troops wearing the silver tabard-and-diamond symbol of the Sorcerers' Collective.

Damin slowed his horse and glanced around, taking in the troops lining the steps and then looking up at the walls, which were lined with as many men wearing the hawk emblem of Elasapine as there were the wolf of Krakandar.

“R'shiel.”

The demon child rode up beside him. “Is something wrong?”

“I don't know. Are you ready to be the demon child? I have a feeling I might need her.”

“No, but don't let that stop you.”

He treated her to a faint smile then turned to Adrina. “How about you? Are you ready to face the High Arrion?”

“The High Arrion!”

“Her guard wouldn't be here without her,” Damin pointed out. “If we're going to do this, we might as well make it look plausible.”

Adrina opened her mouth to make some sarcastic comment, then suddenly thought better of it. Damin considered her intelligent. Perhaps his sister, arguably the most powerful woman in Hythria, would think the same thing. It would be a nice change.

“I'm ready.”

She urged her horse forward until she rode on his left. R'shiel unconsciously sat a little taller in the saddle on Damin's right, as if the girl who had gaped at the sights of Krakandar a short while ago had been put aside, and the demon child had taken over. It was interesting, Adrina thought, and more than a little disturbing, the way she did that.

Three figures appeared at the top of the palace steps as they approached. Adrina knew the woman on the left. They had met before, on her only other visit to Hythria. Dressed in black, the diamond-shaped symbol of her office winking in the sunlight, Adrina recognised her as Kalan, High Arrion of the Sorcerers' Collective, Damin's half-sister. The man on the left looked sufficiently like Kalan to be her twin, so she guessed this was Narvell Hawksword, the Warlord of Elasapine, although his gold-chased breastplate, with its swooping hawk, would have given away his identity.

She did not recognise the woman in the middle. She was shorter than the man and woman who flanked her, but carried herself as if the world lay at her feet, waiting for her command. Adrina envied her poise, while wondering who she was. Her fair hair was flecked with silver but her skin was unlined. She studied Damin and the two women who rode beside him with dark, watchful eyes.

Damin dismounted at the foot of the steps and, without waiting for Adrina or R'shiel, took them two at a time until he reached the top. He swept the older woman up and hugged her.

“Mother!”

Adrina hesitated and glanced at R'shiel, but the demon child had obviously not heard of the fearsome reputation of Princess Marla of Hythria.

“Put me down, Damin! You smell like a horse!”

Damin laughed and turned to Kalan, who took a step backward. “Don't you dare touch me! I agree with mother, I can smell you from here!”

“Fine greeting I get! Months away from home and all you can do is complain about how I smell.”

“Don't worry, brother. Within a day they'll have you drowned in perfume and then it'll be your men complaining about the stench,” Narvell chuckled.

Damin embraced his half-brother warmly then held him at arm's length for a moment. “It's good to see you, Narvell. I don't know what you're doing here, but you're a welcome sight. I damned near fell off my horse when I saw your troops marching out of the palace gates to hold back the crowd. Did you get greedy while I was gone and invade me?”

“We can discuss what he's doing here later,” Princess Marla announced abruptly, then turned her piercing gaze on Adrina and R'shiel. “In the meantime, you can introduce me to your companions.”

Damin knew better than to argue with her. He turned and beckoned R'shiel forward. “Princess Marla, Lady Kalan, Lord Hawksword, may I introduce Her Royal Highness, Princess R'shiel té Ortyn.”

Adrina wasn't sure who was more surprised at the declaration of her full title, R'shiel or the trio on the steps. Kalan's jaw dropped. Narvell looked puzzled. Marla stared at her openly then arched her brow elegantly. “té Ortyn, did you say? I only know of one té Ortyn family.”

“Then you understand the importance of our guest,” Damin replied meaningfully with a glance at the troops who lined the steps and could hear every word they said.

Marla's eyes narrowed. She understood exactly. “Of course. Forgive me. You are most welcome, Your Highness.”

“Thank you,” R'shiel replied, looking rather uncomfortable. Damin would receive a tongue-lashing later, Adrina suspected. R'shiel was not fond of her status as the demon child - and was even less keen to be reminded that her father had been a Harshini King. A few months among the Harshini had not completely eradicated a lifetime of prejudice instilled in her by the Sisters of the Blade.

“And this,” Damin announced, holding his hand out to Adrina, “is my wife.”

“Your wife?” Kalan gasped. It was plain she recognised Adrina.

She accepted his hand and stepped up beside him. “Adrina, I'd like you to meet my mother, Princess Marla; my brother, Narvell; and I believe you already know my sister, Kalan.”

“Adrina?” Marla remarked, looking Adrina over coldly. “That's a Fardohnyan name and I only know of one Fardohnyan Adrina. Please tell me this is not the one I've heard of?”

“Perhaps we could continue this discussion in private?” Damin suggested, before his mother could get too worked up. Adrina was a little taken aback by her reaction. She was hardly expecting a warm welcome, but Princess Marla seemed quite appalled. She wisely remained silent, letting Damin deal with his mother.

“I think we'd better,” Narvell agreed. He waved his arm and men rushed forward to take their horses. Almodavar dismissed his men and they were led inside to the marble-floored foyer of the palace. Tamylan and the two Karien boys looked a little lost until Almodavar took them under his command and ushered them away.

Marla led the way into the palace, her slippers silent on the highly polished floor. Eventually they reached a pair of ornately carved doors at the far end of the main hall. She threw them open and marched inside, turning as soon as Narvell closed the doors behind them.

“So, you are Adrina of Fardohnya?” she accused without preamble.

“Yes, Your Highness, I —”

“I thought you were married to Cratyn of Karien?”

“I was, but —”

“How in the name of the gods did you happen to marry my son?”

“I —”

“Mother!”

“Have you lost your mind, Damin!” Marla demanded, turning on him. “Whatever she did to trap you into this marriage, it must be undone immediately! I will not jeopardise everything we have worked for, just because you were taken in by some Fardohnyan whore!”

“If you would let me explain...”

“Explain? You think you can offer any explanation that will satisfy me? And while you're at it, you might like to think of what you're planning to tell your uncle and the Warlords! Lernen will have a fit when he hears of this. I can't begin to think of what the Warlords are going to say!”

“Mother —”

“All my life I have done nothing but try to secure your throne. It was bad enough your abandoning your province to go chasing off to Medalon. Your unauthorised and ill-timed treaty with the Defenders had the Warlords howling for your blood. And now, after I spend months trying to win them over on your behalf, you throw it all away for the sake of a woman. And a foreigner at that!” She turned suddenly and glared at Adrina. “No, not just any foreigner! You had to go and marry the most notorious harlot on the whole continent!”

Adrina looked to Damin for support. He sat on the edge of the gold-inlaid desk, listening to his mother's rage with barely concealed amusement. It annoyed her intensely that instead of defending her he thought it was funny.

“Are you finished yet?” R'shiel asked quietly, from the back of the room. She had been studying the books in the bookcases that lined the walls of the study, but now she turned to them, the command in her voice impossible to deny.

Marla glared at her. She was not used to having her authority challenged.

“And who are you to tell me what to do?”

“I am R'shiel té Ortyn.”

“So you claim!” the Princess scoffed. “You're no Harshini! What right do you have to use the name of the Harshini royal family?”

“Lorandranek was my father.”

“That's absurd!” Kalan declared. “You're human. If Lorandranek was your father, that would make you the...” Her voiced trailed off as she realised what she was about to say.

“Yes?” R'shiel prompted.

“It's not possible!”

“You of all people, should know that it is possible,” Damin pointed out.

“What are you talking about, Damin?” Narvell asked.

“Tell him, Kalan.”

Kalan glanced at her twin and shrugged. “If this young woman is really who she claims to be, then she is... the demon child.”

Narvell looked impressed by the news, but Marla was not so easily persuaded. “This girl? The demon child? Damin, they must have fed you something in the north that affected your reason. You surely don't believe it, do you?”

“R'shiel is the demon child, mother. She was placed in my care by Zegarnald himself.”

Kalan stared at him with astonishment. “You spoke to the God of War?”

“In the flesh.”

“He spoke to me, too,” Narvell admitted. “It's why I turned back.”

“This is unprecedented.”

“Everything about me is unprecedented,” R'shiel remarked. “So, if we're through with the histrionics, perhaps we can start again. Princess Marla, I think you owe your daughter-in-law an apology. She's really not that bad. As for you, High Arrion, you and I need to have a talk. Damin, can you do something about rooms for us? Your mother was right about that much at least - we all stink like horses. Perhaps once everyone has had a chance to clean up and calm down, we can sort this out like rational human beings.”

Princess Marla stared at R'shiel with undisguised horror, although whether it was because she found herself face-to-face with a legend, or simply R'shiel's high-handed manner, Adrina could not tell.

CHAPTER 12

Damin knocked on the door of the rooms adjacent to his that his Chief Steward had allocated to Adrina and opened it without waiting for an answer, a little surprised to find it unlocked.

The room had been his mother's once, on the rare occasions she had lived at Krakandar when he was a child. It was furnished in her impeccable taste: the rooms airy and light; the rugs imported from Karien; the crystal made in Fardohnya; the red granite floors polished to perfection. Not a piece of the whitewood furniture was out of place; not a vase or lamp did not belong here.

He followed the sound of voices through the sitting room and into the dressing room beyond. Adrina was standing before the full-length mirror, examining herself critically. She was dressed in a long, sleeveless robe that fell softly to the floor in a cascade of emerald silk. Her slave was moving about in the next room, tidying up after her mistress' bath. She turned sharply as she caught sight of her husband in the mirror.

“Damin!”

“I didn't mean to startle you.”

“Don't you know how to knock?”

“I did knock.”

“Oh...” She straightened her gown and studied him for a moment. “There's something different about you... I know what it is. I've never seen you so clean. You almost look civilised.”

Damin had not given much thought to what he wore. A white silk shirt, trousers and polished boots hardly seemed to warrant such admiration. But compliments, even backhanded ones, were a rare thing from Adrina, so he chose not to make an issue of it.

“Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes, thank you. Your sister sent along the dress. I don't know who it belonged to before me, but it's an adequate fit.”

“Well, if you need anything, just ask Orleon, my Chief Steward. He'll see that you get it.”

“Thank you.”

“I'll have a seamstress sent to you tomorrow. You're going to need a suitable wardrobe.”

An uncomfortable silence settled on them as Damin wondered how to broach the subject he'd come here to speak about. Adrina was a volatile and unpredictable woman. He had no way of knowing how she would react to what he had to say.

“I'm sorry about my mother. She shouldn't have spoken the way she did.”

“We both knew this wasn't going to be easy, Damin. Her reaction was nothing less than I expected.” She smiled suddenly, her eyes glinting. “I will console myself with the thought of my father's reaction when he hears about it. I imagine your mother will seem quite reasonable by comparison.”

“That's true,” he agreed, relieved things were going so well. “But, I do have a favour to ask.”

“A favour?”

“We caught Marla off-guard today. You may not have heard the worst of it. It would be... easier...”

“If I bite my tongue and let her insult me?” Adrina finished for him.

“Something like that.”

He expected her to explode at that point, but to his astonishment, she nodded her agreement. “Don't worry, I'll behave.”

“You will?”

“Don't sound so surprised. I plan to survive this farcical arrangement, Damin, and to do that, I'll need your mother on my side. You'd be surprised how charming I can be when the mood takes me.”

Actually, Damin wouldn't have been surprised at all. She could be very disarming when she wanted something. “Well, if you can win Marla over, you'll have the whole of Hythria at your feet.”

“That's the plan,” she agreed. “And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, you should be safe enough here in the palace. I'll have Almodavar hand-pick your bodyguards. You have to promise you won't try leaving the palace without them.”

Adrina scowled, but nodded. “I suppose.”

“I've already arranged for a message to go to the Assassins' Guild,” he added. “I plan to hire them before someone else thinks of it. They are very loyal employees.”

“You mean they stay bought.”

“It's the same thing in the end.”

She sighed, as if the realisation that life would be difficult for some time to come had just dawned on her. Damin could not fathom her mood.

“Well, if you've everything you need, I'll see you at dinner. I'll have Orleon send someone to show you the way.”

“Damin,” she called as he turned to leave. “Why are your mother and the High Arrion here in Krakandar? I know R'shiel arranged for Zegarnald to turn Narvell back, but that doesn't explain the other two.”

“I don't know,” he admitted, a little surprised that she'd asked. He reminded himself, yet again, not to underestimate his wife.

“Well, I suggest you find out. I may not be an expert on Hythrun politics, but I do know the High Arrion doesn't do anything without a good reason, and I suspect your mother hasn't made an impulsive move in her entire life.”

It was a remarkably accurate assessment, considering her short acquaintance with his family. Damin wished for a moment that he could trust her. She would make a daunting High Princess - if she didn't try to murder him first.

“We'll find out what's behind their presence soon enough. Once Marla has gotten over the news about you.”

“Well, if she doesn't like the idea, tell her to take it up with the demon child,” she told him, picking up a silver-backed hairbrush. She turned her back to him and began brushing out her long dark hair.

He had been dismissed.

Damin let himself out of Adrina's rooms, thinking on what she had said about his mother and sister. She wasn't far off the mark. Marla did nothing without thinking it through. As for Kalan, Adrina was right about her too. The High Arrion would not leave Greenharbour without a very good reason. His unease at finding his palace steps lined with silver-uniformed soldiers from the Sorcerers' Collective still lingered.

“My Lord?”

Damin turned to find Orleon coming towards him at his usual, unhurried pace. The old man was as much a part of Krakandar Palace as the stones in the walls. He never aged noticeably that Damin could see. He still seemed the same, grey-haired, eagle-eyed watchdog that he'd been when Damin was a child.

“Yes, Orleon?”

“You have a visitor, my Lord.”

From the slight tone of reproach, Damin could guess who it was. “Where is he?”

“In the Morning Room, my Lord. I suggest you go there now, while we still have the silverware.”

Damin grinned at Orleon's expression and changed the direction he was headed. The Morning Room was on the ground floor, and he took the broad marble steps two at a time, anxious to see his visitor. When he threw open the door, the man in question was holding up a small statue to the light, examining it with the critical eye of an expert.

“It's not worth your attention,” Damin told him, as he closed the door behind him. “You'd get more for the candelabra.”

The fair-haired man slowly replaced the statue on the mantle before he turned to Damin.

“Perhaps. But that's inscribed with the Krakenshield crest. Too easy to trace it back to its source.”

“When has that ever bothered you?”

The man smiled and crossed the room, catching Damin in a crushing bear hug, before holding him at arm's length to look at him closely. Older by two years, but of a much slighter build, his clothes were expertly cut of expensive silk and he wore them with the cavalier air of a nobleman. His blue eyes were bright with intelligence and a level of animal cunning that Damin had often envied as a child. He looked prosperous and happy. Business must be good, Damin thought, not altogether pleased by the thought.

“Welcome home, Damin. It's good to see you.”

“It's good to see you too, Starros. How's business?”

“It'll be better now that you're home.”

Damin moved to the sidetable, shaking his head. “I'm sure you mean it as a compliment, old friend, but telling me that my return is going to favour Krakandar's criminal element, really doesn't thrill me.”

He pulled the stopper from the decanter and poured two cups of wine, handing one to Starros with a smile. The thief frowned as he accepted the wine.

“You know what I mean, Damin. All these troops from the Sorcerers' Collective and Elasapine filling up our streets is no good for my people.”

“Maybe I should invite them to stay.”

“Maybe you should invite them to leave,” Starros corrected.

Damin looked at him curiously. “Perhaps you'd better fill me in.”

They settled into the heavily padded chairs on either side of the hearth. The fire burned low - more glowing coals than flame - but it gave off enough heat to take the chill out of the air. Damin carried the decanter with him, certain he would need another drink before Starros was through.

“The Collective troops arrived about a month ago. Kalan made quite an impressive entrance, and then declared the city under the Collective's protection. Your mother arrived before her by a few days, and Narvell and his henchmen got here last week.”

“Why did Kalan place the city under the Collective's protection? That only happens when a Warlord dies without an heir.”

“You'll have to ask Kalan, I'm afraid. I tried to get in to see her, but she doesn't entertain the likes of me since she became High Arrion.”

Damin frowned, wondering what was really going on. He'd had no chance to speak to Kalan alone since he arrived, and she had not sought him out. Even more worrying was Kalan's refusal to see Starros. The leader of the Thieves' Guild was - so rumour claimed - Almodavar's bastard son. He had grown up here in the palace with them and was counted among their closest friends. Even if she could not acknowledge her friendship with Starros openly, she had never refused to see him before.

“What else has been happening since I left?”

“Not much. Things were pretty quiet until your mother got here. But then things always get sticky once she turns up.”

Damin smiled in fond remembrance. “You remember that time she arrived from Elasapine and we'd gone fishing in the woods?”

“The time she found me beating the stuffing out of you in that bog?” Starros laughed. “I remember. Gods, we must have looked a sight. All mud and blood and black eyes.”

“You were not beating me,” Damin corrected. “I was letting you win.”

“You were bawling your eyes out like a baby!”

“I was not!”

“You were so! And I'll never let you forget it, either. It was the only time I ever beat you in a fair fight, Damin Wolfblade.” Starros finished his wine and held out his cup for a refill. Damin shook his head and smiled. It wasn't really worth arguing about. He leaned over and filled the cup without getting out of his chair. Starros sipped the wine appreciatively. “So, I hear you've taken a bride.”

“That's right.”

“A Fardohnyan?”

“That's right.”

“Well, you always did like to live dangerously. Is she pretty?”

“Very.”

“Worth the trouble?”

Damin grinned. “I haven't decided yet.”

Starros chuckled softly. “And the rumour that you have brought the demon child to Hythria? Is that true?”

Damin lowered the cup from his lips and stared at Starros. “Where did you hear that?”

“I have my sources,” the thief told him smugly.

“I'm serious, Starros. How did you hear about it so soon?”

“Soon? Hell, we've known about it for weeks!” He looked at Damin, his smile fading.

“Who told you?”

“It's really bothering you, isn't it? Nobody told me, not in the way you're thinking. It was a bit odd, actually. About six or seven weeks ago, an old man appeared in the city. Didn't bother anyone at first, just roamed the streets trying to convince the working court'esa that their eternal souls were in danger if they didn't renounce their way of life. He stood on a few street corners and gave speeches that nobody listened to. You know the type. We average about one prophet a month in a good year, so we paid him little attention.”

“But —” Damin prompted, certain there was more to the story.

“Do you remember Limik the Leopard?” Starros asked.

“Tall fellow? Scarred hands?”

Starros nodded. “He burned them as a child.”

“Didn't I have him flogged once for beating his wife?”

“That's the one. Hard case through and through.”

“I remember him,” Damin said. “What's he got to do with the old man?”

“I'm getting to that. I sent Limik out on a job... oh, about three weeks ago, I think. A certain merchant in Felt Street had a bad habit of leaving his wife's jewellery laying about the house. In our profession, that sort of carelessness can't be allowed to go unpunished.”

“Of course not,” Damin agreed wryly.

“Anyway, Limik's an old hand at that sort of thing, so I sent him out to teach our merchant friend a lesson. He did the job and was on his way back to the Guild when he bumped into the old man.”

“What happened?”

“Limik went back to the house, confessed his crime to the merchant - who didn't even realise he'd been robbed - and from that day on, he followed the old man around like a puppy, telling anyone who'd listen that he'd denounced Dacendaran, and was now a follower of another god.”

“Which other god?”

“He didn't say. But he used the word 'sin' a lot.”

Damin frowned. “That sounds like Xaphista.”

“Not even Limik, in the throes of religious ecstasy, is stupid enough to use that name out loud in the streets of Krakandar,” Starros said. “But after that day, the old man changed his tune. He started talking about you. Said you'd allied yourself with the godless ones - I guess he meant the Medalonians - and that you were consorting with the demon child. Next thing you know, Kalan turns up with her troops and places the city under the Collective's protection.”

“Where is this old man now?”

“Gone,” Starros shrugged. “As soon as I got word you were on your way home, I sent my people out to find him. He's dropped out of sight. Vanished as if he was never here.”

“And Limik?”

“The day after the old man vanished, Limik robbed three houses and a tavern. He claims he can't remember a thing. Threatened to knife me for even suggesting he'd ever confess to any crime, let alone turn away from Dacendaran.”

Damin stared into his wine for a moment. “So, what's your theory?”

“I don't have one, Damin. Strange old men and inexplicable religious experiences are not my line of business. That's what we have a High Arrion for.”

Damin nodded, more than a little concerned. “I'll mention it to Kalan.”

“You might want to mention it to the demon child, too.”

“Why?”

“Because along with reforming thieves and prostitutes, the old man was trying to find someone willing to kill her.”

CHAPTER 13

“Damin!”

Still brooding over Starros' disturbing news, Damin was startled out of his reverie by R'shiel. He turned as she ran the length of the broad hall, skidding on the polished floor as she neared him.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I need to see Kalan, and Orleon told me she's in the Solar. As I have no idea what a Solar is or how to find it in this rabbit warren you call a palace, I was hoping you could show me the way.”

“Of course,” he said, offering his arm. She took it lightly and fell into step beside him. Her hair was damp from her bath, but she still wore the Harshini leathers she favoured so much. At least he thought they were made of leather. They never seemed to get dirty the way other, ordinary clothes did.

“So, have you spoken to Adrina?”

“Yes. She's being remarkably cooperative. It has me worried.”

R'shiel laughed. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Damin.”

“You know, the annoying thing is, she's actually very smart underneath that obnoxious attitude of hers. But I still don't trust her.”

“You should. She does love you, you know.”

“Adrina? Don't be absurd. She loves flirting with danger. And power. And herself.”

“She said much the same thing about you.”

Damin looked at R'shiel, shaking his head. “Stop trying to create romance where there is none, R'shiel. You wanted us to marry and we did, but don't think you can ease your own guilt by inventing some relationship between us that doesn't exist.”

She studied him thoughtfully for a moment then shrugged. “As you wish.”

They walked in silence after that, through the long, wide halls of the palace, each of them certain that the other was wrong.

Kalan greeted them as they stepped into the Solar. “Demon child; Damin.”

“My name is R'shiel.”

“It would be improper of me to address you so informally, Divine One.”

R'shiel sighed. “Whatever.”

The room had been added to the palace by Damin's paternal grandmother and was roofed in clear glass tiles. The far wall was also glassed, and opened out into the palace gardens, which were looking rather forlorn, Damin noted with a frown. The furniture here had been cleverly wrought from iron, brightly coloured cushions relieving its convoluted lines. Damin never used the room much. As children they had avoided it. It was too easy for some passing palace courtier to see inside and discover what mischief they were up to.

“There are a few things I need to ask you,” R'shiel explained.

“Then I'll leave you two in private,” Damin said. Getting caught between the High Arrion and the demon child was not something he relished.

“I think you should stay, Damin,” Kalan suggested. “I imagine this concerns you as much as anyone.”

“I don't think...”

“Stay, Damin,” R'shiel ordered. “There's nothing I need to ask the High Arrion that you don't already know about.”

“Before I answer your questions, Divine One, perhaps you'd like to start by telling me what absurd Harshini plot you've cooked up that required my brother to betray his country by marrying that Fardohnyan harlot.”

“While we're all so busy with explanations, you can tell me what you're doing here with an occupation force,” he retorted. For some reason, Kalan's insistence on referring to Adrina as “that Fardohnyan harlot” was starting to aggravate him.

“Damin, calm down,” R'shiel advised then turned to the High Arrion. “Don't judge Adrina too harshly, Kalan. She has a good head on her shoulders and your brother loves her.”

“Not that I noticed.”

“Then you're not as observant as I thought,” R'shiel shrugged. “Please sit down. This could take a while so we might as well be comfortable.”

“If you're planning to convince me this is a good idea, then we could be here all night,” Kalan remarked as she sat down on the chaise near the fireplace. The clouds moving in front of the sun shadowed the room. It made her expression hard to read.

“There was a time when the Hythrun did not question the Harshini.”

“That time is long past, demon child. The Harshini abandoned us and we learnt to survive on our own. Nothing personal, mind you - the Harshini presence in Greenharbour has been most welcome these past few months - but why should we submit to your people again?”

“Because without the Harshini all Hythria will continue to be is a pack of squabbling Warlords, each trying to kill the others to gain more territory,” Damin said. “Hythria is better than that.”

“That's very noble of you, Damin. You hope to appeal to my patriotism in lieu of my political instincts, is that it?” Kalan smiled, as if the very idea was laughable.

“No, it's your political instincts we're relying on.”

Kalan turned to R'shiel. “What do you mean?”

“I have to destroy Xaphista, Kalan. I'm hoping you can tell me how.”

“You think the Sorcerers' Collective is privy to such secrets?”

“It's hardly something I can ask the Harshini.”

Kalan smiled faintly. “I suppose not, but don't get your hopes up, Divine One. There may be something in the archives that I'm not aware of, but even in ancient times, the gods weren't renowned for documenting the instructions for their own demise and leaving them lying about where a mortal could find them. And even if we have the knowledge you seek, with Hythria on the brink of civil war, I've neither the time nor the inclination to aid you in such an undertaking.”

“On the brink of civil war?” Damin scoffed. “Aren't you exaggerating just a little, Kalan?”

“You don't know the half of it, brother,” she scowled. “You wanted to know what I was doing here? Well, I'll tell you. I'm here because the Warlord of Dregian Province tried to have you declared dead and your province gifted to his younger brother. Krakandar is currently under the protection of the Sorcerers' Collective. I occupied your city because without me, you wouldn't have a city.”

“Cyrus tried to have me removed?” The idea was laughable.

“It's worse than that. He's publicly calling you a traitor.”

“Let him! Who would believe him anyhow?”

“A lot of people. You left Krakandar all but unguarded, and even the lowliest beggar in the street has heard the rumours that Fardohnya is planning to invade us. You made a treaty with Medalon without consulting anyone. You sent Narvell to Bordertown to help the Defenders. It might have been different if you'd sent him to guard your border, but you didn't. You sent him into Medalon. And now you return home like nothing is wrong, bringing with you the daughter of our worst enemy as your bride. The wonder is not that Cyrus has accused you, Damin. It's that nobody has acted on it until now.”

“I have to get to Greenharbour,” he said, thinking of several rather painful and exotic things that he would like to do to the Warlord of Dregian Province. “I'll put that obnoxious little upstart in his place. What's Lernen been doing while all this is going on?”

“Fretting,” Kalan told him. “He's not been well lately and Cyrus has his ear. He knows what Lernen likes and, more importantly, what he fears. You've no idea the damage he's done in your absence.”

R'shiel was looking at him with concern. He did not realise how dangerous his expression was until he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass.

“Don't do anything hasty, Damin.”

“What I plan to do to Cyrus will be very, very slow, R'shiel.”

“I don't have time for you to start a war, Damin.”

He smiled coldly. “Don't worry. It'll be a nasty little war, but a short one.”

“How long ago did all this happen?” R'shiel asked Kalan, sparing Damin an exasperated look.

“Over a month ago. I've been here since the Feast of Jonadalup. Mother came here as soon as she realised Krakandar was under threat. Narvell arrived six days ago.”

“But now that he's back, you can release Krakandar and return to Greenharbour, right?”

“No. We'll have to go back to Greenharbour so Damin can petition the Convocation of Warlords for the return of his province.”

“Petition the Warlords!” Damin exploded angrily. “The hell I will!”

R'shiel shrugged philosophically. “Then we'll go to Greenharbour.”

“R'shiel —”

“Damin, we have to get this sorted out quickly. Medalon is under Karien control and I can't do anything about it until I've found out how to deal with Xaphista. If that means sorting out your damned Warlords, then that's what we'll do.”

“What's the hurry?” Kalan asked suspiciously. “Xaphista has been the dominant power in the north for centuries. A few more months one way or the other won't make much difference.”

“It's not just the Overlord. I promised to help the Defenders retake Medalon. There's a thousand Defenders headed this way,” Damin told her.

“You're bringing Defenders onto Hythrun soil? Damin, how could you?” she cried in horror.

“They come as allies,” R'shiel reminded her.

“There is no such thing, as far as the Warlords are concerned. If those Defenders step one foot into Hythria before this is resolved, there will be nothing I can do to save you, Damin. You will lose Krakandar, the High Prince's throne and probably your life.” The High Arrion turned to R'shiel, her eyes burning with anger. “You are responsible for this too, I suppose?”

“Sort of,” R'shiel admitted.

“And how does this fit into your grand plan to destroy Xaphista?”

“If we don't turn the Kariens back from Medalon, Hythria is next, Kalan. I can hardly destroy him if he's getting stronger, rather than weaker. We need the Defenders and every man the Hythrun can muster. Only then can we restore the Primal Gods to millions of people who now worship Xaphista.”

“What do you mean, you're going to weaken Xaphista by restoring the Primal Gods to Karien?”

“What did you think I was going to do? Hunt Xaphista down and then throw fireballs and lightning bolts at him? Unless you've got some handy little scroll with precise instructions on how to do that tucked away in your archives, the only way I can seriously threaten the Overlord is to shake the faith of his believers. And I can't do that while he's rampaging through the continent, conquering everything in sight. The Defenders must be helped. Medalon must be freed.”

“And how do you plan to restore the Primal Gods?”

“That's where you come in.”

Kalan stared at her, wide-eyed. “I fail to see...”

“The Sorcerers' Collective is the closest thing to an organised religion that I have to work with,” R'shiel explained, a little impatiently. “The Kariens are used to being organised. It's how Xaphista maintains control. I can't just destroy his Church. I have to replace it.”

“Since the withdrawal of the Harshini our power has been eroded considerably.”

“I know. But Brak told me that the Sorcerers' Collective once sent out their emissaries to every corner of the continent. He said they could travel through a war zone with impunity.”

Kalan nodded. “They were protected by their black robes, their diamond-shaped pendant and the deep respect the people had for our fellowship.”

“Those days are long past,” Damin warned. “Anyone caught wearing the diamond pendant in Fardohnya these days is imprisoned as a Hythrun spy. In Medalon they're liable for deportation. In Karien, they're burned at the stake.”

“I can change that. We can change it. But I need your help, Kalan. I need access to your archives. I need Hythria united and at peace with Fardohnya, and we need Hythrun help to push the Kariens back. And I need the Collective. Only then can I face the Overlord with a chance.”

Kalan nodded as the ramifications dawned on her. “Assuming we can save Damin's province and bring our troops to aid Medalon, how do you propose to convert the Kariens?”

“I don't wish to tip my hand by revealing that.”

Damin glanced at her askance, wondering if her reticence was deliberate or she simply didn't have a clue.

Kalan's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Yet you demand my cooperation?”

“I'm asking for it, Kalan. If I wanted to demand it, I would ask one of the gods to appear and make it a divine edict.”

“Then let me see if I understand you. You want me to return to Greenharbour and announce that the Collective sanctions the marriage of the Hythrun heir to Hablet's daughter. You then, I assume, want me to issue some sort of dire threat to the Warlords who oppose this union, to make them toe the line. And while you're scrabbling through my archives looking for something that probably doesn't exist, you want me to get them to release Krakandar back to Damin and convince them that a thousand or more Defenders pouring over our border is an act of friendship, not war.”

“That would help,” R'shiel agreed.

“And you? Having dragged half the world to the brink of war, what will you do, exactly?”

“Hand you and your Collective more power than they've known for centuries,” the demon child told her.

Kalan sat, silent and thoughtful for a moment. “You make a powerful and tempting offer, demon child.”

“You're not likely to get another like it.”

Kalan looked down at her hands again before meeting R'shiel's eye. “You may, of course, have access to our archives. They are as much the property of the Harshini as they are ours. As for the rest of it... I cannot give you an answer now. I must think on this. What you ask is unprecedented. And I wish to speak with my mother.” She glanced up at Damin. “You are aware of this plan, I assume?”

He nodded. “So is Adrina.”

“Well that explains this absurd marriage, at any rate.”

Kalan rose to her feet and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from her long black robe. Her fair hair fell forward and when she looked up for a moment she appeared much younger and more innocent than she truly was.

“I will give you my answer when I have come to a decision. Damin; demon child.” She bowed politely and left the Solar.

Damin turned to R'shiel, shaking his head. She met his look, puzzled by his expression. “What?”

“I was just thinking how well you manipulate people, R'shiel.”

“You sound like you don't approve.”

“I never said I didn't approve. I just can't handle never knowing what you're going to do next.”

“You might find it's better that way,” she suggested with the ghost of a smile.

Damin doubted that, but decided against pursuing the matter. “R'shiel, do you see Dacendaran much?”

“I haven't seen him since we left the Karien border.”

“Can you speak to him?”

“I suppose.”

“Can you ask him if anyone has been interfering in his followers?”

“If you want. Why?”

“I'm not sure. I just heard something that bothers me a bit, that's all.”

“I'll ask him if you think it's important.”

“That's just it,” he admitted. “I don't really know if it is, or not.”

CHAPTER 14

R'shiel would have liked to explore Krakandar, but her status as the demon child was a significant obstacle. She had naively hoped that her identity could be kept secret until they reached Greenharbour. She'd had a vague notion that she would confront the Council of Warlords, tell them to behave because she, the demon child, commanded it, find the secret to destroying Xaphista in the Collective's archives, then return to Medalon with a Hythrun army at her back. The chances of that happening now seemed remote. It had not occurred to her just how much the legend of the demon child meant to these pagans, or how much Damin planned to exploit it. The news had spread and a crowd had gathered outside the gates of the inner city, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

Although raised as the daughter of a Quorum Member, R'shiel had never been the subject of public speculation before and she found it extremely disconcerting. Her status as a Novice, and later a Probate in the Sisterhood, had meant she had led a fairly normal life, such that it was, until circumstances and her own rebellion had conspired to forever change its course. She was not trained to deal with being a public figure, at least not on this scale.

It was Adrina who came to her rescue. Born and bred to be in the public eye, she seemed to know what to do without thinking about it. In fact, she seemed quite determined to teach R'shiel everything she could - as if it gave her a purpose in life, other than avoiding her mother-in-law.

Thinking of Adrina made R'shiel think of Damin. Now that she had met his mother and sister, she understood what fascinated Damin about Adrina. He had grown up surrounded by intelligent, powerful women, and Adrina was everything he admired. Of course, he was too dense to realise it, just as Adrina was too stubborn to admit how she felt about Damin. The pair of them made R'shiel want to scream with frustration. But at least they were doing what was required of them, and if they were too pig-headed to work out how they felt about each other, that was their problem, not hers.

A knock at the door was a welcome diversion from her woes. She called out a command to enter and was startled to find that her visitor was Princess Marla. R'shiel leapt out of her chair as the Princess swept into the room.

“You are comfortable here?” Marla asked, glancing around the room to ensure that everything was as it should be.

“Very comfortable, thank you, Your Highness.”

“We must talk, demon child. I have many questions for you.”

R'shiel nodded, unsurprised. She'd been expecting this ever since she had spoken to Kalan.

“Of course. Won't you have a seat? I can order some refreshments if you wish. Mikel!”

The boy appeared from the next room at her command. “My Lady?”

“Fetch us some wine, Mikel.”

The boy bowed awkwardly and hurried from the room. R'shiel turned back to the Princess who was staring at her suspiciously.

“I won't be drinking wine with you, my girl,” she announced. “I plan to keep my wits about me.”

“Water, then?”

“That will do.”

Marla seated herself beside the fire as R'shiel poured water from a silver pitcher into a matching cup for the Princess.

Winter in Krakandar was much milder than in Medalon, so the fire was banked low, more for the convenience of not having to light it later than from any real need for warmth. She handed the cup to Marla and took the chair opposite.

“So, what is it you wanted to ask me?”

“You are very blunt.”

“I was raised to speak my mind.”

“By the Sisterhood, Damin informs me.”

“That's correct.”

Marla did not look pleased to have her information confirmed. “So it's true then that you are Joyhinia Tenragan's daughter?”

“She fostered me. My real mother died giving birth to me.”

“I cannot understand how the Harshini allowed Lorandranek's child to be raised by their mortal enemies.”

“The Harshini didn't know of my existence until recently. When they did learn of it, they sent Brak to find me. I can see you're concerned, Your Highness, but imagine how I feel. I was raised to despise the Harshini. Nobody was more shocked than I was to discover the truth.”

“Yet you appear to have adapted well.”

“Out of necessity. Not by choice, I can assure you.”

Marla took another sip of water, studying R'shiel over the rim of her cup. “And so, having accepted who you are, you have decided to meddle in the internal affairs of every nation on the continent.”

“There's no point in being half-hearted about this,” R'shiel pointed out with a faint smile. “I'm supposed to destroy Xaphista. I can't do that without affecting anyone else.”

“And this marriage? How did you get Damin to agree to it? Did you ensorcel him? Did that Fardohnyan woman?”

“Damin might be under Adrina's spell, Your Highness, but it has nothing to do with magic.”

“It's obvious he's under some sort of spell!” Marla snapped. “He is beyond reason where she is concerned. I have never seen him so intransigent over a woman. He insists that she will one day be the High Princess of Hythria.”

“And so she shall.”

“The Warlords will never accept a Fardohnyan.”

“They will, in time.”

“We may not have time,” Marla told her. “My brother is dying, demon child. It is only a matter of time before he succumbs to the diseases that consume him. One cannot indulge in the type of activities in which he finds pleasure without eventually paying the price. We do not have years, or even months, for the Warlords to grow accustomed to the idea of a Fardohnyan High Princess. We may only have weeks, and that is simply not enough time.”

“Then you will have to use your considerable powers of persuasion, won't you?”

Marla scowled. “You haven't persuaded me yet.”

“I don't need to. It is done.”

“I will have it annulled.”

“I will have it ratified by the Harshini. I will have the gods put in an appearance if necessary. You can't fight me on this, Your Highness. I have considerably more resources than you when it comes to divine intervention.”

The Princess did not look pleased. “Even if I agreed to this absurd arrangement, one cannot trust a Fardohnyan, particularly one of Hablet's brood.”

“You don't think Adrina wants peace?”

“I think that young woman wants her father's throne, and that's the only reason she married my son. Have you any idea of the power you have handed her?”

“I'm quite sure Adrina knows a son of hers is likely to be King.”

“I'm not talking of that!” Marla said impatiently. “This has nothing to do with any child she might bear. Hablet has no legitimate sons. Under ancient law, that makes Damin his heir. My son would have had the Fardohnyan throne in any case, and now you have interfered and that grasping little harlot will become Queen. Just how long do you think my son will survive after that?”

R'shiel leaned back in her chair, stunned by the news. “I didn't know.”

“Of course you didn't know. But you can bet Adrina knows. Why else would she marry Damin with barely a word of protest?”

“Has it occurred to you that she might love him?”

“Don't be ridiculous! She wouldn't know the meaning of the word.”

“I think you're wrong, Your Highness. I don't think Adrina knows anything about Damin being the heir to her father's throne.”

“Then you are as blind as my son.”

R'shiel thought back over her conversations with Adrina. Nothing she had done or said would seem to indicate that she knew of any law that would make Damin the heir to the Fardohnyan throne. Even Kalan had given no hint that she knew of such a law. But that did raise another interesting question.

“Does Damin know about this law?”

“He does now! It's a tragedy he didn't learn of it sooner.”

“Why didn't you tell him sooner?”

“I only learnt of it recently, myself. My youngest stepson is a member of the Assassins' Guild. The Guild was approached by one of Hablet's lackeys to murder my sons, Damin and Narvell. They refused the contract, but decided to look into the reasons behind Hablet's obsession with the destruction of the Wolfblade line.”

“Then I don't see the problem. Damin is still heir to the Hythrun and Fardohnyan thrones. With Adrina at his side, won't that just make his claim to the Fardohnyan throne that much stronger?”

“Of course it does, that's my point. There will be no stopping Adrina now. With Damin at her side, she can claim her father's throne. Once she's done that, all she needs to do is dispose of my son and she will rule Fardohnya and Hythria. If the child she is carrying turns out to be Cratyn's, then she can lay claim to the Karien throne as well!”

“Child? What child?”

Marla shook her head in despair. “You don't know? By the gods, it's as plain as the nose on her face. Adrina is with child, R'shiel. Surely you noticed! I for one would be very interested to learn whose child it is.”

R'shiel really had no idea. She wondered if Adrina knew, or even suspected. It was possible, of course. She and Damin had been lovers for several months. The child could only be his. If she had been pregnant when she left Karien, her condition would have been patently obvious before now.

“If what you say is true, then the child is Damin's. I can promise you that.”

“Bah! Who knows with a woman like that? It could be Almodavar's, if she was bored enough. I just pray Damin doesn't learn of her condition before I can prove the truth of the child's parentage.”

“You've not told him about it, then?”

“And have him lose what little sense he has left regarding that woman? I don't think so. And I would appreciate it if you said nothing to him either. At least until I can find the evidence I need to convince him how foolish he's being.”

“I'll not say anything about Adrina's condition,” she agreed, in an effort to appear cooperative, “but only because I think you're on a fool's errand. The only thing you are likely to prove is that Damin is the child's father.”

“My son? Get a child on that Fardohnyan whore? Never!”

Marla's blind prejudice where Adrina was concerned was beginning to wear on R'shiel. “Your Highness, I really think you should reconsider your attitude towards Adrina. She is married to your son and if you're right about her condition, she carries your grandchild. Don't you think life would be a lot easier if you made an effort to get along with her?”

“I don't trust her,” Marla replied stubbornly.

“You've hardly given her a chance.”

“I see no reason why I should.”

“You should, because I say you should,” R'shiel declared.

“I'm not going to be ordered around by a slip of a girl who thinks she can bend the world to her will...”

Marla's voice tapered off as R'shiel reached for her power. She didn't do anything with it, she simply let it fill her until her eyes darkened and turned completely black. She stared at Marla unblinkingly, her black eyes like orbs of burning onyx, her silence a threat in itself. There wasn't much point in being the demon child if you couldn't lay down the law every now and then, especially when being reasonable wasn't getting her anywhere.

Marla fell to her knees. “I am sorry, Divine One. I did not mean to doubt you.”

“Then you will do as I say,” R'shiel commanded, borrowing just enough power to fill her voice with an irresistible compulsion. It was not a coercion, but it was enough to scare the wits out of the Princess. “You will treat Adrina in a manner befitting her status as your daughter-in-law and you will give this marriage your full support. If not, you will answer to the gods.”

“It shall be as you command, Divine One.”

“Then be gone from my presence,” she added dramatically, “while I am still in the mood to indulge you. And do not speak to me of this again.”

Marla scrambled to her feet rather inelegantly and was gone from the room in a matter of moments. R'shiel let go of the power and laughed. The look on Marla's face alone had been worth it. All she could do now was hope that she had frightened the Princess sufficiently for her to toe the line.

“Was that Marla I just saw running out of here?”

R'shiel looked up as Adrina slipped into the room. She studied the Princess closely, but if her belly was swollen, it was impossible to tell in the long loose gown she was wearing.

“It was. I'm afraid I indulged in what Brak would call a 'tasteless and theatrical display of power' to get my point across.”

Adrina frowned. “Well, I hoped it worked. That woman really doesn't like me.”

“I think you'll find her a little more cooperative from now on. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Adrina replied with a puzzled look. “Why do you ask?”

“Are you pregnant, Adrina?”

The Princess paled and took the seat so recently vacated by her mother-in-law. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you pregnant? It's a simple enough question.”

“I'm not sure.”

“How can you not be sure?”

“Very well, I have my suspicions, but as I don't want to be pregnant, I've done nothing to confirm them.”

R'shiel smiled. “You mean you hoped it would go away if you didn't think about it?”

Adrina glared at her for a moment, then shrugged. “It's stupid, I know.”

“Marla thinks you are.”

“Wonderful! That's all I need.”

“Does Damin have any idea?”

“Of course not! He's a man. They never notice that sort of thing. And it doesn't really show yet.”

“Don't you think you should break the news to him before someone else does?”

“And give him the idea he has some sort of claim over me? I don't think so!”

“Adrina, it's his child too. And you are married to him.”

“That's beside the point.”

“That is the point.”

“R'shiel, don't you understand what will happen when I tell him? The first thing he's going to do is surround me with so many bodyguards I'll be lucky if I can see daylight through them. Then he's going to lock me away somewhere 'for my safety' so that the child will be protected. Then he'll strut around crowing like a rooster because he's proved his manhood.”

R'shiel laughed. “So what are you going to do, Adrina? Carry on as if nothing is amiss while your belly swells to the size of a large melon?”

“I don't know what I'm going to do, I...” She stopped mid-sentence, interrupted as Mikel slipped through the door.

“What is it, Mikel?” R'shiel asked, puzzled by the expression on the child's face.

“The High Prince requests your presence in the Great Hall, my Lady. You too, Your Highness.”

“The High Prince?” Adrina asked curiously. “You mean Prince Lernen is here?”

“No, Your Highness, it's Lord Wolfblade. He requests you attend him. The news has just come from Greenharbour. High Prince Lernen is dead.”

Adrina turned to R'shiel, her eyes wide with shock.

“Long live the High Prince Damin,” R'shiel murmured softly.

CHAPTER 15

“We have to move from here and the roads are still blocked,” Tarja announced, leaning over the map that Denjon had spread out on the table in the cold, dank cellar of the tavern in Roan Vale.

“Move? We only just got here,” Linst pointed out testily, shifting the lantern on the table so he could study the map more easily. The ventilation was poor in the crowded cellar and the lantern smoked badly. Tarja squinted through the stinging haze and scowled at the other captain.

“Take a look outside, Linst. Between your men, those who joined us in Testra and the men I got away from the border, there's close on two thousand men out there now. We're too big a target. We can march some of the men across the border, the rest we have to break into smaller groups - less than twenty men to a squad. Each squad can operate independently, their only orders to get to Hythria. We can muster them at Krakandar. Damin may even appreciate the fact that we didn't march over his border like an invading army. And we have to do something about stopping the Kariens crossing the river.”

“Let them loose in squads? How do you expect to maintain discipline?” Denjon asked.

“I don't. We're going to have to rely on their training.”

“What about provisions?”

“We'll split up what we have here, after that they'll be on their own. You'd be surprised how helpful a sympathetic population can be.”

“Is that how you survived in the rebellion?” Linst asked. There was an edge of reproval in his tone that Tarja didn't much care for.

Tarja nodded. “It's the reason you could never really break us. Each squad operated on its own. It didn't know where the rest of the squads were, what they're planning, or who was in them. It's like a serpent with a hundred heads. Cut off one and the others will continue to function. If they're captured, they can't betray anyone but their own small group.”

“No Defender would betray his comrades,” Linst objected.

“Any man can break under torture. The trick is minimising what each man knows, to protect the rest of the force.”

“I still say we should fight them head on. This sneaking around, running away to Hythria, it reeks of dishonour.”

“Fight them head on? Our pitiful force of two thousand men? Do odds of five hundred to one appeal to your honour that much?”

“I would rather die an honourable death.”

“Well, I wouldn't,” Denjon laughed, trying to ease the tension. “I'd rather live, if it's all right with you.”

Tarja smiled briefly then turned to Linst. “You need to make up your mind, Linst. You can't have it both ways. Either you're with us, or you're against us.”

“Us? Don't you mean you, Tarja? Isn't that what all this is really about? You've gone pagan, haven't you? And you expect us to fight to save the damned Harshini from the Kariens.”

Tarja straightened and turned to Linst. “Who said anything about the Harshini?”

“Who said anything? Your damned sister, or whatever she is these days, is one of them! Don't think me a fool. How long have you known they were in hiding? How long have you been protecting them?”

“You have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Then enlighten me, Captain. Tell me how you came to be in the company of two Harshini, one of whom we always considered your sister. Tell me how you survived a wound that would have killed any other man. Tell me why we are risking our necks. Is it really to save Medalon? Or is it because you know the Kariens will ensure the Harshini are eradicated completely this time?”

Tarja fought down the urge to throttle Linst where he stood. He was not the only Defender who felt that way. He was merely giving voice to a sentiment that was rapidly spreading through their forces, a situation not helped by the pagan rebels who had flocked to their banner. Tarja swallowed his annoyance and took a deep breath. This problem had to be dealt with, and the sooner the better.

“What I think about the Harshini is irrelevant, Linst. So is what the Kariens plan for them. My only concern at the moment is to get across the border so we can mount a counter-attack. There are no Harshini here and I'm not expecting any. But there is a Karien army marching on the Citadel, and a First Sister who is issuing their orders. We can decide what to do about the Harshini when we've gotten rid of the Kariens. Until then, I don't intend to waste my time arguing with you about it.”

Before Linst could answer, the cellar door opened and Mandah entered, followed by a civilian dressed in rough farmer's clothing. The man looked at the Defenders with barely disguised suspicion then turned to Tarja.

“Good to see you again, Cap'n,” he said, revealing a mouth full of broken teeth.

“You too, Seth. What news do you have?”

Seth had been a rebel long before Tarja had joined their cause. Tarja knew him for a reliable and steady man, not prone to flights of fancy the way the younger men were.

“The Kariens moved south from the border 'bout two weeks ago. They're headin' straight for the Citadel by the looks of things.”

“And the Citadel? Any news from there?”

“Aye. There's been a stack of new laws issued. Not bad ones, mind you, but odd, if you know what I mean.”

“Odd, how?” Denjon asked.

Seth glared at the officer, but did not answer.

“You can trust him, Seth,” Tarja assured the rebel.

Seth hesitated for a moment longer before he spoke. “There's a Karien advising the First Sister. Squire Mathen, they call him. Word has it he's the one issuing the laws. The First Sister is just a puppet.”

“More than you know,” Tarja murmured, thinking of what Brak had told him about the spell cast by the Karien priests and whose mind now occupied Joyhinia's body. “What sort of laws is he issuing?”

“He's started a program to 'redeem' the court'esa and made it an offence for any man or woman with children to spend their wages in the 'houses of exploitation' as he calls 'em.”

“He's outlawed the court'esa?” Denjon asked in surprise. “The Sisterhood legalised them two centuries ago.”

“Not outlawed 'em exactly. The First Sister now reckons there are too many children going hungry 'cause their parents spend all their money on 'pleasures of the flesh', rather than food for their kin. The law was passed with barely a murmur of protest.”

“Why issue a law like that?” Linst asked.

“It's the first step to outlawing prostitution completely,” Tarja said. “In Karien it's an offence punishable by stoning. Our people wouldn't accept the Church of Xaphista being imposed on them, but if they make new laws that sound reasonable enough, before you know it, they'll be building churches in every damned village in Medalon.”

“Aye, you're right, Cap'n. All the laws seem good on the surface, but they're only a step away from worshippin' the Overlord.”

“That's the danger of them,” Tarja agreed. “Is there any other news?”

Seth nodded grimly. “They're gonna hang Sister Mahina.”

“When?” Tarja asked.

“Restday next, I think.”

“Then we still have time to rescue her!” Denjon declared.

“Don't be an idiot,” Linst said. “That's exactly what they'll be expecting. Even if you could get to the Citadel in time, which is unlikely, Garet Warner will have the city locked up so tight, you won't be able to sneak a table knife through the main gate, let alone a squad of armed men.”

“Tarja? What do you think? Mahina was a friend of yours, as well as the only decent First Sister we've had in a century.”

Tarja did not answer for a moment. “Linst is right, Denjon. We'd be walking into a trap.”

“So you're just going to let them hang her?”

“We have two thousand men here that we need to disperse and the Karien army moving through Medalon. Mahina knew the risk she was taking when she returned to the Citadel, and she'd be the first to tell us not to throw everything away trying to be heroic. I'm sorry, Denjon. Nobody wants to save her more than I do, but we simply can't risk it.”

Denjon shook his head, but he could not deny Tarja's cold practicality.

“Then we shall have to settle for avenging her death instead.”

“And avenge it we will,” Tarja promised. “Every damned day until the Kariens are gone from Medalon.”

Tarja looked down at the map, rubbing his eyes, which felt as if they'd had handfuls of sand thrown in them. Denjon and Linst were gone and he was alone in the smoky cellar, going over the plans they had made, looking for faults and finding none. It was a useless exercise, but it was better than trying to sleep.

“Tarja?”

He looked up as Mandah entered the cellar carrying a tray. She hadn't changed much in the year since he'd last seen her. She was still as calm as her brother Ghari was fierce, still as thoughtful, and still as infuriatingly devout in her belief that the gods would take care of everything. Her fair hair was tied back in a loose braid and she was wearing an apron over her homespun trousers. She had been waiting for them, here in Roan Vale, and had appointed herself housekeeper to the senior officers and none of them had objected. Mandah was the sort of woman who could make herself indispensable with remarkable ease. Denjon was quite taken with her.

“You didn't eat at dinner, so I brought you something.”

“Thanks. Just put it there on the table. I'll eat it later.”

She put down the tray but made no move to leave. Tarja looked up at her. “Was there something else?”

“I thought you might like to talk.”

“Some other time, Mandah. I'm busy.”

“You're always busy. You don't eat. You don't sleep. What's wrong?”

He laughed humourlessly. “What's wrong? Have you looked outside lately?”

“That's not what's bothering you, Tarja. You could organise those men out there in your sleep. If you ever did sleep, that is. Is it Mahina?”

He had forgotten she was there when they spoke with Seth. “That's a part of it.”

“And what about the rest of it?”

“I don't want to talk about it, Mandah.”

“You'll have to get it off your chest sooner or later, Tarja. It's eating you up.” She hesitated for a moment and then added in a small voice, “Is it R'shiel?”

He looked up sharply. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you haven't mentioned her once.”

“Is that such a surprise? I've had quite a bit to do lately, in case you hadn't noticed. Besides, what do you care? You never liked her, anyway.” He didn't mean to sound so harsh, but she had cut too close to the truth for comfort.

“It doesn't matter if I like her, Tarja. She is the demon child.”

“So everyone keeps telling me.”

Mandah walked around the table to stand beside him. She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he said bluntly, shaking off her arm.

“You'll have to eventually, Tarja.” Her eyes were full of pain at his rejection. “You can't keep on like this. You're on the brink of exhaustion. How much use will you be to any of us if you can't think straight?”

He pushed aside his annoyance and made an effort to be civil. His mood was hardly Mandah's fault. “Look, I appreciate your concern, Mandah, but there is really nothing to tell. Thanks for the food, and I promise I'll eat it later.”

He smiled at her, hoping it didn't look nearly as false as it felt, and turned back to the map. Mandah did not move. Tarja studied the terrain with great concentration, wondering what it would take to get her to leave.

“Ghari told me you and R'shiel were lovers,” she said after a long moment of strained silence.

Tarja slammed his palms down onto the table so hard, the tray jumped. Mandah leaned away from him, her eyes suddenly fearful.

“Ghari had no reason to lie, Tarja.”

“Damn it, Mandah, it's none of your business!”

“Is that what's bothering you?”

He took a deep, calming breath before he turned to her. “You wouldn't understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Tarja looked at her for a moment then shrugged. She was not going to be put off easily. “How much did he tell you?”

“Enough.”

“Then I don't need to explain anything.”

“Tarja, if you really love her...”

“Ah, now that's the problem, you see. I remember loving R'shiel as if there were no other woman in the world. But it's like the memories belong to someone else. I don't feel like that now, and I can't ever imagine feeling like that, yet I can remember it, clear as day.”

“Can you remember when you first felt that you loved her?”

“Almost to the instant,” he told her. “It happened at the vineyard near Testra. One moment I wanted to strangle her, the next moment I was kissing her.”

“And do you remember when you stopped feeling that way about her?”

“I only remember waking up in a wagon with a head full of memories I thought were simply nightmares, at first.”

“It sounds like a geas,” she said thoughtfully.

“A what?”

“A geas. A spell, if you like.”

“Magic? Oh, well that's just bloody wonderful!” he snarled.

“Look, I'm no expert, but it seems the only logical explanation.”

“Mandah, where I come from you don't use the words magic and logic in the same sentence.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive, Tarja.”

“I'm sorry, Mandah, but I don't hold with your belief in the powers of the gods. You'll have to come up with a better explanation if you're trying to make me feel better.”

“I would have thought you'd seen enough to believe in their power by now, Tarja. Your determination to ignore what you've witnessed with your own eyes is just as illogical as you pretend my faith in the gods is.”

Tarja had a bad feeling he was stepping onto dangerous ground discussing theology with Mandah. “Look, even if I conceded that such a thing was possible, why would they bother? And why, if they did put a... what did you call it... a geas, on me, would they take it off again?”

Mandah thought for a moment before answering. “Do you know how R'shiel healed you, Tarja?”

“She used her Harshini magic.”

“That's true. The same magic you claim you don't believe in. But you may not know the whole of it. You were possessed by demons. They melded to form the blood you lost while you recovered.”

“Demons? Founders! I had a demon-meld inside me? How do you know that?”

“R'shiel told me. She wasn't sure what it would do to you. I think it destroyed the geas.”

He shook his head and stared back at the map. This was too incredible, too fantastic to be real.

“That's what it sounds like to me,” Mandah persisted. “The gods sometimes put a geas on a person, to make them act the way they want. The demon-meld might have broken it, which is why you woke up thinking you could never have felt that way about R'shiel. And why you never questioned how you felt about her while the geas was on you.”

“Why would anybody, god or man, put a spell on me to make me love R'shiel?”

Mandah shrugged. “Who can guess the mind of a god? But think about what has happened since then. Would you have rescued her from the Grimfield? Or from the Kariens? Would you have done half of what you did, if you were not driven to keep her by your side? Perhaps it was the gods' way of protecting R'shiel.”

“I am getting pretty bloody sick of your gods, Mandah.”

She smiled. “You have served them remarkably well for an atheist.”

“I wasn't planning to serve them at all.”

“One cannot avoid one's destiny, Tarja, and like it or not, you are tied to the demon child.” She smiled comfortingly. “Try not to let it bother you. If it was a geas, then you're not responsible for how you felt about her. You shouldn't feel guilty for feeling that way, or that you don't feel that way any longer.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let it go, Tarja. And get some sleep.”

“Later,” he promised, turning back to the map.

Mandah hesitated for a moment, perhaps hoping he would confide in her further, but he had already said more than he intended. After a while he heard the door snick shut behind her as she let herself out of the cellar.

Once she was gone, Tarja swore softly under his breath for a time, cursing every pagan god he could name.

CHAPTER 16

In the days that followed the news of the death of High Prince Lernen, all of Krakandar seemed to be in turmoil. The streets were draped with black and the gongs in the temples rang almost constantly, tolling the death of the High Prince. At night the city was a blaze of light as the citizens placed candles and lanterns at their doors to show Lernen's soul the way to the underworld, should he stumble into their street on his journey there. After three houses caught fire in the Beggars' Quarter, Damin declared the official mourning period at an end. He understood his subjects' need to follow tradition, but he didn't want his city burned to the ground for the sake of a man that very few genuinely lamented.

Rogan Bearbow, the Warlord of Izcomdar, had delivered the news. His province bordered Damin's to the south and although the two had never been close, he was politically astute enough to ride north to Krakandar to see if Damin was in residence, before choosing which side he would take. That he would eventually have to choose a side, Damin was certain. Along with the news that Lernen had been dead for close on a month came the news that Cyrus Eaglespike, the Warlord of Dregian Province, had laid claim to the High Prince's crown. Apparently his ambitions had grown from merely removing Damin from Krakandar.

Marla was livid when she heard the news, but Narvell was unsurprised. Cyrus was a distant cousin and had often remarked in the past that should anything happen to Damin or Narvell, he was next in line for the throne. It seemed now that he hadn't been joking. Damin was less worried than he might have been otherwise, knowing that regardless of Cyrus' tenuous claim to the High Prince's mantle, he had the demon child on his side.

Just how useful an ally she was became evident the first time she met Rogan Bearbow. Older by several years than Damin, he was a tall, aloof man, who ran his province with harsh efficiency and kept the other Warlords at bay by lining his highways with the crucified bodies of any enemy Raiders foolish enough to cross his borders.

R'shiel had entered the Great Hall with Adrina at her side. Amidst the courtiers crowded into the hall standing in small clusters discussing the implications of the High Prince's death, her skin-tight leathers looked out of place. R'shiel did not seem to care. She strode purposefully towards Damin, leaving Adrina to follow at a more dignified pace.

“Is it true?” she asked, interrupting his conversation with Rogan.

Damin nodded. “Rogan had a messenger bird from Greenharbour nearly ten days ago.”

R'shiel turned on the Warlord. “Why did you take so long to send word?”

“Excuse me, young woman, but who are you to question me?”

“I'm sorry, Rogan, I forget my manners,” Damin said distractedly. He was watching Adrina out of the corner of his eye as she approached them, terrified she might do or say something that would embarrass, or worse, endanger them all. “Rogan Bearbow, Warlord of Izcomdar, allow me to introduce Her Royal Highness, R'shiel té Ortyn, the demon child.”

“The demon child? This is some sort of jest, yes?”

“This is some sort of jest, no,” R'shiel retorted. “What's happening, Damin?”

Before he could answer, Adrina reached them. To his astonishment, she curtsied solemnly before him. “My condolences on the loss of your uncle, Your Highness, and my congratulations on your elevation.”

Damin stared at her in surprise. There was not a trace of sarcasm in her tone, nor a hint of irony. She stood up and met his gaze, her expression grave.

“And who is this delightful creature?” Rogan asked, quite impressed by her regal bearing.

“This, Lord Bearbow, is my wife, the Princess Adrina.”

Adrina smiled demurely at the Warlord and offered him her hand. He bowed and kissed her palm in the traditional manner, studying her closely.

“You are not Hythrun, I judge, Your Highness.”

“And you are very astute, my Lord. I am not Hythrun, I am Fardohnyan.”

Rogan looked at Damin frowning. “You have taken a Fardohnyan bride?”

“I —” Damin began, but R'shiel cut in before he could answer.

“He has taken the bride I chose for him, Lord Bearbow. If you wish to object, I can arrange for you to discuss the matter with the gods. Did you have a particular favourite, or will any one of them do?”

Rogan stared at her, his eyes wide, as it dawned on him that she truly was the demon child. R'shiel's impatient bearing, her entire dismissive attitude that discounted titles and bloodlines, was a sharp reminder that she was not an ordinary mortal. The fact that her bearing had more to do with being raised among the Sisters of the Blade than with her status as the living embodiment of a pagan legend was something that Damin found rather ironic.

Rogan dropped to one knee in front of R'shiel. “Divine One.”

R'shiel rolled her eyes, but fortunately, Rogan's head was bowed and he did not see it. When she spoke, her voice betrayed nothing about how she truly felt.

“Arise, Lord Bearbow. I have no need of your worship.”

“We may have need of your sword, though,” Damin remarked as the Warlord climbed to his feet.

“Is there trouble?” Adrina asked.

“My cousin, Cyrus Eaglespike, has claimed the throne.”

“Then we must make all possible haste to Greenharbour and take it from him, Your Highness.”

Rogan smiled grimly at her words. “This Fardohnyan wench has teeth, I see.”

Damin grimaced as Adrina looked him up and down, her green eyes cold. “I am not a 'wench', my Lord, I am a Fardohnyan Princess of the Blood Royal. Your loyalty to your High Prince does not entitle you to insult me.”

“I'm sorry, Your Highness,” Rogan mumbled, quite taken back by her reprimand. “I meant no offence.”

“Then I shall forgive you on this occasion, my Lord. My husband has need of loyal Hythrun such as you. I would not weaken his hand by insisting you be put to death for something so trivial. Not this time.”

Damin held his breath, waiting for Rogan to explode. Did she have any idea of what she was doing? Damin knew he could count on Narvell, and probably Tejay Lionsclaw from Sunrise Province bordering Fardohnya, but Rogan could go either way. Threatening to hang him for insulting his wife was hardly the way to win him over. But the expected explosion did not eventuate. If anything, Rogan looked shamefaced.

“I thank you for your forbearance, Your Highness,” he replied with a bow. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must pay my respects to Princess Marla and offer her my condolences.”

They stood back to let him leave. As soon as he was out of earshot, Damin turned on his wife.

“What in the name of the gods are you doing?” he hissed.

Adrina seemed unfazed by his anger. “Securing your throne.”

“By threatening him?”

“Rogan's a barbarian,” she said with a shrug. “He understands open threats. Subtlety would be wasted on him.”

“And you worked that out after how long?”

“Not here, Damin,” R'shiel warned, glancing around the hall. “Besides, I think Adrina's right. Rogan appreciates strength. She may have done you a favour.”

Damin realised at that moment that he was in serious trouble. Adrina was bad enough. R'shiel, when the mood took her, was even worse.

Together, they were impossible.

Princess Marla set the whole palace in motion to prepare for the journey south to Greenharbour. Kalan left Krakandar the day after Rogan arrived, anxious to return to the capital and gain a measure of control over the situation. No High Prince could be crowned without her approval.

She was furious that Cyrus Eaglespike would attempt to claim a throne he knew well was not his while she was out of the city. He was a cousin, certainly, but the kinship was distant. Kalan considered him less a threat than an ambitious fool.

Damin was not so sure. Cyrus would not have claimed the title unless he thought he could hold it, which meant the Warlords of Pentamor and Greenharbour were probably supporting him. With Narvell and Rogan both here in Krakandar, that only left Tejay Lionsclaw, who might not even be aware of the death of the High Prince. Damin had dispatched several birds and two human messengers to inform her, hoping that her constant battles with the Fardohnyan bandits in the Sunrise Mountains did not mean she was out of touch. He needed her in Greenharbour.

Damin was almost as certain of her support as he was of Narvell's. He had sided with Tejay when her husband died and left her with four small sons, a province to rule and an heir that was only five years old. She was Warlord of Sunrise Province because, against all the objections of the other Warlords, Damin had prevailed upon Lernen to grant her the title, rather than hand it to some ambitious young stud who had little thought for the strategic importance of the province. That had been ten years ago, and the first time he had challenged the Convocation of Warlords. Although tactically sound, his interference had proved politically unwise. He had tipped his hand too early and warned the Warlords what sort of man was heir to the throne. He'd been dodging assassins since he was a small child, but after that day the only place he'd felt truly safe was here in Krakandar. And Medalon, oddly enough.

“Damin?”

He turned from the window as Adrina entered the study, almost welcoming the distraction. Adrina had been in an odd mood lately, although he could not fault her behaviour. Rogan was quite enchanted by her, which Damin found amazing. Adrina was a much better judge of character than he had given her credit for. It would have been so much easier if he could trust her.

“Adrina.”

“Your mother seems determined to pack the entire palace.”

“You're not fighting with her again, are you?”

“No. We just avoid each other. It's easier that way.”

“Is there anything you need?”

She crossed the room and came to stand beside him, looking out over the winter-browned gardens. “We need to talk.”

“Then unlock your door tonight.”

She had locked it every night since they had been in Krakandar, offering no reason for her sudden desire to sleep alone. It disturbed him to discover how much that bothered him.

“I'm not going to talk to you in bed, Damin. I want to see your face in the cold light of day.”

“This sounds serious.”

“It is, and for once in your life, I need you to be serious.”

He nodded, careful to keep his expression solemn. “Very well. What did you want to talk about?”

“I want to know how long you've known that if my father has no legitimate male heir, his throne falls to you.”

“Ah,” he said uncomfortably. “You've been talking to R'shiel.”

“How long, Damin?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I asked first.”

“The truth? I learnt of it the day after we arrived in Krakandar. Marla told me.”

“You didn't know before then?”

“I swear I had no idea.”

She searched his face for some hint that he was lying. “I believe you, I suppose.”

“You're too kind, Your Highness.”

Adrina scowled at him. “Don't start, Damin.”

“I'm sorry. Was that all you wanted? I really should be meeting with Almodavar and Narvell. It's not that I doubt Brak, but I'm not convinced your father won't attack come spring and I have to make arrangements for the arrival of the Defenders, assuming they get here. It won't do our alliance any good if my people start loosing arrows at them the moment they cross the border.”

“No, that's not all. I have something to tell you.”

“Let me guess. You want a divorce?” he asked with a grin.

Her eyes blazed dangerously. “By the gods, I wish I'd never agreed to this marriage. You are a child, Damin Wolfblade, in the guise of a man. You are incapable of taking anything seriously! How in the gods' name you expect to rule Hythria, I have no idea!”

He was surprised by her vehemence, and a little guilty. It wasn't often that she spoke to him like this. It was foolish to deny her the opportunity now.

“I'm sorry, Adrina. That was uncalled for. You've been keeping up your end of the bargain, and I do appreciate it. You've got Rogan wrapped around your little finger and Narvell would probably throw himself on his sword if you asked him. Even Kalan was forced to admit that once they meet you, the other Warlords might eventually come around.”

“You didn't mention your mother.”

He shrugged. “The best you're ever likely to get from Marla is begrudging acceptance.”

“I could live with that if I thought you trusted me.”

The comment puzzled him. “Trust you?”

“You treat every word I utter with suspicion. You have done since the day we first met.”

“Not without just cause,” he pointed out. “You lied to me then. For all I know you're lying to me now. How long have you been aware of the law that made me heir to Hablet's crown?”

“What are suggesting?”

“For all I know, you could have been planning this for years. You managed to manipulate Cratyn into taking you to the border. You betrayed him, fled to Medalon and gave your real name to the first Defender you met, almost guaranteeing I would come after you. All you had to do was get rid of Cratyn, marry me, wait till your father dies and I take his throne, then have me killed. You'd rule Hythria and Fardohnya.”

“That's preposterous! I didn't kill Cratyn.”

“No, that was the demon child. The same demon child who decided we should be married.”

“You think R'shiel is part of some twisted plan I have to rule the world? You're insane!”

She turned away angrily and began to walk towards the door, but he caught her arm and pulled her back. He couldn't hide his grin.

“You can be so gullible sometimes, Adrina.”

She punched his chest angrily. “Dammit, Damin! Can't you ever stop fooling around? Have you any idea what's going on around you? You're about to ride into Greenharbour to claim your crown from a usurper. You're likely to have assassins dogging your heels and a civil war on your hands and all you can do is play stupid, childish games!”

“I know what's going on, Adrina,” he assured her, suddenly serious. “I've had assassins dogging my heels since I was born. I was twelve years old before it was judged safe enough to let me sleep without an armed guard at the foot of my bed and that was only because Almodavar was convinced I was skilled enough to kill a full grown man. But I can live with the threat of assassination and the gods know I can deal with war well enough, but I'll tell you something that might surprise you. I wish I could trust you. I wish I knew what you were really after. I wish there was some simple way I could be sure about you.”

“You've never given me a chance, Damin,” she accused.

He was still holding her arm and when he pulled her to him, she did not object. She looked so open, so honest, so ingenuous, he almost believed her, and he truly wanted to believe her. But if he was wrong, it might cost him his life, although at that moment, holding her so near, her lips so close he could feel her breath on his, the prospect didn't bother him nearly as much as it should have.

“Sire, Lord Hawksword asks that when you... Oh, I do beg your pardon, Your Highness!” Almodavar stood at the door, clearly embarrassed to find them in such an intimate embrace.

Adrina stepped away from him with a fleeting look of regret, then turned to the captain. “It's all right, Almodavar. I was just leaving. I'll speak to you later, Damin. When you have more time.”

“Adrina?”

She hesitated at the door. “Yes?”

“What did you want to tell me?”

“It's not important. Some other time perhaps.”

“I'll see you later, then?”

She nodded. “If you wish.”

When she was gone, Damin turned his attention back to the organisation of Krakandar's defences, unable to shake the feeling that Adrina had left something very important unsaid.

CHAPTER 17

Teriahna was waiting for Brak in his room when he returned from his evening meal. He was quite partial to the spicy fare of Fardohnya, and had lingered over his dinner, enjoying the feeling of repletion that comes with a good meal accompanied by an excellent wine. For a fleeting moment he regretted his indulgence, but even had she searched his room, there was nothing for her to find here.

He did not bother to ask how she had got past the locks. Those skills were taught to apprentice assassins. Besides, he was expecting her. She had promised to arrange to get him into the palace in the guise of a visiting lord from southern Fardohnya, come to court to find a royal bride. Brak had been surprised by her choice of disguise, but she had assured him that with so many daughters to dispose of, Hablet would see any man willing to take one of them off his hands, particularly if he was an insignificant, powerless lord who lived far, far from Talabar.

“Any luck?” he asked as he closed the door behind him. She was sitting near the window, staring out over the gardens. The heady scent of frangipani filled the room, as it did every night once the sun went down. The room was shrouded in shadows and she did not turn when he spoke.

“Lernen Wolfblade is dead.” She looked at him then, her eyes curious in the gloom. “Does this alter your plans?”

“I'm not sure. What happened?” He lit the lantern on the table and dragged the only other chair in the room to the window beside her.

“He died of the pox, by all accounts. But that is neither unexpected nor surprising. What is interesting is that it happened nearly a month ago.”

“And you've only just heard of it? Who kept it quiet? The Sorcerers' Collective should have been tolling the bells of every temple in Hythria from the moment they heard the news.”

“The High Arrion isn't in Greenharbour. She's in Krakandar. There was a great deal of unrest because of Damin Wolfblade's alliance with Medalon. She went north after Princess Marla to sort it out.”

“So Marla was out of the capital when it happened, too? That's not good.”

“Not good for Damin Wolfblade, perhaps, but it proved a stroke of good fortune for Cyrus Eaglespike. He's named himself High Prince.”

“Without the sanction of the High Arrion? How long does he think that can last?”

“He's got the Warlords of Greenharbour and Pentamor on his side. It's a foregone conclusion that Narvell Hawksword will support Damin's claim, but there is still Rogan Bearbow and Tejay Lionsclaw to consider.”

Brak nodded thoughtfully. He had been away from the politics of the southern nations too long. There was a time when he didn't need the Assassins' Guild to provide his intelligence.

“Why has it taken the news so long to reach you? I would have thought you'd have heard about this within a day of it happening.”

“Normally, I would expect to,” she agreed. “However, in this case, someone went to a great deal of trouble to stop the news getting out.”

“Cyrus Eaglespike?”

“Or his cronies. This isn't the act of an opportunistic man. This has been very well thought out. I'd say they've been planning it for some time.”

“Perhaps. Has King Jasnoff heard about Cratyn's death yet?”

“I don't think so. It's possible the news hasn't even reached Yarnarrow yet. It's winter in Karien, and travel will be difficult.”

“They could have sent a bird.”

“Even carrier pigeons fall prone to bad weather, Brak.”

“And your spies in Krakandar? What do they tell you?”

She smiled innocently. “What makes you think I have spies in Krakandar?”

“If you don't, it would be the only place in the south that you have none.”

“You know far too much about us for an outsider, my Lord.”

“And you seem to be avoiding the question.”

Teriahna shrugged. “I don't mean to. In truth, there's not much to tell. Damin Wolfblade arrived in Krakandar, he stayed a week or more, learnt his uncle was dead and left for Greenharbour a few days later. Adrina is with him, certainly, and so is your demon child. The news of her presence set the city talking, I'm told, so much so that it somewhat overshadowed the news that Damin had taken a bride. Between the demon child and the death of the High Prince, she's managed to keep a fairly low profile. The news is out, but it's a poor third to the other rumours currently on offer. Oh, there was one thing I neglected to mention. Damin Wolfblade contacted the Guild in Hythria.”

“Who does he want them to kill?”

“Nobody. He sent a message saying that whatever price we were offered to kill either him or Adrina, he would double it if we refused the job.”

“I always thought he was a smart lad. Can you get me in to see Hablet? This is becoming urgent.”

“If he's finished mourning.”

“Hablet is mourning Lernen Wolfblade?” Brak asked sceptically.

The Raven laughed. “In public. He's probably locked himself in his rooms and is throwing a party. But he is a King, and one has to be seen to do the right thing.”

Brak fell silent, wondering how the death of the Hythrun High Prince would affect R'shiel's plans. It was a singular waste of time, as he actually had no real idea of R'shiel's ultimate plans. He was here on trust, and that was not an emotion that came easily when dealing with the demon child.

“May I offer you some advice before your audience with our esteemed monarch, Brak?”

“Of course.”

“Hablet is a very devout man in his own way, but he despises the Harshini. He has no wish to learn they still exist and no desire to welcome them back into his court. He finds he gets along very nicely without them.”

“Glenanaran and the others have been in Greenharbour for months. It's no longer a secret that the Harshini survive.”

“True, but neither is it common knowledge. Oh, people have heard the rumours, and some even believe them, but their belief is based on faith not fact. You won't get a very warm reception when Hablet realises who you are. He'll see your presence as the thin edge of the wedge. When you deliver your news about his daughter, he'll take it as a sign that the Harshini are already interfering in Fardohnya. Be very careful.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I've no doubt of that,” she said. “But it is better to be warned.”

“I appreciate your concern, my Lady.”

Teriahna leaned forward, studied him closely for a moment, then smiled. “Do you, Brak?”

There was something in the way she spoke; something in the shift of her body that set warning bells ringing in Brak's head. She placed her hand gently on his thigh. Then she abruptly shed any pretence of subtlety and the invitation in her eyes was so blatant she might as well have cried it aloud.

“Do you really appreciate me, Brak?” she asked softly.

Brak smiled ruefully and lifted her hand from his thigh, placing it quite deliberately on the arm of her chair.

“Yes, I really do appreciate the help you've given me, Teriahna,” he said.

“I see,” the Raven replied, nodding her head thoughtfully. “There's someone else, isn't there?”

“What do you mean?”

She laughed softly. “Do you know how I came to join the Assassins' Guild, Brak? I was a court'esa, and a damned good one, too. I was recruited by the Guild for a very special job. The rest, as they say, is history. But just because I've changed careers, it doesn't mean I've lost the skills I started out with.

“There is someone else. I can see it in your face, plain as day. Who is it? Some impossibly perfect Harshini back in Sanctuary? Some lucky farm girl in Medalon?”

Her assumption took Brak completely by surprise. He had taken no lovers since L'rin in the Grimfield, back when R'shiel was a prisoner there. Since then he had been so consumed by his task of protecting the demon child, he'd had no time to think of his own pleasure.

“There's no one else, Teriahna.”

“Perhaps you're not even aware of it yourself,” she shrugged.

Brak laughed at the very idea. “You think that after several hundred years I wouldn't notice if I'd fallen in love?”

“I think after several hundred years, you're so used to not being loved, you wouldn't know what it felt like if it ran up to you and hit you on the head.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do,” she chuckled. “But don't let it bother you. I'm sure it will work itself out. As for me? Well, I like to try new things. Sometimes I succeed, other times I don't.”

“New things?”

“I'm sorry. I've offended you, haven't I?”

“No. I just don't find myself referred to as a thing too often.”

Teriahna's smiled faded. “You should try a stint as a court'esa some time, Brak. Then you'd truly know the meaning of the word.” She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable that she had spoken so freely. Rising hastily to her feet, she pushed the chair back along the polished floor with a scrape of wood against wood. “I really should be going. I've spent far too much time away from my other duties. I'll bring your audience clothes around in the morning.”

Brak remained seated, guessing that she would prefer it that way. Teriahna walked to the door, stopping with her hand on the latch.

“There was one other thing I meant to tell you,” she said, turning back to look at him. Her manner had reverted to its usual professional mien. “I had a message from Starros, the head of the Thieves' Guild in Krakandar. He said there was an old man there who was stirring up the population against the demon child. I don't know if it's important, but I thought you'd like to know.”

“Why would Starros send you a message about some old man in Krakandar?”

“He thought it might have been one of our people on a contracted hit. It's not inconceivable that someone might want the demon child eliminated and that they would be prepared to pay handsomely for the job. And it wasn't a message so much as a reprimand. He was rather put out that I might have sent someone into his city without advising him first out of professional courtesy.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“No. Just that the old man had been preaching on street corners, subverting his people and making a general nuisance of himself. Starros thought our plan was to incite a riot of some sort and for the demon child to be killed in the ensuing chaos.”

“That doesn't sound like your style.”

“It's not. Crowds are much too hard to control. Particularly when you've worked them up into a brainless mob. Whoever the old man was, he certainly isn't one of ours.”

“It's probably nothing to be concerned about.”

“I agree, but I thought I should let you be the judge. I'll see you later, then?” She turned her back to him and opened the door.

“Teriahna? Just out of curiosity, if someone did contract you to kill the demon child, would you take the job?”

She closed the door again and turned to him with a sly smile. “That would depend on how much they offered me.”

“What price would you set on the demon child's life, my Lady Raven?”

“What would you pay for it?” she retorted.

He laughed humourlessly. “The ultimate price.”

“You'd pay with your life?”

“I already have.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Then I have the answer to my question, Brak. There is someone else. It is the demon child.”

CHAPTER 18

Tarja knew exactly how he planned to strike his first blow against Medalon's new masters, a plan as simple as it was fraught with danger. He also knew it would meet considerable opposition, so he kept silent until they were ready to leave Roan Vale, hugging his idea to himself as he pulled his cloak against the chill wind.

They waited in the small village for the remainder of their troops and the rest of the rebels to catch up with them. His meeting in Testra had gone well, and although Antwon could not bring himself to desert, he gave any Defender under his command who wished to flee the advancing Kariens leave to follow Tarja. Consequently, the force Tarja now had gathered to cross the border into Hythria numbered over two thousand. It still wasn't enough to take on the Kariens, but it was a start.

“We should be ready to move at first light,” Denjon reported that evening, as Tarja stood poring over the map in the cellar. It was a singular waste of time. He had studied the map so often these past few days that every line and contour was burned into his brain.

“Now if only this damnable rain would stop, so we could get through to Hythria.”

“Aye. My scouts tell me there's not a navigable road for miles. They're either flooded or so boggy we're going to have to walk most of the way.”

“And every day the Kariens are getting closer to the Citadel.”

“Well, look on the bright side,” Denjon shrugged. “The Glass River's so full they'll not be able to cross it for a while.”

“I'd prefer it if they couldn't cross it at all,” Tarja said.

Denjon's eyes narrowed. “That sounds suspiciously like a suggestion.”

“Actually, it was. Where are the others?”

“Linst is organising the supply wagons. Dorak is trying to beat some sense into your rebel friends. They're not being very cooperative.”

“That's because they don't like taking anything from the Defenders,” Mandah explained as she closed the cellar door behind her. “Least of all orders.”

Tarja nodded, satisfied that they would not be disturbed for some time. He stabbed his finger at the map and looked at Denjon and Mandah.

“We have to stop the Kariens crossing the Glass River.”

“You said that already,” Denjon said, folding his arms across his chest.

“There's only three ways they can cross,” Tarja continued. “They can build rafts and float themselves across, which is far too time consuming and dangerous. They can commandeer what trading vessels and river boats they can find, or they can use the ferries at Testra and Cauthside.”

“They won't find many river boats,” Mandah said. “Most of them have sailed south for the Gulf. They know what's coming.”

“Then that just leaves the ferries,” Denjon agreed. “How do you plan to stop the Kariens using them? We don't have enough men to fight them off.”

“We're going to have to sink them.”

Mandah gasped. “Sink the ferries? But that would cut Medalon in half.”

“I'm aware of that,” Tarja replied evenly.

“It would stop the Kariens in their tracks, though,” Denjon mused.

Tarja nodded. “With the ferries gone, the worst they can do is turn south-west and attack Testra. The heart of Medalon is the Citadel, and until they occupy that, theirs will be a hollow victory indeed.”

“It won't be easy, Tarja,” Denjon warned. “Even if the Kariens don't try to stop you, our own people will. You'll destroy their livelihood along with those ferries.”

“I know, which is why I'm only taking a few men. We'll backtrack to Vanahiem, cross over to Testra, and then make our way overland to Cauthside. Hopefully we can take out the Cauthside Ferry before the Kariens reach it.”

“Then take the Testra Ferry out on your way back?” Mandah asked.

Tarja nodded and glanced at Denjon.

“That will take you weeks,” the captain said with a shake of his head. “The Kariens will be in Cauthside long before you.”

“The logistics of moving an army the size of the Karien host are considerable,” Tarja reminded him. “They can only move a few leagues a day, or be forced to break their army up into smaller units. The latter is unlikely. They'll stay together, thinking their impressive size will cow the Medalonians into submission.”

“That's a bit optimistic,” Mandah remarked with a thin smile. “The vast majority of Medalonians live south of the Glass River.”

“You'll be cutting it fine,” Denjon said with a frown.

“I'll hand-pick the men who accompany me. We've some good men out there and none of them come from the river towns or have family whose livelihood depends directly on trade across the river. It'll ruin the merchants and families who depend on it for their wages and I don't want any second thoughts when it comes to the crunch.”

“And the Hythrun? What do you want me to tell them?”

“I'll leave that to you,” Tarja shrugged. “Once you get to Hythria, you and Damin can start planning the conquest of Medalon. There's not much we can do until we find out how many men he can spare us, at any rate. I'll join you as soon as I can. In the meantime, you can send out some other squads with orders to do whatever they must - cajole, threaten or destroy - to stop the river boats from docking on the western bank. I want every boat on the river - even those moored on this side too - safely out of reach of the Kariens.”

“You know, given enough time, the Kariens will find a way across. They've engineers and boat builders aplenty and there's more than enough timber on the other side of the river to build rafts to move their troops across.”

“I'm counting on the change of seasons. By the time the Kariens have constructed their own transport, the Glass River will be even more swollen than it is now with the spring melt from the Jagged Mountains. It'll be far too dangerous to attempt a crossing until the flood waters have subsided.”

“I'll come with you,” Mandah announced abruptly.

“Don't be stupid,” Tarja retorted without thinking.

“But I was a Novice once,” she explained. “I know how to behave like a Sister of the Blade. Disguised as a Sister I can commandeer the ferry and once aboard you can take it out into the middle of the river, set fire to it, then swim ashore once it's well and truly ablaze.”

“That may even work,” Denjon said thoughtfully.

“It's too dangerous.”

Mandah laughed softly. “Dangerous? Tarja, I was fighting in the rebellion long before you came along and nothing much has changed that I can see. Why is it too dangerous for me and not for you?”

Tarja was unable to answer her. He could hardly admit his bravery had more to do with his desire to escape his own thoughts than it did from any innate sense of honour. Turning back to face the Kariens meant not having to continue south. It meant not having to face R'shiel for a little while longer. He was afraid to admit how much that thought relieved him.

“She has a point, Tarja. You'll raise less suspicion travelling with a Sister than you would if you travel alone.”

“Then it's settled. I'm going with you,” Mandah declared.

“Are you really so anxious to throw your life away?” he asked her with a frown.

“I don't plan to throw my life away, Tarja, and I wasn't aware that this was a suicide mission.” Her eyes challenged him to deny her accusation.

Tarja looked away first. “No, I'm not planning a suicide mission. You can come if you wish. We'll be riding hard though. It won't be easy.”

“If I'd wanted 'easy', Tarja, I would have stayed with the Sisterhood.”

Later that evening, Tarja sat in the taproom of the Roan Vale tavern finishing his meal, wondering why Mandah had accused him of planning a suicide mission. He didn't feel suicidal. But neither did the prospect of dying unduly concern him. As he pondered the matter, he realised that the only thing he felt about death, when he consciously thought about it at all, was apathy. He did not hunger for death. He did not particularly hunger for life. He simply didn't care.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Tarja looked up at the old man who had spoken and glanced around the room. The taproom was filled to capacity and the only spare seat was the empty bench opposite him. He wondered for a moment if the others were avoiding him.

“Suit yourself,” he replied with a shrug.

The man sat down with his foaming tankard and smiled at Tarja. He had long white hair and a disturbingly familiar air about him that Tarja couldn't quite place.

“You look troubled, my son.”

“These are troubling times.”

“And you bear a heavier burden than most, I suspect.”

Tarja shrugged but did not offer a reply. He had no wish to fall into conversation with this old man, whoever he was.

“I hear you flee Medalon to join the demon child?”

Tarja looked up sharply. “Where did you hear that?”

“The rumours are everywhere,” the old man told him. “There's not a Defender here who isn't whispering the news to his comrades.”

That's true enough, he thought. Too many of these men were there when R'shiel revealed her power. It's long past the point of being a secret.

“Well,” the old man continued, taking a sip of his ale, “one can hardly blame you for being worried.”

“Who says I'm worried?”

“Every line on your face proclaims it, Captain.”

“Thanks for your concern, but you needn't be worried on my behalf. We have everything under control.”

“I'm sure you do,” the old man agreed solemnly. “But nothing will ever be certain while the demon child lives.”

Tarja studied the old man suspiciously. He was not so full of his own troubles that he did not recognise a threat to R'shiel when he heard it.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I mean nothing,” he shrugged. “It just seems to me that the Kariens would be much more amenable if they weren't facing the threat of the demon child. Isn't she supposed to destroy their God? How would you feel if you thought someone was trying to destroy everything that you held dear? One doesn't have to be on their side to understand what drives them. I just think it odd that the Defenders are going to such pains to protect the very one whose presence caused this conflict in the first place.”

“R'shiel didn't start this war.”

“Didn't she? Isn't her existence what prompted the Kariens to act? You killed their Envoy because he was trying to take R'shiel to Karien, didn't you? Why do you defend her? If Medalon means so much to you, why not simply hand her over and be done with it? She's your greatest bargaining chip, yet you refuse to play it. Is she so important to you that you are willing to risk your entire nation to protect her?”

“You don't know what you're talking about, old man,” Tarja scoffed, unwilling to admit that his logic made frightening sense. Could it really be that simple? Could they end this conflict now by trading R'shiel to the Kariens? Would their enemy withdraw for something so easily arranged? Tarja shook his head, unable to believe that he could even consider betraying her.

The old man looked at him closely, as if he could read Tarja's internal conflict. Then he smiled and shrugged and took another swallow of his ale.

“You must forgive me, Captain. I let my mouth run away with me at times. I'm just an old man who sees things a little differently from younger men. What would I know? I wish you luck in your quest.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Tarja replied, pushing away the remains of his stew. For some reason he had lost his appetite.

“I just hope the demon child appreciates the sacrifice you have made for her, Captain.”

The old man downed the rest of his ale and climbed to his feet. Tarja watched him as he threaded his way through the crowd to the door, disturbed to discover how easily the seeds of doubt and treachery planted by the old man had found fertile ground inside his troubled mind.

CHAPTER 19

Slaves lined the walls of the Main Hall of the Summer Palace, moving the languid air about with large rattan fans, although at this time of year the temperature was quite bearable. It was an impressive chamber, crowded with courtiers and supplicants awaiting the chance for an audience with their King. The potted palms provided the perfect backdrop for the clusters of schemers and sycophants who always seemed to find their way into any royal court, regardless of where it was or who was in power. Hablet held open court here each morning when he was in residence, and made a point of putting in an appearance, even if he never actually heard a petition.

Brak moved among the jewelled and pampered crowd, dressed in the garish yellow silk trousers and embroidered vest Teriahna had provided for him. She had claimed, with a perfectly straight face, that it gave him an air of “rustic nobility”. He assumed she meant he looked like the provincial lord he was pretending to be. He privately suspected he looked like an idiot.

Eventually he spied the man he was searching for and pushed his way through the courtiers to confront him. Hablet had yet to arrive and his Chamberlain, Lecter Turon, was busy openly collecting the bribes that would ensure one a place at the head of the queue. Brak had no intention of parting with a single coin to see Hablet. He had far better currency to deal with.

“My Lord Chamberlain?”

The eunuch turned to Brak and looked him over with a practised eye, taking in his air of “rustic nobility” and dismissing him as inconsequential with a single glance.

“Can I be of assistance, my Lord?” he asked rather impatiently.

“I wish to see the King.”

“As does every other man here,” the eunuch sighed.

“I was told you could arrange it.”

“Ah, now that can be difficult. The King is a very busy man.”

“I could make it worth your while.”

Lecter's eyes narrowed greedily. “Such a consideration would be expensive, my Lord.”

“Then the Raven was mistaken when she said you could help me.”

Lecter paled, his bald head shining with sweat. “The Raven?”

“Did I forget to mention that she recommended you? The Raven seems to know quite a lot about you, actually, Chamberlain Turon. I wonder why that is?”

The Chamberlain looked decidedly uncomfortable with the notion that the head of the Assassins' Guild was taking a personal interest in him. “I will do what I can, my Lord, but as you may have heard, the King is in mourning for his cousin, the High Prince of Hythria.”

“I'm sure he's devastated,” Brak agreed wryly. “But I won't need more than a moment of his time.”

“May I inquire as to the nature of your business with the King?”

“I have news for him that would be best delivered in private.”

“Please wait here, my Lord. I will see what I can do.”

It was not long before Turon returned and beckoned Brak forward. Brak followed him through the curious and envious stares to the delicately carved doors at the end of the hall. He knocked once and entered without waiting for an answer.

“Your Majesty! Allow me to introduce Lord... what was your name?”

“Brakandaran.”

“Lord Brakandaran! From...” Lecter looked at him questioningly.

“I come from Sanctuary,” Brak said.

Up until that point, the King had been sitting behind his elaborate gilt desk, reading from a parchment scroll in front of him, utterly uninterested in his guest. At the mention of Sanctuary his head jerked up and he stared at Brak with bright, birdlike eyes.

“Where did you say?”

“Sanctuary.”

“Which one?”

“There is only one, Your Majesty.”

“Lecter! Leave us!”

Hablet's tone left no room for argument. The Chamberlain hurried to do as he was bid. As the door closed, Brak stepped further into the room and looked around with interest. The doors to the balcony were open and he could hear faint childish voices from the lush gardens below. The King's private chamber had barely changed since he last stood here confronting Hablet's great-grandfather.

“You look human,” Hablet accused as soon as they were alone. His voice was anything but friendly, but at least he made no pretence of not understanding who Brak was.

“I'm only half Harshini. It's an advantage at times.”

“Brakandaran, did you say your name was? Not Brakandaran the Half-Breed, surely? I thought you'd be long dead by now.”

“As you can see, I'm not dead.”

“What do you want? If you're here to petition my court for a place for one of your damned sorcerers, you're wasting your time. I'll not have the Harshini spying on my every move for that degenerate in Hythria.”

“That degenerate in Hythria is dead,” Brak pointed out. “I was led to believe you were mourning him.”

“Ha! Dancing on his grave, more like it. Is that why you're here? Now that Lernen is dead, you've decided to come to me for protection? You should have come here first, in any case. It was a grave insult to Fardohnya, the Harshini King sending his people to Lernen's court without coming here first.”

“You just said you didn't want any Harshini in your court.”

“That's not the point. You should have offered. I have served the gods faithfully. I deserve it.”

Brak knew it was hopeless trying to argue with such a man. “Your Majesty, the decision to allow the Harshini to return to the Sorcerers' Collective was not mine to make. I might point out, however, that if you hadn't rounded up every member of the Sorcerers' Collective and had them thrown in gaol when you assumed the throne, my King might have considered sending someone to Fardohnya. As it is, you've a lot of explaining to do.”

Hablet tugged on his beard unhappily. “They were Hythrun spies.”

“And the others you killed when you inherited the crown? What was their crime?”

“You've been around long enough to know what happens in Fardohnya when a new King takes the throne. Why quibble about it now?”

“Your barbaric practices don't concern me, Hablet. Interesting though, that they were never practised when there were Harshini in the Fardohnyan court.”

“That's because the Harshini are so damned squeamish. Now, did you want something in particular, or are you just going to stand there and chide me for things I did thirty years ago?”

Brak's eyes darkened and he waved his arm, drawing a chair from the side of the room across the polished floor with an uncomfortable screech. When the chair magically arrived at his side, he sat down and leaned back, smiling at the Fardohnyan King.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I will have a seat.”

Hablet's eyes widened. He had never been confronted with true Harshini power before. His day-to-day dealings with the gods involved bribing the temples and praying for a legitimate son.

“What do you want?”

“You and I need to have a talk about your heir.”

“I'll name my heir when I'm good and ready,” Hablet declared. “And no black-eyed bastard from Sanctuary is going to make me appoint someone I don't want.”

“I wouldn't dream of it, Your Majesty, however circumstances have arisen of which you are not aware, and they will radically affect your choice.”

Hablet squinted at him “What circumstances? Ah! I have it! You've discovered that stupid law about leaving my crown to a Wolfblade, haven't you? Well you can go back to Sanctuary and tell Lorandranek, or whoever the hell sent you here, that Talabar harbour will freeze in high summer before I let a Wolfblade set foot in Fardohnya, let alone sit on my throne.”

“I wasn't sent by Lorandranek, Your Majesty. He's been dead for over twenty years. Korandellan is the King of the Harshini now.”

“I don't care if the damned First Sister of Medalon is King!”

“I was sent here by the demon child.”

“The demon child? Are you drunk? The demon child is a legend made up to frighten children. Lorandranek never sired a half-human child.”

“Perhaps if you hadn't been so hasty throwing the Sorcerers' Collective out of Fardohnya, you might know that he did.”

“Who is he then? Where is he?”

“Her name is R'shiel.”

“A girl?” Hablet laughed with genuine amusement. “Why would the gods invest such power in a female?”

“Perhaps they don't share your prejudice.”

“Perhaps they're not as smart as they think they are,” the King scoffed.

“I don't suggest you say that in Jelanna's hearing,” Brak warned. “Maybe that's why the Goddess of Fertility has denied you a legitimate son. She must know what you think of women.”

“Don't you threaten me with my beliefs,” the King warned. “I am a faithful servant of the Goddess.”

“So I've heard,” Brak agreed with a wry smile.

“So, this demon child... this girl... sent you here to tell me who to name as my heir?” Hablet laughed scornfully. “I don't know what's funnier - that she thinks she can dictate to me, or that you actually thought I would listen to you.”

“You'd better listen to me, Hablet,” Brak warned. “There will be no legitimate son for you. Your heir will be as the law decrees - it will be Damin Wolfblade.”

“Over my dead body!”

“Exactly,” Brak pointed out simply.

“I'd rather give my crown to that simpering Karien idiot Adrina married than name that Hythrun barbarian my heir.”

“That might prove difficult,” Brak murmured, but Hablet wasn't listening to him.

“Anyway, you're mad if you think the people of Fardohnya would ever accept a Hythrun King!”

“They would accept a Fardohnyan Queen.”

“Oh! So now you want him to marry one of my daughters, I suppose!”

“No need,” Brak said, with a smug smile. “The demon child has already taken care of that minor detail.”

Hablet stilled warily. “What do you mean by that?”

“Ah, now those would be the circumstances I spoke of,” Brak said, brushing a fleck of dust from his yellow silk trousers as he deliberately drew out the silence.

“What circumstances?” Hablet demanded.

“Cratyn is dead, Your Majesty. Your daughter has remarried.”

“Remarried? Who?”

“Perhaps you'd like to hazard a guess?” he suggested. He was rather enjoying Hablet's discomfort.

“No!” the King cried, leaping to his feet, his face almost as crimson as the silk-panelled walls. “I'll not tolerate this! I'll disown her! Damn it, I'll invade Hythria and bring her back!”

“Your House is now united with the House of Wolfblade. You will honour the peace between your Houses and do no such thing. As the Wolfblade House is the ruling House in Hythria, it is now beyond your reach. You can't invade them and you can't make war on them.”

“This is intolerable!”

Brak smiled serenely. “I'm sure you'll learn to live with it.”

“Get out! Get out of my palace! Get out of my country, for that matter! Take your damned Harshini manipulations and your demon child and get the hell out of Fardohnya!”

Brak drew on enough power to blacken his eyes again, rose to his feet and loomed over the Fardohnyan King.

“You will abide by the law. You will name Damin Wolfblade your heir and you will give your blessing to his marriage to Adrina.”

“Never!”

“Then be prepared for the consequences, Your Majesty,” Brak warned. “You defy the demon child at your peril.”

CHAPTER 20

It was obvious that Cyrus Eaglespike and his cronies were in control of Greenharbour. The streets, while not exactly deserted, were unnaturally free of the normal bustle of commerce that one would expect in the greatest trading port in the south. There were no soldiers from the Sorcerers' Collective in evidence and no sign of the Palace Guard either. Although the guards made no move to prevent Damin and his force entering the sparkling white city, their breastplates were embossed with a soaring eagle.

R'shiel looked around with interest. She rode at Damin's side at the head of a column made up of three centuries of Krakandar Raiders. Narvell Hawksword followed Damin's men with three hundred Elasapine Raiders, while further back, Rogan Bearbow rode at the head of his own entourage. Between them they had brought close to a thousand men south to claim the High Prince's throne. Adrina was riding in the coach a little further back in the column with Princess Marla. She had refused to ride since Krakandar, although she declined to give a reason. Damin was convinced it was simply to make things more difficult for him. R'shiel knew the reason but figured it wasn't her place to say. Besides, she had promised Marla she would say nothing yet. No doubt Adrina was being subjected to her mother-in-law's intense scrutiny as they travelled together. R'shiel wondered with a faint smile just who would emerge the victor from that small, but important, skirmish.

“This doesn't look promising,” Damin murmured.

“Who normally guards the city?” R'shiel asked with a glance over her shoulder at the wary guards who fingered their sheathed blades with itching fingers as they passed through the city gates.

“The Collective.”

The further they rode into the city, the more deserted the streets became. News of the arrival of the Warlords of Krakandar, Elasapine and Izcomdar ran before them like flame on a line of lamp oil and the citizens of Greenharbour wisely kept to their homes, out of the way of a confrontation that was likely to get very ugly.

“Damin, I may not be a tactical genius, but is this a good idea? Riding openly through Greenharbour when you know your cousin has claimed the throne?”

He shrugged. “Greenharbour is neutral territory.”

“Nine hundred Raiders isn't very many.”

“That's all I'm permitted to bring into the city. Three centuries for every Warlord, no more. It's the law.”

“The law didn't stop your cousin claiming the throne. What makes you think it's going to stop him breaking the rules about the number of troops he can muster in the city?”

“I can't risk marching into Greenharbour openly flaunting the law. It would be playing right into Cyrus' hands. Besides, you won't let anything happen to me.”

“You're relying on my power to save you? Adrina was right, you do enjoy living dangerously, don't you?”

“Adrina said that, did she?”

“Yes.”

“What else did she say?”

R'shiel rolled her eyes impatiently. “Why don't you ask her?”

“I'm asking you.”

“You're a damned fool, Damin Wolfblade.”

He did not answer her; did not have a chance to. She stilled suddenly, her whole body tensing as the familiar prickle of magic ran over her skin like a million tiny ants wearing hobnailed boots.

“What's wrong?” Damin asked, watching her curiously.

“Someone is drawing power. A lot of it.” Her face was a mask of concentration as she tried to pinpoint the source. Finally she stood in her stirrups, looking out over the white, flat-roofed houses and then pointed towards the harbour. “It's coming from that direction.”

“The harbour?”

“No. I don't think so. But close to it.”

“Then it's probably the Sorcerers' Collective you sense. Perhaps it's some of the sorcerers —”

“No!” she declared emphatically. “What I can feel isn't someone chanting spells. This is Harshini.”

Damin shrugged. “That would mean it was one of the Harshini who returned to the Collective last winter. I doubt it's anything to be concerned about. If it's Harshini magic you can sense, then they're bound to be on our side.”

She sat down again and looked at him. “How do you figure that?”

“You are the demon child. You ride with me.”

“You don't understand, Damin. This isn't one Harshini drawing their power that I can feel. It's several of them and they are drawing every drop they can handle.”

“Then it could mean trouble.”

“Founders, Damin! Do you practise being so dense?”

He grinned sheepishly. “I'm sorry. Explain it to me.”

“I think the Harshini are under attack. It's the only explanation.”

Damin reined in his stallion and brought the column to a halt. His grin faded and was replaced by a look of consternation. “Someone is attacking the Harshini? That's inconceivable. This is Hythria, not Medalon or Karien. We honour the... R'shiel!”

She wasn't listening to him. Instead she spurred her horse forward to the end of the paved street where the rise of the land enabled her to look out over the rest of the city. What she saw made her gasp with astonishment.

Greenharbour lay before her, a sea of whitewashed buildings glaring under a sky of sapphire silk.

The city curved around the crescent-shaped bay. To the left was the forest of tall masts that marked the vast wharves of the city. To her right was a magnificent white palace, its domed spires gilded and almost too bright to look upon. Above the palace was a glittering dome of radiant, shimmering light enveloping the temples and palaces that R'shiel thought must be the Sorcerers' Collective. She could just make out the outlines of the buildings inside the dome as it waxed and waned with the fading strength of the Harshini who held it in place.

Legend held that two centuries ago, the Harshini who defended the Citadel from the Sisters of the Blade had done the same thing. But if several hundred Harshini had not been able to hold a protective dome in place long enough to save the Citadel, there was little chance the few Harshini in Greenharbour could hold this one longer than a few more minutes.

“What in the name of the gods is that?” Damin gasped as he reined in beside her.

“The Harshini trying to protect themselves,” she explained. “Look down there.”

Damin looked in the direction of her pointing finger. The streets surrounding the dome of light were crowded with soldiers. Although they were too far away to make out their individual escutcheons, R'shiel could easily guess whose troops they were. They were massing in the main avenues leading to the Collective, simply waiting for the strength of the Harshini who protected it to fade. She glanced over her shoulder at the men Damin, Narvell and Rogan had brought into the city. They were easily outnumbered three to one. The other two Warlords were riding up the street towards the head of the column. R'shiel left Damin to deal with them and turned her attention back to the dome of light. Even in the short time she had been watching it had faded somewhat.

“What's going on?” she heard Rogan Bearbow demand of Damin behind her. She did not wait to hear his answer. Spurring her horse forward, she headed for the harbour at a canter. Whatever politics were involved in the battle for the High Prince's throne, the Hythrun had no right to endanger the peaceful Harshini.

R'shiel had no plan in mind. Her only thought was that the dome was fading and the Harshini trapped inside were in danger. She could not reach the Harshini through the impenetrable barrier, but when it collapsed the soldiers massed in the streets surrounding the Collective would overrun them. She smiled grimly to herself as she rode, wondering how life could change so drastically in such a short time. Two years ago, had she heard there were Harshini under attack, she would have applauded the forces ranged against her despised enemies. Now she was riding to their rescue, heedless of any danger she might be placing herself in.

That thought had a sobering effect, and she slowed her horse to a walk. What am I doing? I can't just ride up to the gates of the Collective and demand the enemy disperse.

R'shiel looked around and discovered she had ridden into an area of the city that was filled with government buildings. At least she guessed that's what they were. They had an aura of bureaucracy that R'shiel knew well. The buildings were several storeys high and a number had impressive entrances flanked by fluted marble columns. They surrounded a broad circular plaza dominated by a fountain that spewed forth its cascade from the mouth of a beautifully sculpted water dragon. R'shiel studied the creature curiously for a moment. She had heard of the remarkable beasts that populated the warm waters of the Dregian Ocean, but she had never seen anything like the creature in the fountain. It had a large dorsal fin, wide-set eyes and a long, elegant tail that ended in a broad, flipper-like paddle.

She had little time to admire the artistry of the fountain, however, as the sound of horses moving towards her caught her attention. At the far end of the paved plaza a number of mounted Raiders appeared, a tall, middle-aged man riding at their head. His blond beard was neatly trimmed, his leather armour gilded. The soaring eagle of his House was picked out in precious stones that glinted in the sunlight falling across the plaza.

Behind her, R'shiel could hear Damin and his party forming up. She sat alone and exposed astride her horse in the centre of the plaza as the opposing forces arrayed themselves on either side. An unnatural silence descended, only the splashing of the fountain and the creaking of leather harness disturbing the morning.

“Cousin!” Cyrus Eaglespike called loudly, moving forward at a walk. “I never thought to see you alive again!”

“That's pretty bloody obvious!” Damin called back as he rode out to meet the pretender flanked by Narvell and Rogan.

R'shiel watched them approaching with a frown. She didn't have time for this. The dome of light flickered in the distance.

“It warms my heart to see that the reports of your death were... overstated, cousin,” Cyrus declared with vast insincerity as he neared the fountain.

Damin, Narvell and Rogan reined in on the other side of the fountain. “I'm sure it does, cousin. That would explain what you're doing here with so many troops.”

“We acted to contain the potential civil unrest brought on by the news of our uncle's death.”

“Lernen was my uncle, not yours, Cyrus. Your relationship to the Wolfblade family is so tenuous it barely exists.”

“Actually, it's not as tenuous as you might think, cousin. Once Kalan ratifies my claim...”

“The High Arrion? Ratify you?” Rogan Bearbow declared hotly. The mere thought obviously offended him.

“Is that why you're attacking the Harshini?” R'shiel demanded.

Cyrus seemed to notice R'shiel for the first time. He smiled patronisingly. “Who is this, Damin? Some piece of Medalonian entertainment you picked up north of the border? Or is this the wife that we've been hearing about?”

R'shiel's eyes darkened with anger as she drew on her power. Cyrus' eyes passed over her contemptuously for a moment, then suddenly locked on her face as he saw her eyes blacken.

“Mother of the gods!” he cried. His horse reared, the gelding reacting to the proximity of a Harshini drawing on her power. Even the mounts that Damin, Rogan and Narvell rode began to toss their heads nervously, although they knew her scent well enough not to fear the unfamiliar but instinctive urge they felt to respond. Her own horse was not concerned, having been with her long enough now to recognise and welcome the touch of the magic that it had been born to serve. R'shiel suddenly understood why the majority of the troops surrounding the Collective were infantry. With the Harshini inside the Collective drawing so much power, the Hythrun sorcerer-bred cavalry mounts would be uncontrollable.

“Cyrus, call off your troops. Now.”

Damin spoke with quiet assurance, as if he had no doubt as to the outcome, should the Warlord refuse.

“Who are you?” Cyrus demanded of R'shiel.

“I'm the last thing you will ever lay eyes on if you don't withdraw,” she informed the startled Warlord. The power filled her, hungering for release. Cyrus' mount was becoming increasingly restive and he was fighting to maintain his dignity and his seat at the same time.

The pretender turned on Damin angrily. “What sort of trickery is this?”

“This isn't trickery, my Lord, this is the demon child. I suggest you do as she says. She's not noted for her patience.”

If Cyrus had heard that Damin was married, then he certainly must have heard that the demon child rode with him. The Warlord debated the issue for a long, tension-filled moment, then angrily waved his arm. A rider broke from the ranks at the entrance to the plaza and cantered forward.

“Take a message to Lord Foxtalon and Lord Falconlance,” Cyrus ordered through clenched teeth. “Tell them to order the troops to withdraw.”

“Sir?”

“You heard me!”

With a puzzled look, the captain nodded and wheeled his mount around. Cyrus turned back to R'shiel, his expression a mixture of contempt and fear.

“Satisfied?”

“For now,” R'shiel agreed, although she did not let go of the power. The dome was fading fast, its light failing as fatigue consumed the Harshini holding it in place. Now she was drawing on her own power, she was even more aware of the drain on the Harshini inside. A few more minutes and they would have to let it go completely. She bit her bottom lip in frustration, wishing she knew how to lend them her strength. Brak and her tutors at Sanctuary had never taught her how. Perhaps they had not thought she would ever need a reason to link her power to another Harshini. Or maybe she couldn't link with a Harshini unless they were a té Ortyn like her... Maybe it was too dangerous... She shook her head to clear it of the useless thoughts and turned her attention back to the matter at hand. What she could and couldn't do with her power was a problem for some other time. Right now it was enough that Cyrus believed she knew what she was doing. “Aren't you supposed to have some sort of election to confirm the new High Prince?”

“The Convocation would already be under way, but for the interference of the Harshini, who prevented us entering the Sorcerers' Palace.”

“You can't hold a Convocation without all seven Warlords,” Damin pointed out.

“Actually, cousin, I merely need a majority.”

“Which you don't have,” Narvell reminded him.

“A situation that will be remedied as soon as Tejay Lionsclaw arrives.” Cyrus looked to Rogan with a frown. “I see you have chosen whose bed to lie in, Lord Bearbow. I'll remember your choice when I'm High Prince.”

“That's an empty threat, Lord Eaglespike. You don't have the numbers.”

Cyrus smiled with oily contempt. “You might be surprised, my Lord.”

The two men glared at each other like lions facing each other over a recent kill. R'shiel sighed impatiently.

“Founders! I've had enough of this! Damin, how soon can we hold this Convocation?”

Damin didn't answer her. He was glaring at Cyrus with such venom that R'shiel was afraid he was going to call his cousin out, right here in the plaza. Despite how satisfying it would be to witness him beat the arrogance out of Cyrus, she knew this had to be resolved legally. Damin could vent his anger later, once he was High Prince.

“Damin!”

“What?”

“I said, how soon can we hold this Convocation?”

“As soon as Lady Lionsclaw arrives.”

“Fine. Send someone to fetch her. In the meantime, I want every Raider off the streets. The Collective can go back to guarding the city. I assume you all have sufficient control over your men that you can keep them out of trouble until this is sorted out?”

Cyrus opened his mouth to object then decided against it as R'shiel turned her black-eyed gaze on him.

“Very well, we have a truce until the Convocation,” he agreed reluctantly. “But don't think this has changed anything!”

“Damin?”

“A truce,” he agreed, almost as reluctantly as Cyrus.

“Fine, that's settled then. Now get rid of these soldiers!”

“This is not finished, demon child!” Cyrus hauled his reins around sharply, taking his anger out on his horse as he rode at a brisk canter back to his men. Behind him, the dome of light wavered and shimmered brightly for a moment, as if sprinkled with a billion tiny stars, then it faded away to nothing as the Harshini finally succumbed to exhaustion.

“That was close,” Narvell muttered.

“We'll sort him out soon enough, brother,” Damin promised savagely.

“Aye,” Rogan agreed. “And the more painfully the better.”

R'shiel glared at them impatiently. “You're all as bad as each other,” she snapped, then turned her horse and continued towards the Sorcerers' Collective - and hopefully the answers she sought.

CHAPTER 21

The weather was bitterly cold as Tarja and his squad rode north as hard as they could push their horses without them foundering. The small band of saboteurs made good time retracing their journey of a few weeks ago, staying close to the Glass River, camping at night under whatever meagre shelter they could find. Their good fortune lasted until a day south of Cauthside, when a savage thunderstorm forced them to take shelter in an abandoned boathouse next to the remains of a small dock jutting precariously into the swift flowing water.

When they arrived, Tarja found a surprise for which he was completely unprepared. The boathouse was already occupied by a score or more Fardohnyans; the remnants of Adrina's Guard who had fled the border with them. Damin had given them supplies and maps, and ordered the Guard to make for Fardohnya weeks ago. What they were doing here, this far north, when they should have been almost home by now, completely baffled Tarja. Getting the story out of them proved something of a trial too, as none of the Fardohnyans spoke Medalonian, and nobody in his troop had more than a passing acquaintance with their native language. In the end, they conversed in Karien, as it proved the only language they had in common.

Second Lanceman Filip, the young man who had surrendered the Guard to Damin on the northern border, told the story. They had taken Damin's advice and headed for Cauthside and the ferry there, only to discover the town crammed with refugees. Not only could they not converse with anyone in the town, their mere presence had caused no end of trouble, some people mistaking them for Kariens. Explaining they were Fardohnyan, not Karien, had done little to help their cause. The townsfolk had turned on them. They'd been forced to fight their way clear of the town rather than risk the remainder of their small band in a civil riot. Filip and his men were now hiding in the boathouse while they waited for their wounded to recover sufficiently so they could continue south to Testra and attempt to cross the river there. They had lost three men getting out of Cauthside.

Tarja allowed the men to light a fire with what dry fuel they could find, satisfied that the weather offered them adequate protection from accidental discovery. The fire cheered the troop considerably. Even the Fardohnyans seemed a little more spirited. They sat around the small blaze, his own men discussing tactics and speculating on what their captain had in mind, the Fardohnyans talking softly among themselves.

Tarja stood by the small window looking out over the dark water, uncaring of the rain that splattered his face. He could hear the low murmur of conversation over the storm outside and knew he would have to decide quickly what to do with the Fardohnyans. It was also time to tell his troop what he was planning.

Mandah was still the only person in his small squad who knew exactly what he had in mind. She was right when she claimed that she knew how to behave with the careless arrogance of a Sister of the Blade. Disguised as a Blue Sister she had commandeered the ferry in Vanahiem with remarkable ease. He hoped she could do the same in Cauthside with as little effort.

Before he acquired an additional twenty-four Fardohnyans, the plan had been to burn the ferry then swim to safety. If the rain kept up like this, they would have no chance of burning anything. Nor would they be able to risk swimming the river.

“Tarja?”

He turned as Mandah walked up beside him, hugging a borrowed Defender's cloak around her against the cold. She reeked of damp wool, her fair hair hanging limp and wet against her head, yet her eyes were bright with the excitement of the adventure.

“You should stay near the fire and dry off,” he told her.

“I'll be all right. I've been checking the Fardohnyan wounded. The one in the corner with the belly wound, I'll be surprised if he makes it through the night. The others should be fine to travel when we leave tomorrow.”

“So you think we should bring them with us?”

“They've a better chance of getting home eventually if we do.”

He shook his head but did not answer, thinking she would have said the same if they were stray cats.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. I was just thinking about tomorrow. It won't be easy if this weather keeps up.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Can you stop it raining?”

“I could pray to Brehn, the God of Storms, but I'm not sure he would listen to me. You need the demon child if you wish to speak directly to the gods.”

“Well the demon child isn't here, is she?”

“Is that such a bad thing?”

He looked at her for a moment then shrugged. “No, it's not such a bad thing, I suppose.”

Mandah laid a gloved hand on his arm and smiled encouragingly. “You're far too hard on yourself, Tarja. Come to the fire and get warm. You won't stop the rain by staring at it.”

She was trying so hard to cheer him. He did not have the heart to deny her. Mandah could not bear to see any creature in pain, human or beast. He thought of R'shiel: of her temper, her anger and her willingness to manipulate others to get her own way. There was no comparing the two women and it hardened his suspicion that the memories that haunted him could not possibly be real. The old man in the tavern had summed it up neatly. They were doing this for R'shiel. He was still trying hard to convince himself she was worth it.

“Pity I can't stop the rain by staring at it,” he replied, making an attempt to sound light-hearted. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the men around the fire. “It's time I told the men what our mission is, anyway.”

Mandah took his arm as they approached the fire. The others moved aside a little to make room for them. The Fardohnyans withdrew to the corner of the boathouse, sensing that this did not involve them. Tarja squatted down and glanced around the circle, satisfied he had picked the right men. There were few Defenders in his squad. Those he had left to Denjon and Linst. The men he had chosen were rebels for the most part, men he had fought with before; men who understood how to frustrate a numerically superior enemy without confronting them head on.

“We're going to burn the Cauthside Ferry,” he announced as they looked at him expectantly. “If we're not back in Testra within a month, the commander of the Testra garrison will destroy that ferry, too. If all goes well here, we'll destroy it ourselves, once we've completed our mission and are back on the other side of the river.”

“You think that will stop the Kariens getting to the Citadel?” Ghari asked.

“No. But it will delay them for a time.”

The rebels looked anxiously at each other. Ulran, a small, dark-eyed man from Bordertown, and the best knife-fighter Tarja had ever met glanced around the gathering, gauging the mood of his companions before he spoke.

“That's going to hurt more than the Kariens, Tarja. There's a lot of people who depend on those ferries.”

“How much trade do you think there's going to be once the Kariens get across the river?” Torlin asked. The same age as Mandah's brother Ghari, he was one of the rebels captured in Testra who had followed Tarja to the northern border. Slender and surprisingly quick-witted, he would have made a good Defender.

“Torlin's right,” Rylan agreed. He was one of the few Defenders in the squad - solid and dependable. “The Kariens are foraging their way south. They'll strip Medalon clean. There won't be anything left to trade by the time they've passed through.”

Ulran nodded his reluctant agreement. “I suppose. It just seems a pity to destroy a perfectly good ferry, that's all.”

“Well, if you're feeling so noble, Ulran, you can come back and build them a new one after the war,” Harben suggested with a grin. Harben worried Tarja a little. His enthusiasm for destruction was matched only by his refusal to take anything seriously. He reminded Tarja a little of Damin Wolfblade.

“I've a feeling we'll all be in our dotage before that day comes,” Ulran retorted, then turned back to Tarja. “So, we burn the ferry. How?”

As if in answer to his question, the night was lit by jagged lightning, accompanied by the rattle of thunder. The rain began to fall even more heavily, pounding on the battered shingles of the boathouse so hard that Tarja could barely hear himself think. He looked up, shook his head and looked back at his men.

“I was hoping one of you would have a bright idea.”

The wounded Fardohnyan that Mandah was so concerned for died not long after midnight. By dawn the following day the rain had not let up, but Tarja could not afford to delay, so they hastily buried the dead soldier in the soft ground, packed up their makeshift camp and rode on. After a lengthy conversation with Filip in Karien, it was decided that the Guard would wait on the south side of the town while Tarja and his men sank the ferry. The Fardohnyans would offer cover in case of pursuit and together they would head back to Testra and the ferry there once the job was done. Tarja's men had shaved and now wore Defender uniforms and Mandah sat astride her mare in Sisterhood blue. They were stiff with the cold and soaked to the skin by the time they split from the Fardohnyans and turned towards the northern river town.

Cauthside was normally a quiet town, but now it was filled with refugees fleeing the advancing Kariens. When Tarja had last seen it over two years ago, he was with the late Lord Pieter and his entourage. That fateful journey had led to most of the trouble he now found himself in, he thought sourly. The town had been preparing for the Founders' Day Parade. Streets he remembered decked out with blue bunting were now crowded with lost souls, waiting a chance at the ferry to get to relative safety on the other side of the river.

“Tarja, what will happen to these people?” Mandah asked as they dismounted and led their horses towards the landing through the press of bodies. “They'll be stranded once we've... you know.”

“It can't be helped,” he told her. “Better a few stranded souls on this side than the Kariens in control of the Citadel.”

“There's more than a few people here, Tarja. There must be thousands of them.”

Tarja nodded, but found himself rather unsympathetic to their plight. These were the camp followers who had ridden on the heels of the Defenders hoping for a profit from the war. He did not intend to feel guilty because things had not turned out as they planned.

“You can't help them, Mandah.”

She nodded reluctantly as a child of about eight or nine with large, sad grey eyes ran up alongside them, tugging hopefully on Mandah's blue sleeve. She was clutching a bedraggled, tan-coloured puppy to her chest and both of them were shivering.

“Are you here to save us, Sister?”

Mandah looked down and shook her head. “I'm sorry, child. I'll —”

Tarja grabbed her arm and pulled her away before she could say anything else, or offer to adopt the puppy, which was the sort of thing Mandah was liable to do when left to her own devices.

“You're supposed to be a Sister of the Blade.”

“That doesn't mean I have no compassion.”

“No, but it does mean you keep your damned head down,” he reminded her. “We've a job to do, Mandah. You've already adopted a score of lost Fardohnyans. You'll have to save orphans and stray dogs some other time.”

“But —” she protested indignantly.

“That's an order,” he told her harshly as he shouldered his way through the crowd. “Now do as I say. Keep your head down and don't make eye contact with anyone... or anything.”

“You're a heartless fiend, Tarja,” she hissed as she followed the path he cut through the throng. “How can you just stand by and watch —”

“Mandah!” Ghari warned from behind, saving Tarja the need to scold her further. He glanced back at his men to make sure they were still behind him. The young woman glared at him but said nothing, obviously offended. They pushed on through the crowded streets and into the small town square, which had the look of a refugee camp. There were hundreds of tents set up, crowded close together, their pegs driven into the gaps in the cobblestones.

“This is madness,” he muttered, mostly to himself, as he surveyed the square. A drizzling rain had begun to fall again and the air was biting, even through his Defenders' cloak. He glanced over his shoulder and beckoned Ghari forward. The young rebel threw his reins to the man beside him and pushed his way between the horses to Tarja's side.

“What's wrong?”

“I don't know yet. You and the others stay here. Mandah and I will make our way down to the river and see what's happening. We'll never lead the horses through this.”

Ghari nodded and took their reins. Tarja took Mandah's arm and led her through the chaos, stepping over guy ropes, small children, washing lines and smoking cook fires that hissed defiantly at the rain that threatened to extinguish them. The landing was not far, but the closer they got, the thicker the crowd grew, until they reached a wall of densely packed bodies that no amount of pushing and shoving could penetrate.

Being taller than average, Tarja could see over the heads of the crowd. What he saw did not please him. The ferry was halfway across the river, loaded almost beyond capacity with passengers, sluggishly making its way against the current to the other side.

“What do you see?” Mandah asked, her view blocked by a solid wall of bodies.

“The ferry is making a crossing. It'll be hours before it returns and even then we'll have no hope of getting near it.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We'll have to fall back on my other plan.”

“What's your other plan?”

“I'll tell you as soon as I think of it,” he said with a frown.

By mid-afternoon the ferry had returned to Cauthside. Tarja waited with growing impatience as the barge made its way laboriously across the rain-swollen river under a sky as dark as tarnished silver. The crowd grew restless as it neared the bank, surging forward as the refugees tried to push to the front of the line. Short of taking to the crowd with swords and cutting their way through (and even then he wasn't certain that would work), there was no way they could get near the landing.

More frustrated than angry, Tarja pushed his way through the mob and walked back to where Mandah and the others waited under the eaves of the local inn. His expression told them what they wanted to know, even before he got close enough to speak.

“So, how do we get near the ferry?” Ghari asked.

“We don't. We'll have to think of something else.”

“If we had a ballista, we could set it alight with burning pitch,” Rylan suggested.

“A ballista?” Harben asked. “And to think I had one in my pocket and left it behind because I didn't think we'd need it!”

Tarja frowned at the young man's flippancy. “If you can't offer anything useful, Harben, be quiet.”

Harben had the sense to look contrite. Tarja called the men to him and they huddled together under the thin shelter of the inn, suggesting and rejecting ideas as they tried to think of a way to get close enough to the landing and the ferry. In the end it was Harben who suggested the solution, and he acted on it before Tarja could stop him. The young rebel pushed his way into the crowd in his red Defenders uniform and began shouting.

“They're coming! They're coming! The Kariens are here! Flee! Run for your lives! The Kariens are here! The Kariens are here!”

It was not long before the mob took up his cry. The effect was instantaneous and disastrous. Those at the back of the crowd broke away and began to run from the landing back towards the square. Those closest to the landing lunged forward, pushing the front ranks into the icy river. Everyone was shouting, pushing, shoving to get clear.

“Stop him, Tarja!” Mandah gasped. “Someone will be killed!”

But it was too late to stop the panic Harben's reckless cries had triggered. Instinct quickly replaced common sense. Fear replaced reason. The crowd became a heedless mob. Tarja was pushed back against the wall of the inn as the crowd spilled into the square, trampling tents, cook fires and anything else that got in their way. Their cries echoed through the town, panicked and desperate.

“The Kariens are coming! The Kariens are coming!”

“The Kariens!” Mandah shouted, echoing the hysterical cries of the mob. Tarja grunted as a sharp elbow jabbed him in the ribs and he turned to chide her for contributing to the chaos. But she wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the entrance to the square. “Oh gods, Tarja, they're here!”

Tarja turned to look in the direction of Mandah's pointing finger. At the entrance to the square a column of armoured knights was ploughing into the chaos, their pennons flapping wetly in the damp air. Whether the knights had intended to run down the people before them, or simply had not had time to stop their heavy warhorses, Tarja couldn't tell. In any case, the effect was the same. Harben's cries of impending doom had proved horribly prophetic.

“Back this way!” he yelled, as he pulled Mandah along the wall to the corner of the inn. The narrow lane behind the tavern was cluttered with debris and fleeing refugees. Tarja pushed his way through, using his size and height to shove less motivated souls out of his way.

“I was right!” Harben chortled gleefully as he leapt over a pile of garbage and raced ahead. “The Kariens are here!”

“Get to the horses!” Tarja shouted after him. Harben waved to indicate he had heard the order and ran on. Tarja glanced over his shoulder to assure himself the others were following. Mandah stumbled beside him, her long skirts hampering her steps. Once past the inn he dragged Mandah into a small lane between the Heart and Hearth inn, and the livery next door.

“Get rid of the jackets,” he ordered as the others followed them into the lane. He tore off his own distinctive red jacket and stuffed it behind a barrel full of rainwater placed to catch the run-off from the roof of the inn. The air was icy, but it was vastly preferable to being identified as a member of the defeated Medalonian army.

“We'll never get past them,” Ghari predicted as he shoved his jacket down beside Tarja's.

“We're not going to try. But sinking that ferry just changed from a good idea to an imperative.” The others nodded their agreement. With the Kariens quite literally on their heels, all objections were forgotten. “Mandah, you and Ghari follow Harben and get the horses ready. Borus, you and Torlin scout the north side of town. Find out if this is just an advance party, or if we really do have the Karien host just over the next hill. Paval, you ride back and warn the Fardohnyans that when we leave here, we'll be running and we might have half the damned Karien army on our heels.”

The men nodded and slipped away. Mandah looked as if she might object, but Ghari gave her no chance. He grabbed her arm and headed back out into the lane behind the inn in the direction Harben had gone.

“And the rest of us?” Rylan asked.

“We're going back to the ferry. Kariens or not, it still has to dock. If we're ever going to have a chance at it, it will be in the next few minutes, before the Kariens take control of the town. We need to sink that ferry and get out of Cauthside before the Kariens arrive in force, or it's going to be a very long war.”

They retraced their steps back to the square and turned towards the landing, pushing against the flow of the crowd, which had thinned considerably since the appearance of the Karien knights. The square was a shambles of flattened tents, distraught mothers and screaming men trampled by the fleeing mob. Then there were the dozen or so knights who had ridden through them, milling about in the centre of the square, almost as confused about what had happened as the refugees.

The ferrymen waited a little offshore, afraid to land, yet unable to hold for long against the current. They pulled on a rope as thick as a man's thigh that stretched from one side of the river to the other, clinging to it grimly to hold the boat steady. Tarja judged the distance between the ferry and the riverbank and realised it was too far to jump. He glanced up as a crack of thunder rumbled over the river. The sky was so low he felt he could almost touch it. Back in the square the Kariens were still too disorganised to even notice the ferry, let alone realise its strategic importance.

“They can't hold the ferry in that current much longer,” Cyril noted.

“It's going to rain again any moment,” Tarja added. “At least we'll have that small measure for cover.”

“Aye,” Cyril agreed as thunder shook the ground. Jagged lightning brightened the dull afternoon for an instant. “Those knights will rust if they don't get indoors.”

Tarja glanced at the older man, wondering if he was trying to be humorous, but his expression was grim. “If we can't destroy the ferry, we may have to settle for cutting it adrift.”

The rope that secured the ferry on this side of the river was tied to a massive pylon sunk deep into the ground about ten paces from the landing. To cut through it would be time consuming and dangerous. The rope was wet and they had only their swords, which, although razor-sharp, were not designed for such a task. Even if they could attempt it unnoticed, it would take several long, exposed minutes to sever the rope, and the ferrymen who waited anxiously to haul the barge ashore were unlikely to let them attempt such a feat without objection. Surrender or not, the river was their livelihood. Crouched by the edge of a small warehouse, Tarja debated the issue for a moment then turned to his squad.

“Lavyn, take Byl and Seffin and go pick a fight with the ferrymen. I want them too busy to notice what we're up to. Cyril, you stay here with the others and keep an eye on those knights. If they pay us no attention, stay out of their way. If they look like going anywhere near that ferry, call them out. Insult their mothers, if you have to. Whatever it takes to keep them off our backs.

“And remember,” Ulran added with a grin, “if you truly want to insult a Karien, make sure you mention his god, his mother and at least one dog.”

Tarja shook his head at the knife-fighter, but allowed himself a small smile. “Ulran, you're with me.”

The small man grinned and produced a wicked, serrated dagger from the side of his boot. The blade was nearly as long as his forearm. “You think this might do the trick?”

Tarja nodded, more relieved than surprised to find Ulran carrying such a vicious weapon. His sword would have been as blunt as a butter knife after hacking through so much wet hemp.

“Let's move!” he ordered. The men slipped away to their assigned positions and Tarja followed Ulran down the slight slope towards the landing. The three men he sent to distract the ferrymen were ahead of them, shouting aggressively at the unsuspecting river-folk as they approached. Their words were drowned out by another bellow of thunder as Tarja drew his sword and turned his back to Ulran to protect him while he cut through the massive line.

Lightning split the clouds for a moment and then icy rain began sheeting down, blurring Tarja's vision and soaking him in seconds. He glanced over his shoulder at Ulran, who was sawing the rope, wiping the rain from his eyes as he worked. A strand unravelled and then another as he hacked at the rope, the weight of the ferry pulling it as taut as a harp string one moment, slackening the next, as the ferry rocked against the current. Somewhere over the rain he could hear angry shouting, but if it was the men on the ferry, the boatmen Tarja had sent the others to distract, or the Karien knights, he could not tell. He couldn't see more than a few paces in front of him. All he could do was stand on the balls of his feet, his sword at the ready, hoping that if they were attacked, he would see it coming.

Ulran sawed frantically at the rope as time slowed to a crawl. Tarja risked another look over his shoulder. Half the rope was severed now, but it was taking much too long.

“Hurry, Ulran!”

“You think you can do this any faster?” the rebel shouted over the downpour as another strand unravelled. He was panting heavily with the effort of sawing through the wet hemp, his muscles bunched under his wet shirt, his lips blue with the cold.

The shouting seemed closer and Tarja turned back in time to see a Karien knight riding down on them. Cyril had fallen near the edge of the square, the puddle he lay in red with blood. He could not make out the rest of his men through the sheeting rain, but the spectre of a massive Karien warhorse loomed over him as one of the knights, suddenly realising what they were attempting, rode straight at them.

“Out of the way!” Tarja shouted.

Ulran slipped and fell as he scrambled to get clear. Tarja swung his sword like an axe and struck the taut rope with every ounce of strength he could muster. The Karien was almost on him, the sound of hoofs on the cobbles almost louder than the rain. He swung again, wincing as the blow jarred his arms to the shoulder. The Karien was only a heartbeat away and still the rope held. Tarja swung one last time and the rope finally gave way under the strain of the ferry pulling against it. Rain swallowed the shouts of the panicked ferrymen as it whipped free; the barge suddenly swinging into the current, at the mercy of the hungry river.

Tarja barely had time to turn as the Karien rode him down. He had no time to recover his fighting stance or bring his sword around. He saw the blow coming, saw the flat of the Karien's blade aimed at his head and knew there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Pain blinded him.

Then there was blackness as unconsciousness swallowed him whole.

CHAPTER 22

There had been some dissension over whether or not Damin should be allowed to take up residence in the High Prince's Palace, his opponents fearing that his possession of it might imply their tacit agreement to his claim. Marla had put an end to the argument by pointing out that the palace actually belonged to the Wolfblade family, therefore she had a perfect right to be there and invite whoever she wished to guest with her.

That had been yesterday. Cyrus Eaglespike was evicted as the Wolfblades reclaimed their palace. Adrina had been shown to her apartments, the same quarters she had used when she visited Greenharbour for Lernen's birthday almost three years ago, and seen nobody since.

She paced the sumptuous rooms impatiently, striding past tall, diamond-paned doors that opened out onto a balcony overlooking the harbour. They allowed what little cooling breeze there was to sigh through the room, gently billowing the sheer curtains that screened the windows against insects. The screeching gulls circling the fishing boats grated on her nerves. The air was humid, worse even than Talabar.

Adrina hated not knowing what was going on. She knew there had been some sort of confrontation with Cyrus Eaglespike, and that R'shiel had somehow temporarily defused the situation, but other than that she was completely in the dark.

The door opened and Tamylan slipped into the room, bearing a tray with a silver jug beaded with condensation. She placed the tray on the gilded table by the door, then turned to her mistress.

“You should be resting, Your Highness. You look exhausted and there is more than yourself to consider now.”

“I can't rest,” she declared, stifling a yawn. “What news?”

“Not much, I fear. The city seems quiet. R'shiel has gone to the Sorcerers' Collective to meet with the High Arrion and the Harshini.”

“Where's Damin?”

“With Lord Bearbow and Lord Hawksword. I believe Princess Marla is with them also.”

“So I'm to be excluded from their council, am I? Where are they meeting?”

“Adrina, I really don't think you should —”

“I don't recall asking what you thought, Tam. Where are they meeting?”

“Downstairs in the throne room.”

“Then I think I shall join them,” she announced. Squaring her shoulders, she marched to the door and flung it open, only to have her way blocked by two heavily armed Raiders wearing Damin's wolf's head crest. “Out of my way!”

“I'm sorry, Your Highness,” the taller guard said. “Lord Wolfblade said you weren't to leave this chamber.”

“Don't be absurd! I'm his wife, not a prisoner! Stand aside!”

“Lord Wolfblade was very specific in his orders, Your Highness.”

“Actually, I told them to tie you down, if necessary.”

Adrina turned to find Damin coming towards her, his boots clicking on the mosaic floor. He was unshaved and still dressed in the same clothes she had seen him wearing yesterday. He had probably been up all night. Damin looked almost as tired as she felt. She quashed a momentary pang of sympathy for him, preferring anger to compassion.

“How dare you treat me like a prisoner!”

“It's for your own protection, Adrina. Until I'm certain the palace is secure, I don't want you wandering around.”

“You don't want me to know what's going on, more like it.”

The guards stood back to let Damin enter, tactfully closing the door behind him. Tamylan curtsied to him and he nodded absently in acknowledgment.

“Can I get you anything, my Lord?”

“Something to eat, Tam,” Damin replied wearily. “And something cold to drink. Have it sent up here.”

Tamylan curtsied again and let herself out of the room before Adrina could countermand the order.

“You seem to be getting very familiar with my slave.”

“I believe Tamylan has finally decided that I may not be an ogre, after all.”

“You haven't convinced me yet.”

He smiled tiredly. “Are you all right?”

“What harm can come to me here, locked away like a bird in a cage? Of course, I might die from boredom, but don't let that bother you.” She resumed her pacing as Damin flopped onto the chaise near the open balcony doors.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to give the impression you were a prisoner.”

“Ah... now let me think... I'm stuck in this room. There are guards on the door. I'm not allowed to leave. How silly of me to think all that meant I was a prisoner.”

“My uncle has been dead for nearly two months now, Adrina. That's two months that Cyrus Eaglespike has had access to this palace. We've already discovered at least three rooms that were rigged with assassination devices.”

She stopped pacing and turned to him. “But you said the Assassins' Guild was on our side.”

“They are. That's how we found the devices. Cyrus hasn't got access to the Guild, but there are some gifted amateurs out there. This is a big palace. It will take days before we're certain they've found every nasty little surprise Lord Eaglespike has left for us.”

Adrina found herself regretting her outburst. Perhaps he really was concerned for her welfare. On the other hand, he may simply be using it as an excuse to exclude her.

“You didn't invite me to your council,” she accused with a bad feeling she sounded like a petulant child.

“That was Marla's idea, not mine.”

“You're a Warlord and a High Prince. Don't you think it's time you stopped listening to your mother?”

“If I listened to my mother, Adrina, you would be a prisoner.”

She did not doubt he spoke the truth. “What's going on, Damin? I've a right to know.”

He nodded. “That you have. How much have you heard?”

“Only that you confronted your cousin and that R'shiel did something to him.”

“Actually, it was more the threat of what she could do that encouraged Cyrus to see reason. When Kalan returned to Greenharbour ahead of us, Cyrus tried to get her to ratify his claim to the throne and sanction the Convocation, even though he had only three Warlords to attend. Kalan refused naturally, so he tried to storm the Sorcerers' Palace. He didn't count on the Harshini. They threw up some sort of protective dome that he couldn't penetrate. They'd been under siege for days. R'shiel says we arrived just in time.”

“And what is the demon child doing now?”

“I don't know for certain. As soon as we took possession of the palace, she left for the Sorcerers' Collective. I haven't seen her since.”

“Has something happened?”

Damin shrugged. “Who knows? R'shiel has all of us dancing on strings like puppets in a show that only she can see.”

“Yet we all dance willingly enough,” Adrina said with a frown. “So what happens now?”

“We wait for Tejay Lionsclaw. Until she arrives, we can't hold the Convocation.”

“Is she on her way?”

“She should be.”

“You sound uncertain. Isn't she on your side?”

“I would have said yes a few days ago, but that was before I learnt that Cyrus Eaglespike married his daughter Bayla to Tejay's eldest son last spring, while I was in Medalon.”

“So the person who holds the casting vote is tied to your opponent by marriage. That's not a very comfortable position to be in.”

“Decidedly uncomfortable,” Damin agreed.

“How are you going to ensure that she remains in your camp?”

“I haven't worked that out yet. Any suggestions?”

The question took Adrina by surprise. That Damin actually wanted her opinion was flattering. In fact, that he had bothered to come here at all, to acquaint her with the situation and ask her advice was the last thing she expected.

“You need to discover the quality Tejay Lionsclaw admires most in a leader and make sure you have more of it than your cousin,” she advised. “That, or give her something she wants. Something that nobody else can give her.”

He laughed sourly. “That's easy! All I have to do is give her the secret of the explosive powders your damned Fardohnyan bandits use against her in the Sunrise Mountains. If I could do that, she'd swear the allegiance of her House to mine for an eternity.”

“My father guards that secret more closely than his treasury.”

“I know. We've tried everything we could think of for years to discover it.”

Adrina hesitated before she spoke again, aware that her next words would mean she was taking an irrevocable step in a direction she had not planned to go. But she was tired, mentally and physically. Her surrender seemed inevitable and the energy it took to sustain her defiance was needed elsewhere.

“You haven't tried asking me.”

Damin looked up at her in astonishment. “What?”

“I said, you haven't tried asking me.”

“I heard what you said, Adrina,” he told her, rising to his feet. He stood too close. She wished he had stayed seated. She didn't like looking up at him. “Are you telling me that you know the secret of the explosives?”

She could not tell if he was angry or just surprised.

“That's exactly what I'm telling you.”

“Why didn't you tell me this before?”

She took a step back from him. “You didn't ask.”

He turned away from her and walked to the open doors. The set of his shoulders was stiff and angry. He was silent for a time then he turned back to her.

“Why tell me now? Why the sudden change of heart?”

“You always suspect me of having an ulterior motive, don't you?”

“That's because you usually do have an ulterior motive, Adrina.”

She was honest enough to not deny the charge. “Our fates are bound, Damin, whether we like it or not. I cannot go on fighting you forever.”

“You seem to be doing just fine, so far.”

The door opened and Tamylan returned before Adrina could respond to the charge. Her slave did not seem to notice the tension in the room. She curtsied hurriedly then turned to Damin. “My Lord, Princess Marla requires your presence urgently. She has news of Lady Lionsclaw.”

Damin nodded then turned to Adrina. “We'll finish this discussion later.”

He strode from the room, angry and annoyed, before she had a chance to answer.

Tamylan closed the door behind Damin and leaned against it, staring at Adrina suspiciously. “Did you tell him?”

“No.”

“Adrina...”

“I keep planning to, Tam, but the timing never seems right.”

“You can't keep it a secret much longer.”

“I know,” she sighed.

Tamylan crossed the room and took her arm gently, leading her to the chaise.

“Well, I suppose there's no point in worrying about it now. Why don't you lie down? You need your rest and he said he'd be back. You can tell him then.”

Adrina nodded, aware that she was almost swaying on her feet with fatigue.

“He's mad at me again.”

“He'll get over it.”

“I told him about the gunpowder.”

“Was that wise?”

“I thought... oh, hell! I don't know what I thought. He makes me so angry!”

“No angrier than you make him,” Tamylan pointed out with a shrug. “Now stop fretting and come and lie down.”

Adrina sighed wearily. “What would I do without you Tam?”

“I'm sure I don't know, Your Highness.”

Adrina smiled and lay back on the couch. She would tell Damin when he returned - about the gunpowder and the child.

“Tam, did Marla say what the news was? About Lady Lionsclaw?”

“No, but she seemed excited rather than upset, so I suppose the news is good.”

Adrina closed her eyes for a moment then opened them again, looking at Tamylan with concern. “If I go to sleep, you'll wake me when he comes, won't you?”

“Of course.”

“You seem to like him now. You used to think he was a barbarian.”

“I still do,” the slave told her. “But I've decided the demon child is right about one thing. I think he really cares about you, Adrina. That rather improves my opinion of him.”

Adrina closed her eyes again. The humidity and the strain of the past few weeks caught up with her in a wave of fatigue. “Do you think he'll be happy when he learns I'm with child?”

“He'd better be,” Tam replied sternly.

“You're going to make a wonderful nurse, Tam.”

“Rest, Your Highness.”

Adrina didn't answer. By the time Tamylan had gently closed the door behind her, she had let the torpor overtake her and drifted off to sleep.

CHAPTER 23

When Adrina woke, it was dark. She experienced a sharp pang of bitter disappointment when she realised Damin had not come back. Well, what did you expect? she asked herself grumpily. It's not as if he actually wants to spend time in your company. Tam had not lit the candles yet and the room was full of dancing shadows. Moonlight reflecting off the still waters of the harbour painted flickering patterns on the ceiling. She lay still for a moment, wondering what had woken her, then heard the noise again in the corridor outside her room.

Curiously, she climbed to her feet and crossed to the door, placing her ear against the warm wood. The noise grew louder, the unmistakable sound of shouting and the clang of metal on metal. She stepped away from the door in puzzlement. It sounded like a fight. Was the palace under attack?

The door burst open suddenly and the light from the passage outside momentarily blinded her. She screamed as the room filled with armed men. Arms grabbed at her and a mailed hand was clamped over her mouth, stifling her cries. She struggled against the man who held her then suddenly relaxed as she remembered the child she carried. If she struggled too hard she might cause it harm.

“Are you sure that's her?” one of them asked.

“Aye.”

“Then let's get out of here. Make certain they're all dead out there,” he added, jerking his head towards the corridor.

A Raider slipped through the door, his sword drawn. Adrina cringed as a high-pitched and unmistakably female scream followed a few seconds later. She twisted her head around and caught sight of a blue skirt puddled on the tiles near the door, the familiar slippers stained with the blood that pooled around them.

Tamylan!

“Get her to the balcony,” the man in charge ordered. “The boat is waiting.”

Adrina struggled as they dragged her across the room, her heart beating so hard she thought it might burst through her chest. She turned her head, trying to keep Tam in her line of sight, willing the feet to move, to give some indication that she was still alive. The man sent out to finish off the guards slipped back into the room and closed the door behind him, cutting off her view. Adrina sobbed into the mailed hand still covering her mouth.

Tamylan!

They dragged her through the open door and out onto the balcony. A Raider was lowering a rope over the edge, down to the dark waters of the harbour below. His leather breastplate was embossed with a soaring eagle. The Raider who seemed to be giving the orders checked the rope was secure then turned to Adrina.

“Sorry about this, Your Highness.”

The man holding her suddenly released his hand from her mouth, but before she could scream a mailed fist hit her in the jaw. The pain blinded her for a moment and she struggled to stay upright.

The second blow was more effective. By the time she realised she had been struck again she was unconscious.

The next thing Adrina knew, she was tied hand and foot, lying in a puddle of icy water in the bottom of a small boat. The sea churned beneath them, and the motion of the boat made her ill, but she was determined not to vomit. She held down the contents of her heaving stomach by sheer force of will. Spitting out a mouthful of sour blood and stale salty water, she lifted her head to see where she was. In the darkness she could make out little but the bare feet of the sailors who pulled on the oars, and the booted feet of the Raiders who had kidnapped her.

One of them looked down and noticed she was conscious. He bent over and pulled her into a sitting position, squinting at her in the moonlight.

“Awake, then, are you?”

“You have a gift for stating the blindingly obvious, my man.”

“I ain't your man, missy,” the Raider replied. “I'm one of Lord Eaglespike's men.”

“Again, you state the obvious,” she remarked, glancing at his breastplate, proudly embossed with the soaring eagle of Dregian Province. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“That's a rather relative term under the circumstances. Untie me at once!”

“Can't do that, Your Highness.”

“Why not? Are you afraid I'll escape? With all these big, nasty sailors surrounding me? I'm flattered.”

“Lord Eaglespike said...”

“Ah! Lord Eaglespike! Did he give orders that I was to be treated like some galley slave you snatched for a bit of sport? Untie me this instant!”

Her tone almost had him convinced. He was reaching for the ropes when another man stopped him, looking down at her with contempt.

“Leave her be, Avrid,” the other man ordered. “Don't let her trick you.”

Avrid lowered his hands, almost apologetically. Adrina glared at the Raider with all the regal scorn she could muster while sitting in such an inelegant position.

“I promise I will personally see to it that you all die a very slow and painful death. I will supervise your torture and execution myself. I enjoy watching my enemies suffer long, excruciating punishments. I'm Fardohnyan, you know. We have ways of making a man live in agony for weeks without killing him.”

“Shut up!” the Raider ordered, noticing the looks on the faces of the men who could hear her.

Adrina smiled coldly. “Then, there's always a chance I won't get to do a thing to you myself. Once the demon child hears of this, your days left in this world will be so few even you could count them. Did I mention that the demon child is a friend of mine?”

“I told you to shut up!” The Raider's voice had an edge of panic to it. “Don't say another word!”

“Am I scaring you?” she asked cheerfully.

The Raider punched her in the face rather than answer her question.

Just before dawn, they reached their destination, a small stone jetty that jutted out into a small churning bay in the shadow of a massive white tower that seemed to grow out of the cliff-face. Adrina was hauled from the boat by another pair of Dregian Raiders and dragged along the slimy dock to a narrow staircase that wound upwards towards a square of yellow light. Shivering in her damp clothes, she shook off the man who was holding her and climbed the steps without assistance, despite the effort it cost her. She was cold and stiff and aching in places she didn't know existed until now. Her head ached, her stomach was queasy and her face felt as if it had swollen to three times its normal size.

At the top of the stairs was a small guardroom where more Raiders waited for her with another man dressed in gold-chased armour. He studied Adrina with concern then turned to the Raider who had hit her in the boat.

“Lord Eaglespike said not to harm her, you fool!”

“She's not hurt bad,” the man replied defensively. “Nothing's broken. But she's got a mouth on her.”

The young lord turned to Adrina apologetically. “I'm sorry, Your Highness. You were not meant to be injured.”

“That's a fairly hollow apology, don't you think?”

“We've brought you here for... political reasons,” the young man explained uncomfortably.

“Is that what you call it? Where I come from, we don't usually start our political negotiations with criminal acts.”

“If you'd stayed where you belong and Damin Wolfblade had heeded our warnings, we wouldn't need to commit criminal acts, Your Highness,” he shrugged. “I am Serrin Eaglespike, Lord Cyrus' brother.”

“Bully for you,” Adrina replied, unimpressed.

“Lord Eaglespike will be here later. He may wish to speak with you then, or he may wait until Wolfblade has met his demands. In the meantime, you may consider yourself... our guest.”

He stood back as Adrina was pushed forward from the small guardroom to a long, narrow corridor. The walls were made of rusted iron bars, each one revealing a damp cell beyond. Most of them were empty, and the occupants of the few that weren't looked up disinterestedly as she passed.

About halfway up the corridor, her escort stopped and unlocked the cell on her left. They pushed her through the door with little ceremony and locked it behind her.

Serrin followed the guards and stood outside the bars, watching her as she took in the small high window, the damp, salt-pitted floor and the mouldy straw that served as a bed. A guard untied the ropes that bound her wrists and she rubbed at the raw skin absently as she looked around.

“Not exactly what you're used to, I imagine?”

“If you want to use your imagination for something fruitful,” she suggested frostily, “use it to imagine what I'm going to do to you when I get out of here. Have you any idea how long we Fardohnyans can hold a grudge? Do you have any concept of the lengths we are prepared to go to for revenge? Perhaps you've heard of the ancient Fardohnyan tradition of mort'eda?”

Rather than looking fearful, Serrin actually smiled. “You don't think the threats of a woman frighten me, do you?”

“Then what does frighten you, my Lord? You'll go to war over this, you know that, don't you?”

“Know it? We're counting on it! Damin Wolfblade will gather up the thousand men he has in Greenharbour and come storming over our border as soon as he hears you are missing.”

“Then why aren't you out there getting ready to face him?”

“We are ready to face him, Your Highness. We have ten thousand men waiting. He'll fly right into our trap like a fox on the scent of fresh chicken blood. If there's one thing you can always count on, it's Damin Wolfblade's reaction to anything that he perceives as a threat to something he loves. He'd rather fight than eat.”

Adrina burst out laughing, despite how much it hurt her split lip. “This is your grand plan? There's a fatal flaw in your logic, I'm afraid.”

“What flaw?”

“You're assuming Damin loves me.”

“Well, doesn't he?” Serrin asked, a little confused.

“I hate to disappoint you, Serrin,” she said, holding her sides against the bitter laughter that shook her. “But you've not provoked Damin, you've played right into his hands. He won't care if you send me back to him in little pieces. You've kidnapped the one thing he wants to be rid of!”

Serrin glared at her in disbelief. “You're just saying that.”

Adrina's laughter had almost reached the point of hysteria. She could not believe they had actually kidnapped her for such a mistaken reason.

“You poor, misguided fools!” she cried, sobbing with mirth. “Love me? Dear gods, he despises me!”

Serrin turned away and left her alone, his footsteps echoing angrily along the passage. Still crying with laughter, Adrina sank down onto the floor of her cell and hugged her knees. Her mirth abated slowly but the tears did not as the harsh truth of her predicament hit her with full force.

Damin would not risk a civil war for her. She knew that. Even if he wanted to, Marla would prevent him from taking action, or worse, she would convince him to go to war, but not until after her despised daughter-in-law had been conveniently disposed of. There was a chance that R'shiel might come to her rescue, but with everything else that was going on, saving Adrina was probably far down on her list of priorities and the demon child could be as ruthless as Marla when the mood took her.

The worst of her predicament was the dreadful realisation that at that moment, she wanted nothing more than to be warm and dry and safe in Damin's arms somewhere far from this place.

And Tamylan - dear, sweet, loyal Tamylan - had died for her.

She cried anew for her slave, realising now, when it was too late to do anything about it, that Tam had been her one true friend. The loneliness that settled on her seemed worse than her small cell, worse than her bruised and battered face, worse even than the bitter knowledge that she had fallen for Damin Wolfblade and she would probably never get the chance to tell him.

Damin would not come for her. She was certain of that.

He didn't even know that she carried his child.

CHAPTER 24

The Seeing Stone in the Temple of the Gods loomed over R'shiel, a solid lump of crystal as tall as a man, mounted on a black marble base. Candles set in solid silver sconces lit the altar, reflecting off the Stone with flickering rainbow light. She studied it for some time, hoping to learn its secret.

“It concerns me that the demon child knows so little of the ways of the Harshini.”

R'shiel turned. Kalan was striding towards her down the centre of the echoing temple. Kalan had ordered it cleared whenever R'shiel wished to use it - apparently she thought the demon child needed solitude during her worship.

R'shiel did not correct the High Arrion's assumptions. It was convenient that the Sorcerers' Collective thought of her as Harshini. It wouldn't do at all to remind them she was a Medalonian half-breed raised to despise the gods and everything they represented.

“Concerns you? It scares the hell out of me.”

Kalan frowned. “I wish you were joking.”

“So do I.”

The High Arrion climbed the steps to the altar and stopped beside her, studying the crystal for a moment. “You sent for me?”

“I need to contact Sanctuary.”

“And you want to know how to use the Stone?”

R'shiel nodded. “Glenanaran and the others are still unconscious. I'm not sure how to help.”

“We owe them a great deal,” Kalan agreed.

“So, what's the trick with this thing?”

Kalan shook her head in despair. “This thing? Divine One, you have a bad habit of blaspheming every time you open your mouth. I hope the gods are forgiving.”

“I'd settle for them just minding their own business.”

Kalan sighed eloquently but made no further comment. She stepped up to the Stone and laid her hand on it, as if she drew strength from its solid presence, then turned to R'shiel.

“In the old days, before the Sisterhood conquered Medalon, the Seeing Stone was our main link with the Harshini. In those days we had scores of Harshini roaming through Hythria and Fardohnya. Medalon was their home but their teachers were spread out even as far as Karien, before the Overlord came to power. There were five Seeing Stones back then.”

“Five? What happened to them? Where are they now?”

“The Stone in Yarnarrow was taken to the Isle of Slarn, when Xaphista came to power in Karien. The Sisterhood somehow disposed of the Stone at the Citadel. The Stone in Talabar is gone too, but nobody is certain where.”

“And the fifth Stone is in Sanctuary.”

Kalan nodded. “This Stone was silent for almost two hundred years, after the Harshini left us. Then Korandellan appeared about three years ago, seeking Lord Brakandaran.”

“He sent him to look for me.”

“And now here you are, seeking to use the Stone to speak with Korandellan. Strange how things turn out.”

R'shiel wasn't sure how to answer that. Kalan had been in a strange mood since they arrived in Greenharbour. Perhaps it was because of the attack on the Collective.

“Can you use the Stone?”

Kalan nodded. “In theory, although I've never tried. We lost a great deal of knowledge when the Harshini departed. We have the texts that describe the skills, but without Harshini tutors to explain the nuances of the techniques, many things proved impossible. I cannot use the Stone as you can. All you need do is place your hands upon it, draw on your power and think of whoever you wish to contact.”

“That's all?”

“So I'm led to believe.”

“But you don't know for certain?”

“I am not Harshini, Divine One. I do not have access to the power that you control.”

Control might be a bit optimistic, R'shiel thought irreverently, although she did not voice her uncertainty. It was better that the High Arrion thought her omnipotent. She stepped closer to the Stone.

“The staffs that Xaphista's priests use. They have crystals in them too. Are they like the Seeing Stones?”

Kalan looked thoughtful. “I don't really know. The Overlord uses them to link with the priests, so I suppose they work on the same principle. I've never seen one up close.” She smiled faintly. “As you can imagine, there is little communication between the Collective and the Overlord's minions.”

“The shaft is black,” R'shiel told her, her voice hardening in remembrance, “and made of metal. The head of the staff is gold, shaped like a five-pointed star, intersected by a lightning bolt crafted of silver. Each point of the star is set with crystal and in the centre of the star, is a larger gem of the same stone.”

“You speak as if you've seen one.”

“I've had the dubious pleasure of being on the receiving end,” she explained.

“That raises some interesting possibilities,” Kalan said thoughtfully.

“What do you mean?”

“I wonder if the crystals you describe are pieces of the missing Stones? I don't know how they could be, but it's possible, I suppose.”

“If they are, could I use them too?”

The High Arrion shrugged, but she did not dismiss the idea out of hand. “For what?”

“I don't know, exactly. I'm just curious, I guess.”

“Even if the crystals really are pieces of Seeing Stone, you couldn't really do anything with a staff unless you could get past the pain.”

“Yes, well that does present something of a problem,” she agreed, pushing away the painful memory of Xaphista and the pain his staff could inflict. She had beaten the collar though, and that had been worse than the staff. Perhaps, if she had to, she could do it again. But not easily; and certainly not by choice.

“I suppose you could get around having to touch the staff itself by using another Seeing Stone,” Kalan added thoughtfully.

“Why another Seeing Stone?”

“The Seeing Stones are channels, Divine One. They focus the power of the gods and allow it to be used in a specific manner. The size of the Stone determines its power. Legend has it that the Stone at the Citadel was three times the size of this one.”

“So, what are you saying? That even if the staffs contain pieces of Seeing Stone, they're too small to do anything with?”

“I'm saying they couldn't be used like this one. You couldn't use them to talk to the priests. They would convey nothing more than... I don't know, really... emotions, maybe... vague impressions, at best. And that's assuming you can access a Stone capable of communicating with the chips of crystal in the staffs.”

“What about this Seeing Stone? Or the one at Sanctuary?”

She shook her head. “The Stone in here is only good for contacting Sanctuary - the Harshini made sure of that before they withdrew, and you can't use the Stone in Sanctuary, because for something requiring that much power, Korandellan would have to bring Sanctuary back into real time. If they are chips from the missing Stones then the Stone that controls those jewels is probably the one on Slarn.”

R'shiel frowned. “I'm not sure I want to risk Malik's Curse just to satisfy my curiosity.” She'd seen a man with the wasting disease once, on his way from the Citadel to the colony on Slarn. It still gave her nightmares.

“The disease would be the least of your problems,” Kalan pointed out. “Just getting there would be trouble enough. You couldn't use the demons. The priests would sense you coming from the other side of the Fardohnyan Gulf.”

“Pity the Seeing Stone at the Citadel is lost,” she sighed, glancing at the lump of crystal behind her. “Do you think the Sisterhood destroyed it?”

“No human possesses the power to destroy a Seeing Stone, Divine One. It's missing, certainly, but I doubt it was destroyed.”

“Then it might be still in the Citadel? Hidden somewhere?”

The High Arrion did not seem to share her optimism. “I suppose, although where you would hide something as large as a Seeing Stone is beyond me.”

“I wonder if there are any records in the Citadel's library? The Founding Sisters documented everything. There are even reports on the number of sacks of grain they confiscated when they took over the Citadel.”

“It's worth a try, I suppose, and if it is still there, it would be a lot safer than trying to get near the one on Slarn. But the Citadel is under Karien control. How are you going to get inside? And, more importantly, what does it have to do with your quest to destroy Xaphista? Do you have the time to waste answering questions that have no relevance to the task at hand?”

“I suppose not.” She glanced up at the Stone again with a sigh. For a moment, it had seemed like such a good idea, too.

R'shiel had the librarians scouring the archives of the Collective looking for something, anything, to help her cause, but so far they had come up with nothing. Dikorian, the Collective's Chief Librarian, was not hopeful either. He knew his archives like he knew his own reflection and had never heard of anything in them that gave even a hint about how to destroy a god. Maybe, with a bit more time... she shook her head impatiently, reminding herself of why she had come here this evening. Time was something she didn't have to waste at the moment. “Right now I have to help Glenaranan and his friends. Will you see that I am not disturbed?”

Kalan nodded. “Of course.”

The High Arrion stepped down from the altar and began the long walk through the temple across the gorgeously mosaic-tiled floor. Every building R'shiel had entered in Greenharbour had floors like it, their intricate geometrical patterns sometimes so complex they made her dizzy.

She waited until Kalan was lost in the shadows before turning back to the Stone. Pushing away stray thoughts of Seeing Stones and chips of crystal, R'shiel swallowed a lump of apprehension and reached out, placing her palms upon it, then opened herself to the power. She felt her eyes darken, felt the familiar, intoxicatingly sweet energy surge through every cell in her body, and then thought of Korandellan.

Demon child.

R'shiel jumped in fright. It seemed hours since she had laid her hands on the Stone. The power filled her and she opened her eyes, which now burned black. Korandellan's image appeared in the crystal against a milky backdrop. He looked haggard.

“Korandellan!”

You should not sound so surprised, demon child. You are the one who called for me.

“I... I know... I just wasn't sure if it would work.”

You should not doubt yourself, R'shiel. You are capable of so much more than you realise.

“I'm glad you think so.”

The King smiled indulgently. How can I help you, child?

“Glenanaran, Farandelan and Joranara are unconscious. The Collective was attacked and they built a dome of light to protect it. They collapsed just before I got here and we can't wake them. They don't seem injured at all - they just won't wake up.”

His face clouded with concern. It was unwise of them to draw on so much power. The gods always exact a price for such excess.

“The gods? You mean they're like this as some sort of punishment?” She could feel her ire rising and fought it down. Linked mentally with Korandellan, it would distress him greatly to be exposed to her anger. “So what can I do?”

You must appeal to Cheltaran directly, I fear.

“The God of Healing? I don't know him.”

But he knows you, demon child. I'm certain he will heed your summons.

The image flickered for a moment and R'shiel realised that Korandellan was weakening. The idea alarmed her. Korandellan was as strong in the power as she, and certainly far more skilled. The effort it took to link through the Stone was minimal. It should not be having that effect on him. “Are you all right?”

I am tired, that is all.

“How can you be tired? You're the King of the Harshini.”

Your faith in me is encouraging, R'shiel. Korandellan could not lie, but he could avoid giving her a direct answer.

“What's wrong?”

He sighed, obviously reluctant to share his burden. The strain of holding Sanctuary out of time is telling on me.

“Why don't you just let it go? Nobody knows where Sanctuary is.”

Xaphista's priests would find us easily, if we were back in normal time. I cannot risk it.

“But if your hold weakens, they'll find it anyway.”

Then I must rely on you to remove the threat of the Kariens, and trust you are able to achieve it before I falter.

Korandellan was not trying to pressure her - it was not in his nature to do anything so blatantly human, but R'shiel felt it, nonetheless. It simply wasn't fair. She never asked to be the demon child. She certainly did not want to feel responsible for the survival of the Harshini.

The King smiled. I fear I have made the burden of your destiny heavier. Do not concern yourself, R'shiel. Things will turn out as the gods will them.

Which isn't saying much, she thought irreverently. “Is there anything I can do?”

If you are following a path that leads to breaking the power of the Overlord, you are doing all you can, my dear.

“Well, I'll try to do it a bit faster,” she offered with a wan smile.

Korandellan nodded wearily. You will prevail.

The strain of maintaining the link was telling visibly on the King's face. She took her hands from the Stone and it cleared almost instantly, the milky backdrop returning to the crystalline clarity that characterised the magical talisman. R'shiel sank down onto the floor, sitting with her back to the marble base, her knees drawn up to her chin. She let the power go with some reluctance.

So, I have to call Cheltaran, she told herself. That would take care of the wounded Harshini. Then, if Dikorian can't help me... maybe the answers I need are at the Citadel. But I'm running out of time.

That the Harshini might be imperilled had never occurred to her until now. In fact, she had never really felt that she was working to a timetable. She knew that at some distant point in the future she would finally have to confront Xaphista, but she had always thought the one thing on her side was time. Perhaps she could sneak away after this damned election. Damin was a smart boy, Adrina even smarter. Surely, between the two of them, they can figure out how to secure his throne without my help?

She climbed to her feet and glanced around the temple. What makes it holy? she wondered idly. The gods - or the people who worship them?

“Cheltaran!” Her voice echoed through the cavernous chamber, but no divine being answered her call.

“Cheltaran!” Was there some sort of ritual she should perform to summon him? Zegarnald came when she called, as did Gimlorie. Dacendaran and Kalianah seemed to come and go as they pleased. She had never tried summoning another god.

“Hey! Cheltaran! I need you!”

“Never have I been summoned quite so... eloquently, demon child.”

She started at the voice and spun around to find the god standing behind her, leaning against the Seeing Stone, his arms folded across his chest. They did that a lot, she noticed. You called them and they popped up where you least expected them.

“Cheltaran?”

He smiled serenely. In solid form he looked like an older version of Dace, but without the motley clothes or cheeky grin. He wore a long white robe, similar to those worn by the healers of Hythria, but she had expected someone older. A fairly ridiculous expectation in hindsight - these beings were immortal. If they appeared old, it was simply because they wished to.

“Is there some reason you called me? You appear quite well.”

“There are Harshini here who need you.”

“Ah yes. The Harshini who overextended themselves.”

“You know about them?”

“Naturally. I am the God of Healing. All sickness and injury is known to me.”

“Then why haven't you done something about it?” she demanded impatiently.

“Healing is part of every living being, just as, sometimes, allowing nature to take its course is also a part of life. Things happen as they must, R'shiel. I do not interfere without good cause.”

“Well you have a good cause now. I need them up and about.”

“You need them? Am I to interrupt the natural order of things at your whim, demon child?”

R'shiel thought about that for a moment, then decided she didn't have time to argue. She nodded. “That's about the strength of it.”

“I have interfered more since you came along than I have in the past millennium,” the god told her with a frown.

“Then a bit more won't make much difference, will it?”

Cheltaran sighed. “Very well, demon child. I will do as you ask. But be warned. There will be a reckoning. Nature requires a certain balance. Each time you call on us to disturb that balance, the day of reckoning draws nearer.”

There was something vaguely threatening in his tone that worried R'shiel.

“I don't mean to.”

“I know you don't. But you are the demon child. You are a force of nature in your own right.”

Cheltaran vanished abruptly, before R'shiel could say anything more. She was puzzled by his sudden disappearance, but the reason became clear a moment later, when the doors to the temple flew open and the sound of booted feet pounding on the tiles echoed through the place. She turned as the interlopers emerged into the light. It was Almodavar, Damin's captain, and a squad of his Raiders.

“My Lady! Lord Wolfblade demands you return to the palace at once!”

“He demands, does he?” she asked with faint annoyance as she descended the steps from the altar. “What's the matter now?”

“The palace was attacked. They've taken Adrina.”

R'shiel swore under her breath.

By the time she reached Almodavar, she was running.

CHAPTER 25

R'shiel was shocked by the devastation when she reached the palace. There was blood on the white marble steps and smeared across the tiled floor of the main hall. The diamond-paned windows that led out onto the balcony and overlooked the harbour were shattered into a carpet of glittering shards that crunched underfoot as she followed Almodavar at a run. There were several bodies lined up near the doors, with shrouds thrown hastily over them. How many had died, she wondered? And for what?

Almodavar led her to a small passage off the main hall that ended in a door inlaid in gold with the crest of the Wolfblade family. Someone had driven a dagger through the eye of the wolf and it remained embedded in the wood like a silent warning. Almodavar opened the door without glancing at the knife and stood back to let R'shiel enter. The Raiders who had escorted them from the Collective stayed on guard outside.

“What happened?”

Damin looked up at the sound of her voice, obviously relieved to see her. But his eyes were hard and she could read the tension in the set of his shoulders. The other men in the room, whom she guessed were Damin and Narvell's lieutenants, wore expressions of concern - and perhaps a little excitement - at the prospect of seeing some action. The only woman present was Marla, who paced the floor impatiently as her sons plotted their revenge. There were maps scattered across the large oval table, anchored at their corners by anything heavy enough to act as a paperweight.

“We received a message that Tejay Lionsclaw had arrived and wanted to meet with us before she entered the city,” Damin told her. “As it turns out, it was false. The palace was attacked while we were gone. We're still counting the dead.”

“And Adrina?”

“We think they took her by boat,” Narvell added. “We found a rope tied to the balcony in her apartments.”

“She could have simply used the confusion to run away,” Marla suggested tartly. “I've never trusted that woman.”

Damin glared at his mother. “I've no time for your bitching, Marla. Adrina did not run away.”

R'shiel silently applauded Damin. It was about time someone put Her Royal Highness in her place. She glanced around the room that Damin had turned into his command post to avoid meeting Marla's eye. It must have been Lernen's private sanctuary. The walls were rather distractingly painted with explicit murals that depicted a variety of sexual positions, some of which R'shiel was certain were physically impossible. It seemed odd, this bustling war council being held amidst such decadent artwork.

“Where would they take her?”

“Dregian Castle lies along the coast here,” Damin said, pointing to the map laid out on the table before him. “It's a few hours away by boat, but easily navigated.”

“They'll have her there before we can mount a counter-attack,” Narvell added.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Get her back,” Damin announced matter-of-factly. His outward air of control worried R'shiel a little. The Damin she knew should have been raging like a wounded bull. It was not like him to be so level headed. He glanced at Narvell, not waiting for R'shiel's reaction. “Have you heard from Rogan yet?”

“No.”

“Damn! I'll need his troops.”

“You're going to attack Cyrus?”

Damin turned to her impatiently. “Of course I'm going to attack him!”

“You're an idiot.”

The whole room stilled as Damin slowly straightened. His eyes were terrible, his whole being radiating fury. This was the Damin she knew. The rage, the grief, the debilitating fear for Adrina was perilously close to the surface. R'shiel realised she had about a heartbeat to explain herself before Damin lost control completely.

“Don't you see? That's why they took Adrina. They want you to attack. Or to be more specific, they want your troops - and Narvell's and Rogan's - out of the city.”

Damin's shoulders relaxed a little. R'shiel breathed a sigh of relief. He was quietly murderous, but not beyond reason.

“You don't know that for certain.”

“No, but they've been rather obvious about it, don't you think? I mean, leaving the rope hanging from her balcony where you can find it? They might as well have hung out a sign. It's a trap, Damin. Cyrus wants you out of the city. Worse than that, he wants you on his territory.”

“Then I plan to see that he gets what he wants,” Damin growled.

R'shiel sighed with frustration, wishing she could make him see what was so obvious to her. “Even if you took every man you have here in Greenharbour, and Narvell's and Rogan's with them, you've got less than a thousand men. How many has Cyrus got waiting for you?”

“It won't matter.”

“The hell it won't!” she scoffed. “I don't mean to dent your precious male pride, Damin, but even you can be outnumbered. I don't care how good you think you are.”

“If you don't plan to help me, R'shiel, then get out of my way.”

“I'll help you to rescue Adrina, Damin. I'm not going to help you commit suicide.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If you attack Dregian Province, you will be invading Cyrus' province, whatever the provocation. Cyrus will defeat you, and hang your head on his walls and he'll have the full force of the law on his side, if I'm not mistaken. I imagine Adrina will live long enough to see your head fall off the block, before she joins you.”

Damin sank down in the chair behind him as the logic of what she was saying finally began to sink in.

Marla looked at R'shiel in surprise. “You have an excellent grasp of politics, demon child.”

“I had very good teachers, Your Highness.”

“The benefit of an education by the Sisterhood,” Damin remarked sourly. “You see treachery where others think only of honour. So, demon child, what do you suggest? That I leave Adrina to the mercy of my enemies?”

“Certainly not! We'll go and get her back. But we won't do it with an army at our heels.”

Damin met her eye for a moment and then nodded in understanding. “I'll organise a ship. It'll take three days by land to reach Dregian Province, and the gods know what he'll have done to her by then.”

“Then we won't go by land, or by sea, for that matter. But don't worry about Adrina being hurt. Cyrus won't harm her and she's worth nothing to him dead.” She turned to Marla. “Your Highness, can you keep up the illusion that Damin is in the palace?”

“To what purpose?”

“Cyrus undoubtedly has spies everywhere. They'll be waiting for him to move. Narvell, I suggest you and Rogan continue to muster your troops, but take your time about it. While Cyrus thinks Damin is still in Greenharbour preparing to fight, he won't be on his guard.”

“How many men should we take?” Damin asked.

“Two. You and me.”

“You can't attack Dregian Castle single-handed,” Narvell declared, aghast at her suggestion.

“I'm not going to. We shall retrieve Adrina, by stealth rather than force, before Cyrus Eaglespike knows anything about it. We shall then wait for Tejay Lionsclaw to arrive and hold the Convocation as planned.”

“And when Cyrus tries to play his hand, he will find it has slipped through his fingers,” Marla added, with undisguised admiration. “Damin, you should have married this one.”

Damin frowned at his mother but did not bother to answer her. Instead he turned to R'shiel. “How do we get out of the palace without being seen?”

“You leave that to me.”

“You worry me when you say things like that.”

She shrugged. “When shall we leave?”

Damin smiled savagely, his mood improving noticeably with the prospect of doing something useful. “Now is as good a time as any. Unless you have something better to do.” He jumped to his feet, wearing the same stupid grin he always wore when he was about to fight. It was a male thing, R'shiel reasoned. Tarja did the same thing. “Narvell, keep an eye on things while I'm gone. And don't let mother bully you.”

Marla looked as if she might protest, but Damin and R'shiel did not wait around to find out.

CHAPTER 26

“Can we get to the roof?” R'shiel asked as she stepped into the hall. Damin closed the door behind them and looked at the dagger embedded in the door. He jerked the blade free and hurled it to the floor angrily.

“Why do you want to go up on the roof?”

“Because we want to sneak out of the palace Damin, and it might be a little bit obvious if I summon a dragon in the middle of the main courtyard.”

“A dragon? You are going to summon a dragon?”

“If Dranymire agrees to it.”

“I don't know about the roof in this part of the palace, but there is a roof garden attached to the guest quarters in the west wing. Will that do?”

“I suppose.”

She followed Damin as he hurried through the debris of the attack. They were still clearing out the bodies of the guards who had died defending the palace. As they climbed the sweeping marble staircase that led to the guest apartments, they met two Raiders carrying a stretcher between them, coming down the stairs. A sheet covered the body on the stretcher, but it did not conceal the blue skirts and bloodstained slippers underneath.

“Damin!”

He glanced at the stretcher and ordered the men to halt. With some trepidation, he peeled back the cover. R'shiel let out a small cry of anguish as she saw who lay beneath it.

“Gods,” Damin muttered. “Tamylan never deserved such a fate.”

“Tam was Adrina's best friend.”

“She was just a slave, R'shiel,” Damin corrected, gently replacing the sheet and waving the men on.

“She was still Adrina's best friend.”

Damin nodded grimly. “Come. We have another reason now to deal with Lord Eaglespike.”

When they reached the second landing, R'shiel discovered Mikel sitting on the stairs, tears streaming down his face. R'shiel knelt down beside him, ignoring Damin's impatient sigh.

“Mikel? Are you hurt?”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry, my Lady...”

“Sorry? For what? This wasn't your fault.”

“We heard them... me and Tamylan... we were bringing the Princess her dinner. We saw the men in the hall and Tamylan ran at them. She told me to hide. So I did.”

“Then you've nothing to be ashamed of, Mikel.”

“But Tamylan's dead and all I did was hide!” he wailed. “Now all these people are dead... and I don't where Jaymes is...”

R'shiel glanced up at Damin helplessly. She had no idea what to say to the child.

Although she could tell Damin was consumed with impatience, he squatted down beside the boy. “Mikel! Look at me!”

Unable to ignore Damin's commanding tone, Mikel wiped his eyes and turned to the Warlord. “Every man under my command knows how to follow orders, even when they don't like them. I don't expect to find them sitting about crying over it afterwards, either.”

“No, sir,” Mikel replied weakly.

“As for your brother, he's alive and well. He was with the party I took to meet Lady Lionsclaw.”

Mikel brightened considerably at the news. “He was?”

“Yes, he was. Now, pull yourself together, lad, and get your arse down to Captain Almodavar and tell him I said to find you something useful to do. We need every man we've got at the moment and I don't have time for you to sit here bawling like a baby.”

“No, sir.” Mikel squared his shoulders and smiled tentatively at Damin. “Are you going to rescue the Princess, my Lord?”

“If I don't keep getting distracted,” he agreed, with an impatient glance at R'shiel.

She smiled at Mikel, then on impulse she summoned the little demon who seemed so fond of getting Mikel into trouble. He started as the creature popped into existence beside him.

“The demon will stay with you, Mikel, until we get back. But you mustn't tell anybody that we've gone.”

Mikel stared at it for a moment then turned to R'shiel. The demon chittered at him unhappily, sensing the child's misery. “What's his name?”

“She doesn't have a name yet. Maybe you can help her think of one.”

He nodded and sniffed back the last of his tears.

“Off you go, boy,” Damin ordered. He was chafing at the delay.

Mikel fled without another word, the little grey demon tumbling down the stairs in his wake. R'shiel watched them go and then turned to Damin with a smile.

“You handled him very well.”

“You gave him a pet demon.”

She shrugged. “It'll keep him company.”

He stared at her for a moment and then shook his head. “Come on. And I don't care what we find on the next landing, we're not stopping.”

The roof garden was a riot of greenery, intricately laid out paths and fountains that filled the night with their musical splashing. Damin led her to the paved clearing in the centre of the garden and glanced up at the starlit sky.

“Another few weeks and the rains will start.”

“A pity they aren't here now. We could do with a bit of cloud cover.”

“Can't you make us invisible?”

“I'm not even sure how to ride a dragon, Damin.”

“But you said —”

“I know what I said. I wish Brak were here.”

Damin glanced at her for a moment then shook his head. “You really are a bit of a fraud, aren't you?”

“I'm the biggest fraud in the whole world. I have no idea what I'm doing and only the vaguest idea of what I'm supposed to be doing. I just have to hope that if I keep pretending long enough, I'll figure out what's going on.” She frowned then, turning to look at him. “I have to leave soon, Damin. You don't need me to take your throne for you. You have Adrina. She's actually a lot better at politics than I am.”

“You seem to get by,” he noted with a faint grin.

“I've Joyhinia to thank for that.”

Damin wasn't sure how to answer that, so he turned and looked up at the sky again. “Summon your demons, demon child. I'm sure the gods will watch over us.”

She frowned, wondering if she should mention that his assurance gave her little comfort. Then another thought occurred to her - something that should have been dealt with, long before this.

“Damin, there's something you should probably know. About Adrina.”

“What about her?”

“She's pregnant.”

“I know.”

“You know? Who told you? Marla?”

He smiled smugly. “I am neither blind nor stupid R'shiel. And I can count.”

“Why didn't you say something?”

“It was more fun watching Adrina trying to work up the courage to tell me herself.”

“You can be a real bastard, Damin Wolfblade. You don't deserve her.”

He sighed, suddenly serious. “No, I think we actually deserve each other.”

“Then you admit you feel something for her?”

“When I heard she'd been kidnapped, I thought I would die, R'shiel,” he admitted, albeit with some reluctance. “I've never felt that way about anyone before.”

“Not even your horse?” she asked.

“My horse?”

“It's something Adrina said once. That the only thing you truly cared about was your horse.”

Damin thought for a moment and then smiled. “No, I think I actually care about her more.”

“Well make sure you tell her when we get her back. I'm sick to death of you two. Everyone's life would be considerably easier if you devoted all that effort to making peace instead of war.”

Dranymire responded almost instantly to her summons, although he seemed unimpressed when she explained what she wanted of him.

“Riding a dragon is a skill that takes a great deal of time to learn, R'shiel,” he warned in his deep voice. “You can't just hop on and hope for the best.”

“But we need to get to Dregian Castle. Tonight. It's three days by road and they'll see us coming from leagues away if we take a ship.”

“Getting there late is better than not getting there at all.”

“Please, Dranymire.”

The little demon cast his liquid eyes over Damin and frowned. “I suppose you want us to carry him, too?”

“Yes.”

“When next you are at Sanctuary, Your Highness, you and I need to have a long discussion regarding the nature of the relationship between demons and the Harshini. Specifically, the wanton use of demon melds.”

“And I promise I'll listen to every word. But right now, I need a dragon.”

“You need some discipline,” the demon corrected loftily. “However, I am in the mood to indulge you, and there are a number of my brethren who will benefit from the experience.”

“Thank you,” she said with relief, bending down to kiss his wrinkled grey forehead. “I won't forget this.”

“Neither will I,” the demon promised, somewhat ominously.

They stepped back as more demons began to materialise and gather around Dranymire. R'shiel quickly lost count of them. The demons bonded to the té Ortyn family were among the oldest and most numerous of all the brethren, which accounted for the size and stature of the dragon they could form. She watched in fascination as the meld began, demons flowing into each other almost too fast for the eye to take in.

The dragon grew before her until its wings blocked out the stars.

“Climb on, Your Highness, and try not to fall off.”

R'shiel used the dragon's leg as a step and pulled herself up, surprised at how warm the metallic scales felt under her hands. Damin clambered up and settled himself behind her, his arms around her waist. R'shiel tried to find something to hold onto, but there was nothing.

“You must grip with your thighs,” Dranymire informed her. “Riding a dragon is simply a question of balance.”

“Balance,” she repeated dubiously, seriously doubting her wisdom in deciding to use a dragon to rescue Adrina. She glanced over her shoulder at Damin. “You ready?”

“I suppose.”

Dranymire must have heard him. A gust of warm wind rushed over them as the dragon beat its powerful wings and lifted them into the darkness.

CHAPTER 27

Dregian Castle grew out of a promontory that jutted into the ocean like an upright sword buried hilt-down in the white chalk cliffs. It was a tall, narrow structure, more tower than keep, its white stone pitted and yellowed by years of being assaulted by the corrosive sea air. Unlike Krakandar, the main city of Dregian Province was some distance away from the castle, crowded around a small bay eight leagues to the east of the keep.

Dranymire landed near the woods that ringed a vast open field of cleared ground surrounding the fortress, just as dawn was feeling its way over the horizon.

R'shiel climbed down stiffly from the dragon, her thighs aching from the effort of keeping her seat. Damin appeared to have fared no better than she as he stumbled to the ground. The two of them hobbled about for a few moments, trying to work out the knots in their muscles. Dranymire seemed highly amused by their plight.

“As I said, Your Highness, riding a dragon is a skill that takes years to acquire.”

“I didn't fall off. Give me some credit.”

The dragon lowered its head and studied her with his plate-sized eyes. “Yes. You managed that much. Did you want me to wait for you?”

“For me, yes. Damin's probably going to have to return to Greenharbour by more conventional means once we've found Adrina.”

“I shall await your summons, Your Highness.”

Looking rather relieved that he would not have to repeat the journey, Damin caught up with R'shiel as she stumbled down the small slope to the open ground below.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm off to rescue your wife.”

“What are you going to do? March up to the drawbridge and knock?”

“Pretty much.”

“R'shiel!”

She stopped and turned back to him. “What?”

“You can't do that!”

“Why not?” She smiled at his expression. “Stop thinking with your sword, Damin. We can't storm the place, so we have to get them to let us in. Once we're inside, I can deal with any opposition.”

“You're not even armed.”

“There you go, thinking with your sword again.” She resumed walking, pleased to discover the exercise was beginning to loosen the stiffness from her thighs. Damin ran to catch up with her.

“So what are you planning to do?” he demanded, falling into step beside her.

“Two people walking across a field are no threat to the castle. Even if you're recognised, they'll be so surprised you came alone, that they won't do anything straight away. At worst they'll send for Cyrus.”

“And what do you think he's going to do?”

“Nothing. By the time we're inside, it won't make a difference.”

“You're going to use magic then?” he asked, rather sceptically.

“Of course.”

“But you don't know what you're doing. You admitted as much before we left Greenharbour. You might accidentally harm Adrina.”

“I did learn something at Sanctuary, Damin.”

“Not nearly enough, from what I've seen so far.”

“Trust me.”

“I hate people who say that.”

She grinned at him. “Stop worrying about me and start thinking about how you're going to apologise to Adrina.”

“Apologise? Why should I apologise?”

“Because she deserves one. And besides, an apology is always a good way to make a woman listen to you.”

“And when did you become such an expert on affairs of the heart? You're a child. And a spoiled one, at that.”

“I'm the demon child. I'm omnipotent.”

“I hope you never actually begin to believe that, R'shiel.”

She glanced at him, her grin fading. “So do I.”

The castle was just beginning to waken as they reached it. With an ear-piercing squeal, the gates swung open and they hastily stepped back to let a troop of Raiders thunder past them, heavily armed and armoured. They were too intent on their own business to notice the couple standing in the shadow of the castle wall. Damin watched them leave, his brow furrowed.

“They're getting ready to fight.”

“What did I tell you? Cyrus has probably got his borders lined five deep in Raiders, waiting for you to attack.”

“I hate people who say, 'I told you so', almost as much as people who say 'trust me'.”

She smiled. “Come on. Let's get inside before they close the gates again.”

R'shiel carefully opened herself up to the power as they entered the cool dimness of the short tunnel that led to the iron-studded gates. She had seen Brak attempt this once and hoped she remembered how it was done. She wove the glamour clumsily as they moved forward, but somewhat to her astonishment, the guards on duty paid them no attention as they walked boldly into the small yard that surrounded the tall white tower. Damin glanced at her in surprise when they were not challenged, nodding in understanding when he noticed her black eyes.

“So we're inside,” he whispered. “What now?”

“There's no need for whispering, Damin. They cannot see us or hear us.”

“Are you sure?”

“Almost.”

Unconvinced, Damin glanced up at the tower. “She'll be in there, I suppose.”

“Great deductive reasoning, Lord Wolfblade. Where else would she be?” R'shiel ignored the look he gave her and looked up with a frown. “How much do you want to bet she's right at the top and we're going to have to climb about a million steps to get there?”

They let themselves into the tower through the main hall, which was littered with the remnants of the previous evening's festivities. The slaves were starting to stir from their places near the cooking hearths, rubbing bleary eyes as they yawned themselves into wakefulness. A few of the more alert slaves were already up and about, righting overturned stools and clearing away dishes stained with congealed fat and limp vegetable remains.

“Looks like it was quite a party,” R'shiel remarked.

“Cyrus would have feasted his troops before he sent them out.”

She glanced around the hall, at the low, vaulted ceiling and the rough stone floor. “This place is pretty old, isn't it?”

“It's one of the oldest structures in Hythria,” he agreed. “It predates Greenharbour, I think.”

“Then it probably has dungeons.”

“I suppose.”

“Then we'll check them first.”

“Cyrus wouldn't dare throw Adrina in a dungeon.”

“No, you wouldn't dare. Cyrus doesn't care about Adrina, one way or the other. Besides, I've spent all night clinging to a dragon with my thighs. My legs are killing me. I really don't want to climb all the way to the top of this place, just to find out she's a few steps below us. We check the dungeons first.”

Damin nodded his agreement, probably just as sore and stiff as she was. He pointed to a door that led off the hall by the second hearth. R'shiel followed him, stepping over a number of sleeping bodies along the way. She looked about her, unable to entirely believe that the glamour she had drawn around them was actually working.

They made their way down a narrow corridor that curved around the tower and led to another door at the end, this one reinforced with bands of iron. Damin pushed it open slowly, wincing as the hinges squealed in protest.

“They might not hear us,” Damin hissed. “But they're bound to hear that.”

“Keep going. If they come to investigate, they'll just think the door hadn't been latched properly.”

Damin obviously did not share her confidence, but he led the way forward, down a set of damp, narrow steps that reached into the darkness. R'shiel kept her hand on the wall, making her way by feel more than sight. The stone was slimy under her fingers, and in the distance she could hear the faint rush of the ocean as it pounded against the castle's foundations.

She bumped into Damin when he stopped abruptly, pointing to a spill of yellow light coming from the bottom of the stairs. She nodded silently, falling victim to Damin's desire for stealth, even though, protected by the glamour, there was no need for it. They reached the bottom and stepped into another narrow passage, this one lined by barred cells and lit by fitfully sputtering torches. There were guards at the other end of the passage, squatting on the floor, engrossed in their game. The air was surprisingly fresh, heavy with the smell of the ocean and the waves crashing against the cliffs seemed even louder. A faint breeze whispered past them and R'shiel realised that there must be an opening down here that led to the sea. If they had brought Adrina here by boat, then there was a good chance this was the way she had come. With luck, they hadn't bothered to take her any further.

“You check the cells on the left,” Damin told her. “I'll take the right.”

R'shiel nodded and moved to the first cell, which proved empty. The next housed a sleeping man wearing a shirt tattered by the lash. The third cell she checked also contained a sleeping prisoner, but whether male or female, R'shiel could not tell from the rags piled on the damp floor.

“Adrina!”

Damin's cry made her jump, and she looked at the guards nervously, reminding herself that they could not hear him. She hurried to his side. Adrina was sitting on the floor of the fourth cell on the right, her knees drawn up under her chin, rocking backward and forward on the damp, cold floor, as tears streamed silently down her face. There was a nasty bruise on her jaw and her lip was puffy and split. Her silken gown was muddied and torn, her hair in disarray. Her wounds appeared superficial, though, and the tears were more likely to be for Tamylan than herself. Adrina was not the self-pitying type. But R'shiel had never seen anyone looking quite so miserable.

“Adrina!” Damin called again, grabbing at the bars in anguish.

“She can't hear you, Damin.”

“Where are the keys?”

“The guards have them, I imagine.”

“I'll get them,” he announced, reaching for his sword.

“No, you stay here. I'll get them.”

She walked to the end of the passage and watched the guards for a moment as they wagered on the fall of two crudely carved die. There were three men, all of them lacking the spit and polish of fighting troops. The guard nearest the wall carried a bunch of keys on his belt. She frowned. They may not be able to see her, but they would notice the keys detaching themselves and floating up the hall.

R'shiel did not want to kill the guards. Doing so would alert Cyrus to their presence. It was possible that the Lord of Dregian Province would have no need to check on Adrina until he thought Damin was ready to attack. With luck, Adrina's escape might go unnoticed for the rest of the day, even longer, if the guards paid little attention to their charges. But whatever she did, she would have to let go of the glamour. Strong she might be, but she was not accomplished enough to do two things at once.

“R'shiel! Hurry!”

She ignored Damin's impatient plea and stepped into the shadows. With infinite care she let the glamour that made them invisible slip from her grasp. As it left her, she concentrated on the gaming soldiers, willing them to sleep. They fell so quickly, she was afraid she had killed them.

Not sure how long unconsciousness would hold the men, she hurriedly removed the keys from the belt of the snoring guard. She ran back to Damin and began trying the keys in the lock.

Adrina glanced up at the sound, able to see them now the glamour was gone, although it took a moment for her to realise who was standing at the door to her cell.

“Damin?”

“Adrina!” he cried anxiously, then turned to R'shiel. “Hurry up!”

“I am hurrying,” she snapped as the lock turned on the fourth key she tried. Damin pushed roughly past her into the cell as soon as the lock snicked open. Adrina flew into his arms, sobbing. He held her so tightly, he lifted her clear off the ground. Then he was kissing her forehead, her neck, her eyes, anywhere he could reach. When he kissed her mouth she cried out in pain and pushed him away.

“Founders, Damin! She's been punched in the mouth.” R'shiel glared at him as he let Adrina go. She examined the wound for a moment, deciding it could wait before she healed it. That way, Damin might show a little self-control. “Any other injuries we can't see?”

Adrina shook her head, wiping her eyes.

“What about the baby?” Adrina's eyes widened and she stared at Damin in horror. “Don't worry about him. He knows. Is the baby all right?”

The Princess nodded mutely.

“Fine, then let's get out of here.”

R'shiel led the way from the cell then turned impatiently to find they weren't following her. Instead, they stood in the centre of the dim dungeon, locked in an embrace that was as touching as it was inconvenient.

“We don't have time for this!” R'shiel warned as one of the guards began to stir.

Damin reluctantly let Adrina go. R'shiel let out an exasperated curse and turned towards the stairs. The sound of footsteps changed her mind and she hurriedly turned the other way, pushing Damin and Adrina ahead of her, past the sleeping guards. An archway on the far side of the guardroom proved to be the source of the chill ocean breeze. R'shiel pointed to it urgently.

“Down there! I'll follow in a minute.”

They needed no further urging. R'shiel ran back to Adrina's empty cell and locked the door, then returned the keys to the belt of the sleeping guard, smiling to herself. Let them figure that one out.

The footsteps drew closer on the stairs and the guard stirred again as she stepped away from him. She glanced around, satisfied that there was no other evidence of their passage and disappeared into the darkness of the archway.

Adrina and Damin were waiting for her. As she suspected, the stairs finished at a small dock, carved into the living rock at the base of the castle. Unfortunately, the dock was empty.

“Now what?” Damin asked, holding Adrina close.

“We need a boat.”

“Great deductive reasoning, demon child.”

She loftily ignored the jibe and turned her attention to the thrashing sea. Even if they had a boat, she didn't like their chances of navigating their way clear of the rocks.

“What's the name of the God of the Oceans?”

“Kaelarn,” Damin told her. “Why?”

“I think we're going to need his help.”

“You are going to summon a god and you don't even know his name?”

“Got any better ideas?” When neither of them answered her she turned back to face the thrashing ocean. “Kaelarn!”

The ocean surged below them. Cold spray showered them as the waves swelled. Out of the steely depths a figure appeared, vaguely human in form, but shaped from the sea itself. It rose out of the surf until it loomed over them. R'shiel had to strain her neck to look up at him.

“So the demon child has need of me,” Kaelarn boomed wetly. He had the most unpleasant voice R'shiel had ever heard. It was like someone talking through a bucket of water. She fervently hoped nobody else could hear him.

“We need to get away from this place. We need a boat.”

“A boat? You have demons to meld boats for you, demon child.”

R'shiel glanced over her shoulder as shouts drifted down from the guardroom. The sleeping guards had been discovered. It was only a matter of time before Adrina's absence was noted.

“A meld will take too long.”

“You wish to aid these humans, I presume?” he asked, pointing a watery arm at Damin and Adrina.

“Yes.”

“Is this part of your task to defeat Xaphista, or merely a whim?”

“It is most definitely part of my task.”

“Then I shall aid you, demon child. However, I cannot conjure up a boat. Perhaps this will suffice.”

With a tremendous splash, Kaelarn returned to the ocean. The sea churned and boiled as the god vanished. R'shiel looked about her in frustration. Kaelarn had disappeared and the sea was still facing them, churning savagely as it ate at the rock beneath the castle.

“Well, he was a big help,” she muttered in annoyance.

“R'shiel! Look!” Adrina suddenly cried in delight.

Out of the foaming waves, three red-grey creatures approached, their large dorsal fins slicing through the water. Just like the creature in the fountain in Greenharbour, they had long, elegant tails ending in broad, flipper-like paddles. Their wide-set intelligent eyes looked straight at them as they surfed towards the dock. R'shiel had grown up in landlocked Medalon. She had never seen anything like them before.

“What are they?”

“Water dragons!”

“Are they dangerous?”

Damin laughed at her expression. “No. They're called the 'fisherman's friends'. We can ride them.”

“Ride them?”

The water dragons edged their way to the dock as the shouting in the guardroom grew louder. Without hesitating, Damin and Adrina slipped into the water and climbed aboard the creatures, grabbing hold of their dorsal fins.

“I can't swim, Damin.”

“Come on! You don't baulk at riding dragons.”

With another glance over her shoulder at the stairs to the guardroom, R'shiel decided she didn't have time to be squeamish. She slipped into the water, gasping as the chill salty ocean filled her mouth. She began to panic as the waves crashed over her, then a warm, solid body pushed her clear of the foam. She grabbed for the beast's fin and pulled herself upright as it plunged through the waves in the wake of the creatures carrying Adrina and Damin.

R'shiel clung to the beast in terror as the castle dwindled in the distance, determined never, as long as she lived, to ask another god for his help again.

CHAPTER 28

Just on sunset, at R'shiel's insistence, the water dragons left them on a small beach not far from Greenharbour. It was partly because she wanted to give Adrina a chance to recover from her ordeal, and partly because she wanted to get out of the water and back on dry land where she felt she had some control over things. Damin had built a small fire and dried out their clothes and had gone in search of fresh water.

R'shiel healed Adrina's split lip with a touch and watched the bruise on her jaw fade before placing her hand on Adrina's stomach. She could feel the life there, strong and resilient.

“Can you tell if it's a boy or a girl?” Adrina asked hopefully.

“I'm the demon child, Adrina, not a prophet.”

“With my luck it will be a girl.”

R'shiel looked at her curiously, as she let go of her power. “What's so bad about that?”

“You have to be born Fardohnyan to understand.”

“Your child will be the heir to Hythria, Adrina. They don't suffer the same prejudice against women.”

“Maybe not, but it irks me to think I was never worthy of my father's throne, simply because I had the misfortune to be born a girl.”

“Is that why you're so annoyed that the throne will fall to Damin?”

She smiled wanly. “No. That just annoys me on principle.”

“He was ready to go to war over you, Adrina. In fact, he may still have to.”

Adrina sighed forlornly. “I didn't really think he'd come for me, you know. Or if he did, he'd come charging over Cyrus' borders like some avenging god and play right into his enemies' hands. I suppose I have you to thank for the fact that he didn't.”

R'shiel sat back on her heels, but she did not confirm or deny Adrina's suspicions.

“You told him about the baby, didn't you? That explains why he came for me.”

“He already knew about it, Adrina. And I don't think it made the slightest bit of difference. Damin would have come for you, no matter what.”

The Princess shook her head, as if she didn't believe it was possible. R'shiel felt like slapping her.

“There's a spring not far from here,” Damin called, striding across the white sand towards them. “I'm afraid I've nothing to carry the water in, though.”

R'shiel glared at him. “Use Adrina's head. It's hollow enough!”

Damin stared at her in shock. “What?”

Adrina climbed to her feet, brushing the sand from her tattered skirts. “R'shiel is angry with me. And you too, I think. That's just her way of expressing it.”

“What did I do?” Damin asked, full of wounded innocence. R'shiel felt like screaming.

“Nothing!” she snapped. “Nothing at all! That's the whole point.”

“Look, if I did something to make you angry, don't take it out on Adrina.”

“I don't need you to stand up for me, Damin Wolfblade,” Adrina interjected. “I can take care of myself, thank you.”

“Why shouldn't I take it out on Adrina?” R'shiel asked, ignoring the Princess as if she wasn't there. “It's not as if you care.”

“What are you talking about? You know damned well I care what happens to her! What's the matter with you?”

“Since when did you give a damn about me?” Adrina demanded, turning on Damin.

“Since when did you give a damn about me?” Damin retorted, forgetting R'shiel momentarily.

“How can you say that?” Adrina cried angrily. “I've done everything you asked of me and more!”

“What have you ever done besides flaunt your royal superiority?”

“What have you ever done for me? You held me prisoner! You accused me of trying to murder your uncle. You kept me collared like a slave just for the sheer hell of it! And then you took advantage of me!”

R'shiel knew of Adrina's impressive temper, but it was the first time she had seen it in full flight since the morning Cratyn had tried to kill her. She stepped back from the couple with a faint smile and sat down on the cool white sand to watch the show. They had forgotten she existed.

“I took advantage of you?” Damin gasped in disbelief. “You devious little bitch. You came over the border dressed as a court'esa and spent the whole time acting like one! Ask Tarja if you don't believe me. You were all over him like a wet blanket any time he got within five paces of you.”

R'shiel hadn't known about that, but she found herself more amused than jealous at the idea. Poor Tarja. Fancy having to fight off Adrina when she was determined to seduce him.

“At least he treated me like a Princess! You treated me like a court'esa! You kept me collared and bound as if I was bought and paid for.”

“Oh, I've paid for you, Adrina,” Damin said with feeling.

“You think so? I've suffered the insults of your wretched mother. I've entertained your brutish Warlords. I've been kidnapped and beaten and locked in a dungeon. Even my slave was killed because of your damned throne. I've given up my whole life for you, you ungrateful bastard!”

“You manage to act in a civilised manner at a few dinner parties and that's supposed to justify the fact that I'm facing a damned civil war because of you?”

“I didn't cause your measly little war! The miracle is that you haven't gone and gotten yourself killed before now!”

“Well, maybe you'll get lucky again, Adrina, and I will be killed. Then you can go and find some other poor unsuspecting sod to marry you and give you a crown.”

The crack as Adrina slapped Damin's face echoed along the deserted beach with startling clarity. The argument stopped abruptly as Damin stared at her in shock. Even Adrina looked stunned that she had hit him.

For a long moment they stared at each other, not saying a word.

“I'm sorry,” the Princess said finally, drawing herself up with regal poise. “I shouldn't have done that.”

Damin hesitated for a moment then shrugged, rubbing the handprint that stood out against his tan in the twilight. “No. You don't owe me an apology, Adrina. I shouldn't have said what I did.”

“I still shouldn't have hit you,” she insisted.

“It could have been worse,” Damin replied, with a hint of a grin. “You might have been armed.”

Adrina's eyes blazed dangerously for a few seconds, then she took a deep breath, visibly bringing her anger under control. “You're lucky I wasn't,” she agreed. Then, with a tentative smile, she added, “I really don't want to be a widow again so soon.”

“No?”

“No.”

They said nothing for a time, the silence loaded with unspoken tension. R'shiel waited expectantly, then rolled her eyes. “Oh, for Founders' sake!”

They both turned to stare at her in horror.

“Do you mind?” Adrina asked, quite put out that she had witnessed their altercation. “This is private.”

“Actually, they could probably hear you back in Greenharbour. But don't let me interrupt you. You appear to be enjoying yourselves immensely.”

“R'shiel, do you think you could maybe... go away for a while?” Damin asked, a little more cautiously.

“Are you going to stop shouting at each other? I might as well stay here if I can still hear you anywhere in a five-league radius.”

Adrina looked at Damin searchingly then turned to R'shiel. “I think I've done all the shouting I need to for the time being. Would you mind, R'shiel? I think we have a few things to sort out.”

“That's something of an understatement,” she agreed.

“Why don't we go and find that spring?” Damin suggested. “I could do with something to drink.”

“You go on ahead,” R'shiel told them. “I'll see you later.”

Damin offered Adrina his hand and she took it willingly. With barely a backward glance they walked away, hand in hand.

“They make such a nice couple, don't they?”

R'shiel jumped at the unexpected voice and turned to find Kalianah sitting on the sand beside her.

“I wish you wouldn't just appear like that! Can't you warn me first?”

“What would you prefer? A fanfare?” The Goddess of Love was in her favourite form: a little girl. The slight breeze stirred her fair hair and she was smiling wistfully as she watched Damin and Adrina walk along the shoreline.

“Did you have anything to do with that?” R'shiel asked suspiciously.

“Much as I would like to have interfered, demon child, Damin Wolfblade belongs to Zegarnald. He takes a very dim view of other gods meddling with his followers. They did that all on their own. I'm afraid I can't claim any credit at all.”

Her words reminded R'shiel of something that she had forgotten until now. “Kali, have you seen Dace lately?”

“No. He's sulking, I think.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. Why do you ask? You're not thinking of becoming one of his followers, are you?”

R'shiel laughed at the mere suggestion that she would ever worship any of the creatures that the Harshini called gods. “Hardly. It's just something Damin mentioned a while back. He wanted to know if anyone had been stealing his followers.”

“With Dacendaran, it's usually the other way around,” Kalianah chuckled. “I can ask him if you like. Is it important?”

“I don't really know. Who would want to steal his people anyway?”

“All of us,” the goddess told her. “It's sort of a game, really. Particularly for gods like Dacendaran and Zegarnald.”

“What do you mean?”

Kalianah looked surprised that she had to explain it. “Life can't exist without love, which is why the others tolerate me more than most. But you can be human and not be a thief or a warrior. So gods like Dace and Zeggi have to work a bit harder to keep their people.”

“What would happen if nobody believed in the gods any more?”

“I don't know. I guess we'd fade away into the background. You can't kill a Primal God. To kill me, you would have to stop love. While ever there's a fox trying to steal eggs from a nest, or two rams willing to fight over a ewe, Dacendaran and Zegarnald will survive. But the Incidental Gods need humans. They need someone to acknowledge their existence, or they cease to exist.”

“So all I have to do to defeat Xaphista is make a few million Kariens deny his existence?”

“Basically,” Kalianah agreed. “How are you going to do that?”

“I have no idea,” the demon child admitted with a shrug.

CHAPTER 29

Once Damin and Adrina were out of sight, Kalianah lost interest in them and vanished without warning. With an impatient sigh, R'shiel scrambled up the sandy bank behind her and made her way through the trees, following her instincts rather than any set path. The night was bright, but even without the moonlight she would have found what she was looking for. Before long she came to a large clearing where Dranymire and the demon-meld rested, still in dragon form. He opened his eyes at her approach and studied her quizzically.

“You said you would call for me.”

“Things got a bit out of hand. I had to call on Kaelarn.”

The dragon shook its massive head. “That is beginning to develop into a dangerous habit, Your Highness.”

“Don't worry, after being dragged through the ocean on the back of a water dragon, I'll think twice before I call on the gods again,” she assured him.

“Your mission was successful, then?”

“Very. Now I need your help again.”

“I live to serve, Your Highness.”

R'shiel frowned at the dragon, certain he was mocking her.

“Can you get a message back to Greenharbour? To Kalan?”

“The High Arrion? Not directly. But we can speak to Glenanaran, and he can pass on your message.”

“Tell her where Damin and Adrina are. Ask her to send a carriage. Preferably one that's closed, so that they can return to the city without being seen.”

“And you?”

“I don't think the answers I need are here in Hythria, so I want to get back to Medalon, and the only way I can do that is make sure Damin's throne is secure. I'm going to find the elusive Tejay Lionsclaw.”

The dragon closed its enormous eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “Your message is being delivered as we speak, Your Highness. If you would like to climb on, we can be on our way.”

“How can you have sent the message already?”

“Not all the té Ortyn demons are part of the dragon meld. I have sent Polanymire to Greenharbour on my behalf. Did you expect me to deliver your message personally?”

“No, it's just... I thought...”

“You thought what?”

“Nothing... I just haven't worked out this demon-meld thing yet, I think. Do you suppose Brak has had any luck with Hablet in Fardohnya?”

“The demons say not.”

“Damn,” she muttered impatiently. “This is what I get for thinking everything was starting to go according to plan.”

“You actually have a plan then?” the dragon asked.

He was definitely mocking her now. “As a matter of fact, I do. But first I need Damin confirmed as High Prince. And I need to make sure Hythria is allied with Fardohnya. After we've tracked down the Warlord of Sunrise Province, I suppose we'll have to go to Fardohnya. Anyway, I've a feeling I'll need Brak's help once I get to the Citadel.”

“Then that is what we shall do.”

“But what about Damin and Adrina?”

“Staying with them now will serve no purpose if they do not get the aid they need, Your Highness.”

She nodded, aware that he was right, but feeling a little guilty for abandoning them, nonetheless.

“Can you send a demon to check on them? To see if they're all right?”

“They are in no danger here. But I suppose we can ascertain that they haven't killed each other.”

“That's very big of you, Dranymire.”

The demon did not appreciate her tone. “I could just as easily not send one of the brethren to check on them, demon child.”

“I'm sorry.”

“As you should be. Now, unless you plan to spend the night in this insect-infested swamp, I suggest you climb aboard and we shall find your lost Warlord.”

With some misgiving, R'shiel pulled herself up and settled herself between the dragon's massive wings. As Dranymire and the meld lifted into the sky, she wondered if she should have told Damin and Adrina that she was leaving. She decided it wouldn't matter. Help was on the way, and Dranymire's demon would keep an eye on them until it arrived.

Besides, they probably wouldn't even notice she was missing.

She found Tejay Lionsclaw just on dawn. From her vantage on the dragon's back, R'shiel could make out the dying fires of her campsite. Her column was camped for the night on a plain some thirty leagues from Greenharbour. Dranymire saw them and swooped downward so swiftly that R'shiel almost lost her seat.

The dragon landed in the middle of the camp, scattering cook fires and startled Raiders with equal contempt. Tejay Lionsclaw emerged from her tent, clutching a sword that R'shiel doubted she could even lift. Tall and well muscled, with thick blonde hair, the Warlord of Sunrise Province was a handsome woman. Behind her emerged a boy of about fifteen, clutching the hand of an even younger girl, who was rubbing her eyes sleepily.

“Who are you?” Tejay demanded belligerently.

“I am R'shiel té Ortyn. I am the demon child.”

Tejay studied her for a moment then held up her hand to halt the suddenly nervous troops who were advancing on them.

“The demon child? That's a legend we tell to frighten children.”

“It works pretty well on grown men, too,” R'shiel noted, glancing around at the men who were staring with undisguised terror at the dragon.

Tejay planted the sword on the ground in front of her and stared at R'shiel for a moment before glancing up at the dragon. “I suppose I must believe you, considering you arrived on the back of a dragon.”

“I thought it might save a lot of explanations.”

“Then you are sadly mistaken, demon child. Nobody lands in my camp in such a fashion without providing an explanation.”

“I come on behalf of Damin Wolfblade. Cyrus Eaglespike has laid claim to the High Prince's throne.”

“That doesn't surprise me, somehow. I've had a great deal of correspondence from him lately.” Suddenly the Warlord smiled and sheathed her sword. “I've so many of his damned pigeons in my roosts that I was tempted to throw them into the cooking pot. Come, let's talk inside.”

She led the way to her tent, where the boy and girl stood wide-eyed at the entrance, staring at R'shiel's dragon. Dranymire was quite enjoying the effect he was having, R'shiel decided, although she wasn't sure if his smug expression was real, or if she was simply imagining it.

“Divine One, this is my son Valorian and his wife Bayla.”

R'shiel thought the pair too young to be out alone at night, let alone married. She looked at Bayla curiously, but could see nothing of her father, Cyrus Eaglespike, in her. The youngsters bowed hastily as she passed them, following Tejay into the tent.

“Can I offer you refreshment, Divine One?” the Warlord asked, indicating with a wave of her arm that R'shiel should sit. She sank down onto the scattered silk cushions gratefully, her thighs still quivering from riding the dragon.

“Thank you. And you don't have to call me Divine One, my Lady. My name is R'shiel.”

“Very well, R'shiel. You may call me Tejay. Bayla!”

Her daughter-in-law's face appeared meekly through the embroidered hangings on the tent. “My Lady?”

“Make yourself useful for once and fetch us some breakfast.” When Bayla disappeared behind the curtain, Tejay sat down opposite R'shiel with a sigh. “If there is one thing I cannot abide, it is simpering females. And that girl has it down to a fine art.”

“Then why did you let her marry your son?”

“Because she came with a dowry that not even I could ignore. In hindsight, I suppose it had more to do with Cyrus Eaglespike's plans for the throne, than any great love for his daughter.”

“He expects you to support him.”

“Then he has badly misjudged me. I am not so easily bought. I owe Damin Wolfblade for my province and for saving me from the necessity of marrying a man I did not love. That means more to me than a large dowry and an insipid daughter-in-law.”

R'shiel smiled. Perhaps things were still going according to plan.

“Does Cyrus know how you feel?”

“I'm not given to artfulness, R'shiel. I have made no secret of where my loyalties lie.”

“Then you need to be aware of what has happened over the past few days. Cyrus used your name to lure Damin out of Greenharbour, then kidnapped his wife.”

“The Fardohnyan?”

“Princess Adrina.”

“It was unwise of him to take a Fardohnyan wife,” the Warlord said with a frown. “It gave me pause for a time. In fact it came close to costing Damin my loyalty. Fardohnyans killed my husband and I cannot count the people I have lost to them since.”

“His marriage to Adrina will bring peace.”

“Then the peace had better be accompanied by substantial reparation,” Tejay warned. “So, where do things stand now? Is Damin preparing to attack Cyrus?”

“No. We managed to retrieve his wife by... other means. They'll be back in Greenharbour by now.”

“And what of Lords Foxtalon, Bearbow and Falconlance? I've no doubt Narvell Hawksword stands with his half-brother.”

“Rogan Bearbow is on Damin's side. Foxtalon and Falconlance are still allied with Cyrus.”

“Then with my vote, Damin has a majority. Foxtalon will change sides as soon as he realises he's backed a loser, but Eaglespike and Falconlance will not give up so easily. And they have the advantage. Their provinces make up most of the south. We outnumber them in theory, but it will be months before we can muster an army sufficient to defeat them. Our troops are spread out all over Hythria.”

“Cyrus is already prepared for war.”

“You can bet Falconlance is too. The city of Greenharbour might be neutral territory, but it is surrounded by Greenharbour Province - and that is owned, lock, stock and barrel, by Conin Falconlance.”

“Then Greenharbour is likely to fall under siege?”

“You can wager on it.”

R'shiel thought for a moment, trying to think of a way to get the scattered armies of Krakandar, Sunrise, Elasapine, Izcomdar and Pentamor (assuming Tejay was right about Lord Foxtalon) mustered. With a sigh, R'shiel decided Tejay was correct in her assessment. It would take far too long.

Damn it! I don't have time for this! R'shiel fought back the feeling that this entire trip to Hythria had been a waste of time. She was no closer to finding a way to defeat Xaphista, and was certain now of only one thing: if the solution she sought wasn't at Sanctuary, and the Sorcerers' Collective in Greenharbour was unable to help her, that left the Citadel. It had been the heart of Harshini power and was the only place left she could think to look for an answer. She was also sure that the Sisters of the Blade would have kept every book, every scroll, every scrap of parchment they had taken when they overran the Citadel. They might despise the Harshini and do whatever they could to obliterate all traces of their existence, but they were too methodical, too pragmatic, and far too sensible to destroy the only documents that might hold the key to the destruction of their enemies. But with Damin likely to encounter an invading force, and Fardohnya poised to attack...

R'shiel heartily wished she had kept her nose out of the whole messy situation. And she wished she had never conceived the absurd idea that Damin should marry Adrina to force the ruling Houses of Hythria and Fardohnya into a truce. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time... If she was honest with herself, she was willing to admit that her plans had as much to do with annoying the God of War as they did with her ultimate desire to defeat Xaphista. Two nations that had been fighting each other sporadically for two centuries suddenly united would be a serious blow to Zegarnald's mammoth ego. Perhaps she was drunk on her own power. Whatever the reason, it didn't help her at present. Her desire to bring peace had actually caused another war.

Brak had warned her that it would. She should have listened to him. Now she had to do something to end it, preferably before it got started.

“What if you had another ally? One who could be in Greenharbour in a matter of weeks with an army that outnumbers your enemies?” suggested R'shiel.

“Who are you thinking of?”

“Fardohnya.”

Tejay laughed contemptuously. “You think Hablet would send his troops into Hythria for a reason other than conquest?”

“He would if the demon child told him to.”

“I hope your abilities match your confidence, my dear. Besides, the Fardohnyans are even further from Greenharbour than our own troops.”

“But they can sail from Talabar and be in Greenharbour faster than you can get your armies together overland.”

The Warlord nodded, but she was decidedly unhappy about the idea. And sceptical. “So, you plan to ride your dragon into Talabar and make Hablet send his troops to our rescue.”

“If necessary.”

“I will believe it when I see it.”

They were interrupted by Bayla, who backed into the tent carrying a platter of bread and freshly roasted meat. R'shiel realised how hungry she was as the smell reached her. She had not eaten since before she spoke to Korandellan, and that had been two days ago. Bayla placed the tray on the small table in front of them and managed to bow half a dozen times on the way out. Tejay watched her leave with a look of exasperation.

“The gods alone know what it will take to get some spirit into that girl.”

“She's very young.”

“Which is a blessing. Valorian is quite smitten with her helplessness at present, but it won't last. The novelty will wear off soon enough and then they'll both be unhappy.”

“If it's strong women you admire, Tejay, then you and the Princess Adrina should become fast friends.”

“Me? Befriend a Fardohnyan? I find that prospect even more unlikely than the idea that Hablet would help us for a reason other than territorial gain.”

“You might be surprised, Tejay.”

The Warlord helped herself to a shank of meat and smiled at R'shiel. “My dear, if I find myself friends with a Fardohnyan Princess, and one of Hablet's brood at that, 'surprised' won't even begin to describe it.”

CHAPTER 30

From Tejay's camp, R'shiel flew northward towards Fardohnya. Now that she was assured of the Warlord's support and it seemed that Damin and Adrina were finally fighting on the same side, she figured she could leave the rest of it up to them. Tejay was confident that Cyrus Eaglespike and Conin Falconlance would not attack until after the Convocation, on the slim chance she would support them and give Cyrus the majority he needed to claim the High Prince's throne.

With Tejay's promise to stall things as long as possible, R'shiel calculated that she had a couple of weeks at most before Greenharbour fell under siege. Two weeks in which she must get to Fardohnya and convince King Hablet to gather his fleet and send his army to rescue his daughter and her husband, as their ally, not their conqueror.

All this when I want to be in the Citadel, she silently lamented.

But it wasn't just the situation in Hythria that lent her mission urgency. Time was running out on more than one front. Korandellan was weakening and she was worried sick about Tarja. She had received no word of him since crossing into Hythria, and she had no idea of how things stood in Medalon.

Dranymire sensed her urgency and did not complain when she told him their destination. He suggested warning Brak of their imminent arrival, and R'shiel gladly agreed. She was surprised how much she missed Brak, or at least his counsel, and was hopeful he would be able to ease her mind about Tarja. He might even know what was happening in Medalon. And she was certain that she would need his help in getting to the Citadel.

The journey north took four days, and by the time the pink walls of Talabar appeared in the distance, R'shiel felt almost confident that she had mastered the skill of dragon riding. She still ached for hours when she climbed off the beast, but she no longer clung with grim determination to the dragon's back for fear of plunging to her death. As Dranymire had explained, it was simply a question of balance. Besides, after riding a water dragon through the foaming waves of the Dregian Ocean, R'shiel decided that airborne dragons were a vastly preferable method of transport. At least you could talk to them. They didn't just smile at you with stupid, fixed grins, then drag you down under several tons of cold water, just for the sheer joy of it.

Dranymire began to lose altitude while they were still several leagues from the harbour. He headed for a clearing that appeared in the vast canopy of trees passing beneath them in a green blur east of the city. Brak had arranged to meet them here, and her heart quickened a little at the thought of seeing him again. The reason was quite simple and more than a little disturbing. Brak was the only person, Harshini or demon, god or human, who she trusted implicitly. Including, she realised with a frown, both Tarja and Damin.

Her reason for distrusting Damin was fairly straightforward. He had a bad habit of acting first and worrying about the consequences later. If he let her down, it would not be lack of honour, but lack of forethought, that betrayed her. Tarja was a little more complicated. His love for her was imposed on him. It might vanish as abruptly as it had appeared and his anger when he realised how he'd been manipulated could easily turn that love to hatred. She wished she knew where he was, and that he was safe. She desperately wanted to know what he was thinking.

Brak was waiting for them in the clearing when they landed. The humid jungle was alive with the sounds of insects and other creatures she could not see, and the trees shook as the unseen beasts leapt from tree to tree. Whatever they were, they seemed unafraid of the dragons and not too bothered by the presence of the Harshini.

R'shiel slithered off the dragon's back, and collapsed inelegantly as she hit the ground. Brak smiled and stepped forward to help her up.

“Not as easy as it looks, is it?”

“I'm getting the hang of the riding. It's the walking around afterwards I'm still having trouble with.” She looked up at him smiling as she climbed unsteadily to her feet. “I'm so glad to see you, Brak. Do you think we could just sit for a moment?”

“I think you'd better,” he agreed, helping her across the clearing to a fallen log that was slowly being consumed by the jungle around it. She sat down gratefully as Brak turned and bowed respectfully to the dragon.

“Lord Dranymire.”

“Lord Brakandaran.”

“I thank you for delivering the demon child safely.”

“Luck and a modicum of natural ability is the only reason she survives, my Lord. I can claim no credit.”

Brak smiled. “I thank you all the same, my Lord.”

“Will you be long discussing your plans? We have been in this meld for days now, and I wish to allow my brethren an opportunity to rest.”

“Dissolve the meld, my Lord. We shall call on you later, should your services be required.”

The dragon bowed its huge head towards Brak. “You may wish to take this opportunity to teach the demon child some manners regarding the brethren, Lord Brakandaran. She is sorely in need of education.”

As soon as he finished speaking, the meld began to dissolve and the dragon disintegrated into a writhing mass of little grey demons that vanished almost as soon as they were free of the meld. Within moments Brak and R'shiel were alone in the clearing.

“What did you do to upset Dranymire?”

“Who knows? As he said, I'm sadly lacking in demon etiquette.” She flexed her knees stiffly and looked up at him. “You seem pretty good at it.”

“I've had several hundred years of practice.”

“Are you really that old?”

“Don't I look it?”

“Actually, you don't look a day over thirty-five.”

“My family always did carry their age well,” he agreed with a grin, then he sat beside her, his smile fading. “What are you doing here, R'shiel? I thought you were wreaking havoc in Hythria?”

“I was.”

Brak laughed.

“I don't mean that the way it sounds, Brak! Everything was going along fine until High Prince Lernen up and died on me. Then Damin's cousin claimed the throne and then when we got to Greenharbour, Glenanaran and the others were half dead from trying to protect the Sorcerers' Collective. And then Adrina was kidnapped - she's pregnant, by the way - so I had to go and rescue her, and stop Damin launching a suicidal attack on his cousin to defend her honour. If that isn't enough, Korandellan's about to fall over from exhaustion because he's been holding Sanctuary out of time for too long.” She took a deep breath and looked at him expectantly.

“You've been busy. When did you speak to Korandellan?”

“A few days ago. I used the Seeing Stone.”

“My, we have come a long way, haven't we?”

“Don't patronise me, Brak.”

“I didn't mean to. But the news about Sanctuary concerns me.”

“I know. And there's nothing I can do about it until I sort out Hythria and Fardohnya.”

“Why? Does it really make that much difference? Why not leave them to their bickering and do something about Xaphista? Do something about the situation in Medalon?”

“I am doing something about Xaphista! At least, I thought I was. That's why I went to Hythria in the first place. As for Medalon, that's where I'm headed next. Tarja will need my help and —”

“Tarja's been captured, R'shiel.”

She swallowed hard as her heart relocated itself in her throat. “When? How?”

“It happened about a month ago. He sank the ferry at Cauthside but didn't get away quickly enough. The Kariens have been waiting for the flood waters to subside, but they've not been idle. They'll be ready to cross the Glass River any day now. Tarja is being taken to the Citadel for trial.”

“I'm surprised they didn't kill him,” she remarked tonelessly.

“He's too important. Publicly hanging Tarja in the Citadel will be the Kariens' final and unequivocal declaration of mastery over Medalon. His death will tear the heart out of the resistance.”

“It'll tear the heart out of more than the resistance,” she said softly, then buried her face in her hands, wishing the whole world would just stop for a while and let her catch her breath.

“I'm sorry, R'shiel.”

“I almost wish you hadn't told me.” She straightened suddenly, looking at him curiously. “How do you know all this, anyway?”

“I have a new friend. She keeps me informed.”

“She?”

“The head of the Assassins' Guild is a woman.”

“How nice for you, Brak.”

“Now who's being patronising? And you still haven't answered my question. What are you doing in Fardohnya?”

“Trying to undo the damage I caused. Once the Convocation is held, and Cyrus loses the election, Greenharbour will be under siege within a matter of hours. Damin doesn't have the troops to hold out for long, even with the other Warlords on his side. Their armies are scattered all over Hythria.”

“I hope you don't expect Hablet to help. He's being very uncooperative. He ordered me out of Fardohnya, actually.”

“Did you try reasoning with him?”

“One doesn't use the words 'reason' and 'Hablet' in the same breath. Not when it comes to the Harshini. Or the delicate matter of his heir. Which reminds me, did you know that if he doesn't get a legitimate son, the Fardohnyan throne falls to Damin?”

She nodded. “Princess Marla told me.”

“How did Adrina take the news?”

“As you'd expect.”

Brak frowned. “And you left them alone in Hythria?”

“That was the one good thing to come out of all this. Damin and Adrina have finally worked out what everyone else has known for months. Sometimes humans don't know what they've got until they've almost lost it.”

He smiled. “That sounds very Harshini, R'shiel.”

She rolled her eyes but did not deny the accusation.

“So, what do you want to do about Hablet?”

“Well, if reason won't work, perhaps a show of force will.”

“I don't like the sound of this.”

“Brak, I need Hablet's army to set sail for Greenharbour within the week. And I need them to go to Damin's aid, not use it as an excuse to invade Hythria. If Hablet won't listen to reason, then I'll scare him into it, but either way, I have to stop the civil war in Hythria before it gets out of hand.”

“Why?”

She did not answer immediately.

“R'shiel? Your silence is scaring me. Just exactly what are you cooking up in that devious little mind of yours?”

She fidgeted uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “I don't intend to let Zegarnald - or any other god - profit from my mistakes.”

Brak was silent for a moment. “Zegarnald wants you to destroy Xaphista, R'shiel. Aren't you overstepping yourself just a tad?”

“Zegarnald wanted me 'tempered', remember?” she reminded him bitterly. “Well, he's only got himself to blame if he forged a two-edged sword.”

Shaking his head, Brak stood up and held out his hand to her. “One day, when we get the time, along with respect for the demons, I think I need to teach you the concept of leaving well enough alone.”

R'shiel and Brak made no attempt to conceal their presence as they flew towards Talabar. Brak rode his metallic green dragon, which Lady Elanymire and her brethren had formed at his request, while R'shiel rode beside him on Dranymire's golden meld. They made an impressive sight swooping down over the city - two creatures from legend and their Harshini dragon riders flying out of the sun to land in the courtyard of the Summer Palace. By the time they had scattered the startled palace guards and the dragons settled to the ground, the city was in an uproar.

R'shiel climbed down from Dranymire, pleased to discover the short ride had left her capable of walking. “I hope Hablet is in. We're going to look pretty damned foolish making such an impressive entrance if he's not home.”

“He's home,” Brak assured her, pointing to flags flying proudly over the main entrance to the palace. A tubby, bald-headed man in gloriously expensive silks hurried towards them. His expression was caught somewhere between shock and outrage.

“What is the meaning of this?” he screeched, panting heavily as he tried to block their path. “You can't enter the palace like this! Who are you? What do you want?”

“Who is this, Brak?” she asked. Both were drawing on their power and their eyes burned black. Although the courtyard was full of guards, the dragons kept any potential trouble at bay, simply by being dragons.

“Lector Turon, Your Highness, King Hablet's Chamberlain,” Brak replied in a superior tone.

Brak was quite an actor when the occasion called for it, R'shiel thought. She bit back a grin at his manner and turned her ebony eyes on the eunuch. “You will take me to the King.”

“The King cannot be disturbed!”

“Come, Lord Brakandaran,” she declared dramatically. “This underling is of no use to us. We shall find the King ourselves.”

She pushed Lector Turon out of the way and began walking across the paved courtyard with Brak at her side. Lector scurried past them, yelling at the top of his voice.

“Bar the doors! Shut them! Quickly! Protect your King!”

The guards were quick to respond. The doors boomed shut before R'shiel and Brak reached the steps and shook as the locking bar was dropped into place.

“He's an annoying little toad, isn't he?”

“Immensely,” Brak agreed. “What are you going to do about the doors?”

“What doors?”

She kept walking as the massive, bronze-plated doors blew outward off their hinges. Everyone but Brak and R'shiel dived for cover.

“Impressive.”

“Actually, I wasn't sure that would work,” she admitted, in a voice meant only for Brak. “Shall we go and find the King?”

“You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“Aren't you?”

He allowed a small smile to flicker over his lips, before he turned back to stare at what was left of the entrance to Hablet's Summer Palace. “I hate to admit it, but yes, I am enjoying it.”

“Good. I like to see people happy in their work.”

He followed her up the steps to the entrance, stepping over the debris from the explosion. The dazed guards made no attempt to stop them as they strode past.

R'shiel glanced around, wondering where Hablet would be hiding - if he was hiding. He might just have the spine to confront her. He was Adrina's father, after all, and she certainly never shied from anything.

Courtiers, slaves and guards stepped out of their path as they strode through the palace. When they reached the throne room, R'shiel resisted the temptation to blast those doors off their hinges, too. She settled for blowing them open, instead. The long narrow hall was crowded with people clinging to each other fearfully, their silks and jewels quivering as they stared aghast at the sight of two black-eyed and obviously annoyed Harshini striding through their midst.

They stopped several paces from the foot of the raised dais where Hablet sat, clutching the gilt arms of his throne with white-knuckled terror. It was the only outward sign of his fear. His expression was one of carefully contrived contempt, rather than dread.

“Who are you?”

“I am the demon child.”

“Well, I don't care who you are, young lady, you'll pay for the damage to my palace.” He turned his royal gaze on Brak with a frown. “I thought I told you to leave Fardohnya?”

“I answer to a higher power than you, Your Majesty.”

“Well, I don't!” the King declared petulantly. He reminded R'shiel of Adrina when she was in high dudgeon.

“You will answer to the gods, Hablet,” R'shiel warned, sincerely hoping she would not have to involve them. She wasn't entirely sure they would back her in this.

“The gods will not betray me!”

“Perhaps, Your Majesty, but they will do what I ask of them.”

Hablet stared at her for a moment, weighing up the advisability of defying someone who spoke directly to the gods. He sagged visibly and turned to the Captain of the Guard.

“Clear the hall.”

“Sire?”

“Clear the hall! Everybody out! Now!”

The captain hurried to do as his King ordered. Within minutes they were alone, the doors slamming shut behind the fearful courtiers as they scurried from the throne room.

“What do you want?” Hablet asked once he was certain they were alone.

“I want you to set sail for Hythria, Your Majesty.”

“Hythria? Your friend here was warning me to stay out of Hythria a few weeks ago, and now you want me to invade it.”

“You're not going to invade Hythria, Hablet. You're going to relieve the siege at Greenharbour.”

“What siege?”

“Your daughter is now the High Princess of Hythria, and her capital is under siege, or at least it will be, by the time you get there.”

“Adrina? That traitorous little ingrate? Why should I do anything to aid her? She betrayed me and married my worst enemy!”

“She married the heir to your throne.”

“I'll die before I let Damin Wolfblade inherit my crown!”

“That's the whole idea, isn't it?”

Hablet glared at her. “What do I get out of it?”

“You leave this room alive, for a start,” R'shiel warned him in a voice so dangerous that even Brak looked at her askance.

“You can't kill me,” he scoffed. “You're Harshini.”

“I am the demon child, Hablet. I'm only half-Harshini, and believe me, the human part of me has no qualms about removing people who stand in my way.”

Hablet rubbed his beard thoughtfully then his eyes narrowed. “If I send my fleet to relieve this siege of Adrina's, I want something in return.”

“You're hardly in a position to negotiate, Your Majesty.”

“You think so? Try getting my fleet to move past the end of the docks without my help.”

Reluctantly, R'shiel had to concede that he had a point. “What do you want?”

“I want a son. I want a legitimate son.”

“I can't grant you that.”

“Oh, so there are limits to what you can do? Well, in that case, Adrina and her damned barbarian can rot in Greenharbour and you can kill me now. It won't make much difference either way. If I'm dead, Wolfblade gets my throne, but he won't be in a position to claim it, will he?” Hablet chuckled nastily, daring her to do her worst.

R'shiel considered the matter. If she acceded to his demand - assuming Jelanna agreed to cooperate - then she would lose her ability to unite Fardohnya and Hythria on Hablet's death. On the other hand, all she really wanted to do was get to the Citadel. It didn't really matter who ruled Fardohnya, just so long as they weren't at war with Damin. He couldn't spare any troops to aid Tarja in ridding Medalon of the Kariens if he was embroiled in a war with either his cousin or his father-in-law. Time was of the essence and she didn't have any spare to waste arguing with Hablet.

“Very well. I will speak to Jelanna. That's the best I can do. But the first hint that you are exceeding your mandate, Your Majesty, and I will personally see to it that your son withers and dies in the womb.”

Hablet nodded. If he believed her threat, he did not appear bothered by it. All he wanted was finally getting the heir he craved. He beamed at her happily. “I find myself suddenly warming to you, demon child. I shall issue the orders today and we shall set sail for Greenharbour by week's end. I shall place Gaffen in command. He was always fond of Adrina.”

“Gaffen?”

“The second eldest of my baseborn sons. He and Tristan were always finding trouble with Adrina. Speaking of which, you've not mentioned him. I cannot believe he stood idly by while Adrina ran off with a Hythrun Warlord.”

R'shiel glanced at Brak warily before she answered the King.

“Tristan is dead, Your Majesty, as is most of the Guard you sent north with Adrina. They were killed fighting the Medalonians.”

The King paled. His voice was like ice when he finally spoke. “What were they doing fighting the Medalonians?”

“I believe it was on Prince Cratyn's orders. It was following their death that Adrina fled Karien.”

Hablet was silent for a long time. His anger was a palpable thing. “Once the situation in Hythria is resolved, you will be confronting the Kariens, yes?”

“They need to be pushed out of Medalon, certainly.”

“Then you have found yourself an ally, demon child. No child of mine, baseborn or otherwise, dies in such a manner without a reckoning.”

CHAPTER 31

The Convocation of the Warlords to elect the High Prince of Hythria finally took place four days after Damin and Adrina returned to Greenharbour. Tejay Lionsclaw had arrived, bearing news that she had met the demon child, and that when last heard of, R'shiel was heading for Fardohnya to speak with King Hablet.

The news did little to ease Damin's mind. It was bad enough that she had vanished without warning, but to learn that she was heading for Fardohnya made things even worse. He knew as well as anyone what was likely to happen should he win the election. Inviting Hablet to come to his rescue, the man who had spent the past thirty years trying to figure out how to invade his country, the man who had tried to hire assassins to have him killed, did not strike Damin as a particularly prudent move.

“You look very...”

“What?” he snapped as Adrina walked into his dressing room. “Foolish?”

“I was going to say dashing, but foolish will do, if you prefer.”

Actually, he felt like an idiot. One of the reasons he had spent as little time at court as possible was his dislike of dressing in such cumbersome finery. He wore white, the traditional colour reserved for the High Prince, from his knee-high calf leather boots to his gloriously embroidered jacket and short cape that was heavy and uncomfortable and totally unsuited to Greenharbour's humid climate. The gold coronet around his forehead was uncomfortably tight and the ceremonial sword he wore owed more of its weight to its gem-encrusted scabbard than it did to its blade. In a fight it would be as useful as a knitting needle. It was Adrina who insisted he dress the part of High Prince for the Convocation, and she had found a surprising ally in Princess Marla.

She smiled and stepped forward to adjust the coronet, which eased the pressure a little, then she smoothed his fair hair down. “You look every bit the High Prince.”

“Looking the part won't win me the title.”

“You'd be surprised.”

“Gods, how I hate all this pomp and ceremony!”

“Well, you'd better get used to it, my love.”

The endearment caught him by surprise. “My love?”

“Well, I can't go on calling you the Evil Barbarian Bastard forever, can I?”

He laughed. “No. I suppose not.”

Adrina sat down on the small settee and curled her legs up under her to watch him finish dressing. Since their return from Dregian Castle, and their argument on the beach, she had been a different person. Or perhaps he was seeing a side of her that she had never shown him before. The change in her scared him, not because of what she had become, but because he was afraid it wouldn't last. The new Adrina was everything he could have wished for in a consort. She was intelligent, charming and determined to secure his throne, whatever the cost. How much of that was because she cared for him, and how much was simply her desire to see Cyrus Eaglespike brought down, he did not dare ask.

“Explain something to me, Damin. Why do you have an election for the High Prince? Isn't it a hereditary title?”

“Yes, but there's frequently been more than one contender. Twins are fairly common in my family, and the first born is not always the most suitable for the job.”

“Twins? Gods, you're not telling me I'm likely to have twins, are you?”

He smiled at her alarmed expression. “Kalan and Narvell are twins. Even Lernen was a twin, although his brother died in infancy.”

“But didn't Lernen name you as his heir? Surely, in that case, there would be no need for an election?”

“The Convocation is a formality, more often than not,” he agreed. “It makes the Warlords feel they have a say in things. In this case, however, there are two contenders.”

“How can Cyrus seriously think he's a contender if Lernen named you his heir? I can understand him jumping in when he thought you'd vanished into Medalon, but now that you're back, you'd think he'd just bow out gracefully.”

“Cyrus doesn't do anything gracefully, least of all admitting he was wrong. No, he will fight this to the bitter end. He's come too far to give up now.”

“I wish I could come with you. There are a few things I'd like to say to Lord Eaglespike.”

“Which is why it's a good thing you're not coming with me.”

She smiled. The old Adrina probably would have thrown something at him. “Just be careful what you say, Damin.”

“I won't let him get to me.”

“I don't care if he gets to you. Just don't let him win.”

He reached for her and pulled her gently to her feet. She did not resist. He drew her close and kissed her, still amazed how good it felt to be able to do that without fear of having her slide a knife between his ribs. She laid her head on his chest and he held her for a moment.

“You'd better come back in one piece,” she warned, looking up at him. Her emerald eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

“I'll do my best, Your Highness.” He kissed her again and put his arm around her shoulder as they walked back out into the main chamber of his apartments. Or rather their apartments now - Adrina had moved in the day they arrived back in Greenharbour. Almodavar was waiting for them, dressed in full battle gear. Adrina frowned when she saw him.

“Almodavar! Aren't you ready yet?”

“He's not coming with me,” Damin explained. “I'm leaving him here to protect the palace.”

“But you need a Guard of Honour!”

“And I have one. But if things don't go his way, Cyrus may make his move before we leave the Sorcerers' Collective. I don't intend to make the same mistake I made the last time. Almodavar is staying here to ensure your safety.”

“You need him more than I do,” she insisted.

“The matter isn't open for negotiation, Adrina.” He kissed the top of her head and let her go. “I'll see you later. When it's all over.”

She nodded but did not answer him. Almodavar opened the door for him and he stepped into the hall without looking back.

“Damin!”

He stopped and turned to her. “Yes?”

She hesitated for a moment, opened her mouth to say something, closed it again, then shrugged helplessly. “Be careful.”

He wondered what she had really wanted to say. Whatever it was, she had obviously changed her mind. He smiled mockingly and bowed to her with all the flair of a court dandy. “As her Highness commands.”

She frowned at him then turned to his captain. “Get him out of here, Almodavar. That coronet is obviously stopping the blood flow to his brain.”

Even Almodavar grinned, which had the unfortunate effect of making him look fiercer than normal. “This way, my Lord.”

Damin straightened up and met her eye. She smiled at him. It was a genuine smile, without guile or artifice. Suddenly it didn't seem to matter what else the day might bring.

The Hall of Convocation in the Sorcerers' Palace was a room used for the election of the High Prince and the confirmation of Warlords. It was a windowless, nine-sided room, not particularly large, but lavishly decorated. Seven of the wall panels depicted the crests of the Warlords of Hythria in mosaic tiles of gold, silver and semiprecious stones. The doors broke the eighth panel, but when closed, they formed the diamond symbol of the Sorcerers' Collective. The panel opposite the door was fashioned from a sheet of solid gold and was embossed with the snarling wolf's head of the Wolfblade House. A massive candelabra suspended from the ceiling, which took two acolytes almost an hour to light, provided the only illumination.

In the centre of the room was a nine-sided table, with nine gilt stools arranged around it. Like the walls, the table was split into panels that were inlaid with the colours of the seven provinces, the Royal House and the Collective. Marla had brought him here for the first time on his tenth birthday to impress upon him the importance of his heritage.

Damin took his seat - not under the Wolfblade crest, but under Krakandar Province, represented by the rampant kraken of his late father, Laran Krakenshield. Although he had never known his father, Damin still mourned his loss at times. By all accounts Laran had been a strong and ruthless man. He could do with such an ally today. He realised that he would need to find a suitable replacement for himself in Krakandar. If he secured the title of High Prince, the province would need a new Warlord.

The other Warlords took their places, all dressed in finery to rival Damin's. In fact, next to Toren Foxtalon's gem-encrusted armour, Damin felt quite ordinary. Cyrus, who was also dressed in white, avoided meeting his eye, as did Conin Falconlance. Rogan simply nodded in his direction. Tejay smiled at him and Narvell didn't look at him at all, too busy scanning the faces of the other Warlords with a threatening scowl. Damin felt a rush of affection for his younger half-brother. It was odd to think that Narvell was feeling protective of him, rather than the other way around.

Kalan was the last to arrive. She was dressed in a simple black robe, her only adornment the diamond-shaped pendant of her office. As soon as she entered, the doors swung shut behind her without any visible effort on her part. Wordlessly, the Warlords took their places. The High Arrion placed her hands on the table in front of her and closed her eyes.

“We meet to elect a new High Prince. May the gods grant us wisdom.”

“May the gods grant us wisdom,” the Warlords echoed with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

Kalan opened her eyes and sat down, then studied the gathering for a moment before continuing. “According to the will of the late High Prince, Damin Wolfblade is his legal heir, by right of blood. Are there any other candidates?”

Although the statement was one of tradition, all eyes turned expectantly to Cyrus. He nodded slowly and rose to his feet.

“Lord Eaglespike?”

“I offer myself as a candidate, my Lady.”

“On what grounds?”

“By right of blood.”

“Your great-great-grandmother was a Wolfblade, Lord Eaglespike. By right of blood, Lord Wolfblade has the stronger claim.”

“I merely mention my blood tie to validate my claim, my Lady. My reason for offering my candidacy however, is because I believe Lord Wolfblade has committed treason.”

Terse silence met Cyrus' startling claim.

“That is a serious accusation, my Lord.”

“No more serious than the actions of Lord Wolfblade.”

“Can you substantiate your claims?” Narvell demanded, leaping to his feet “If not, I suggest you sit down before I decide to —”

“Narvell, shut up,” Kalan snapped, for a moment addressing her twin, rather than the High Arrion addressing a Warlord.

“Kalan!” he objected. She was the older twin by a mere twenty minutes, but she had always been the dominant one.

“Sit down, Hawksword,” Rogan added. “Cyrus will dig his own grave without any help from you.”

Narvell reluctantly sat as Cyrus turned to Rogan. “Are you threatening me, my Lord?”

“No, Eaglespike, I'm not threatening you. You'll know about it if I do.”

“As I was saying, before I was interrupted,” Cyrus continued, looking pointedly at Narvell, “Damin Wolfblade has committed treason. He cannot, therefore, be allowed to take the throne, regardless of the will of the late High Prince.”

“Would you care to elaborate, my Lord?”

“He made an unauthorised alliance with a foreign power and then he married a Fardohnyan.”

“At least he married,” Tejay remarked with a chuckle. “Which is more than you can say for poor old Lernen.”

Cyrus did not appreciate her levity. “This is a serious matter, my Lady. You would do well to treat it as such.”

“I'm trying to take this seriously, Cyrus, and I would, if this wasn't such a joke.” She turned to Damin. “What say you, Lord Wolfblade? Is Cyrus right? Did you make an unauthorised alliance with a foreign power? I think we all know by now that you married a Fardohnyan.”

“Guilty on both counts,” Damin replied calmly.

Cyrus stared at him, making no attempt to hide his surprise. “You admit to your crimes?”

“I don't know that I'd call them 'crimes', cousin, but I certainly did make an alliance with Medalon and I believe you've already met my wife.” Cyrus still had enough honour left in him to squirm a little under Damin's scrutiny. Damin wondered if he had figured out yet how she had escaped. “I plead mitigating circumstances.”

“What mitigating circumstances?” Conin Falconlance scoffed. “What could possibly justify such actions?”

“I was asked to aid Medalon. I was ordered to marry Adrina.”

“By whom?”

“In the former case, Lord Brakandaran of the Harshini asked for my aid. In the latter it was the demon child. As she had been placed in my care by Zegarnald himself, I could hardly refuse, could I?”

Cyrus laughed sceptically. “You expect us to believe the God of War singled you out and asked you to aid the demon child?”

“Yes.”

“That's preposterous! What proof have you?”

“Call Glenanaran, if my word isn't good enough. You'll take the word of a Harshini, won't you? He was with us when we crossed into Medalon and I'm sure he wouldn't mind calling up the God of War so you can cross-examine him.”

Only Kalan and Narvell knew that he had spoken with Zegarnald. With the exception of Cyrus, the other Warlords seemed quite overawed by the revelation. Lord Eaglespike glanced around the table, shaking his head.

“Am I the only one here who finds this fantastic tale unbelievable?”

“No, you're the only one here with a vested interest in having us deny it,” Tejay pointed out. “I believe Damin, and when it comes down to it, I'd rather have a High Prince who speaks to the gods than one who uses my name to perpetrate mischief.”

Cyrus was looking decidedly uncomfortable. He obviously had not expected Tejay to learn of his deception, just as he expected to come to this meeting with Adrina as a hostage.

“Well, Lord Eaglespike?” Kalan asked. “Shall I call on the Harshini to bear witness to Lord Wolfblade's defence?”

Cyrus shook his head. “That won't be necessary, my Lady. Lord Wolfblade is a man of honour.”

“An honourable traitor? You flatter me, my Lord.”

The Warlord ignored the comment and remained standing. “There is still the issue of his marriage to that Fardohnyan. He may have married her on the orders of the demon child, but that doesn't make the situation any less intolerable.”

“What's your objection, Cyrus?” Tejay asked cheerfully. “That she's Fardohnyan, or that you can't seem to keep her in your dungeons for more than a few hours without losing her?”

Cyrus kept his temper with admirable restraint. “Anything I have done, my Lady, I have done for the good of Hythria.”

“Then we are of one purpose, my Lord,” Damin replied. “I, too, have only the interests of Hythria at heart.”

“If you only care about Hythria, how can you possibly expect us to tolerate that woman? She is a viper! When she was here in Greenharbour the last time, you claimed she tried to kill Lernen!”

“I was wrong.”

“Wrong? Or simply thinking with your balls?” He glanced around at the others with a knowing smirk. “I hear she's court'esa trained.”

Damin called on every ounce of self-control he owned to stop him leaping over the table and taking Cyrus Eaglespike by the throat.

“You will speak with respect when referring to your High Princess,” he managed to say, despite the effort it cost him to remain outwardly calm.

“She is not my High Princess, and will never be!”

“Whether or not Princess Adrina is the High Princess is yet to be decided,” Kalan reminded them, raising her voice slightly. “Lord Eaglespike, do you have a specific objection to the Princess, or is it simply her nationality that disturbs you?”

“I'd settle for just one good reason why we should accept that foreign whore,” Conin Falconlance interjected.

Damin gripped the side of his stool until his knuckles were white, but gave no other indication of his anger. “One reason? Gunpowder.”

That got their attention.

“Gunpowder?” Tejay gasped. “Gods, Damin, if you took all of his daughters off his hands, Hablet still wouldn't part with that secret.”

“I'm aware of that and so is Adrina. When Hablet signed the treaty with the Kariens, which included sharing the secret of gunpowder, it was sealed by her marriage to Cratyn. She knew he was never likely to live up to his end of the bargain. She was understandably fearful that his refusal might result in the Kariens taking reprisals and the most obvious target would have been her. So she made a point of learning the secret before she left Fardohnya.”

“And she told the Kariens the secret?” Toren Foxtalon asked. It was the first time he had spoken. He had been sitting so quietly Damin thought him asleep, but this news had seemingly woken him from his torpor.

“No. The only person she has shared it with is me.”

“What makes you so special?” Cyrus laughed disparagingly.

Damin turned to him and smiled with languid smugness. “I, too, am court'esa trained, my Lord.”

Tejay clapped her hands and laughed delightedly. “Ha! You deserved that, Cyrus! I say let's finish with this pointless argument. We all know how we plan to vote and I doubt that anything said here today has changed any of our opinions. It certainly hasn't changed mine. Order the vote, Kalan!”

Cyrus glanced around the table, calculating his position. He had lost Tejay - that was obvious - and Foxtalon was quite taken with the idea of learning the secret of gunpowder. Narvell had never been in his camp and it was clear where Rogan's loyalties lay. He threw his hands up and sat down heavily.

“Have your damned vote then. This is a farce!”

“Then I will take your votes, my Lords,” Kalan agreed with a frown at Cyrus for disparaging the validity of the Convocation. “Lord Bearbow, how does Izcomdar vote?”

“Wolfblade.”

“Lady Lionsclaw? How does Sunrise vote?”

“Wolfblade.”

“Lord Falconlance? How does Greenharbour vote?”

“Eaglespike.”

“Lord Hawksword? How does Elasapine vote?”

“Wolfblade.”

“Lord Foxtalon? How does Pentamor vote?”

Toren fidgeted uncomfortably, staring determinedly at the table in front of him. “Wolfblade.”

Damin breathed a sigh of relief. With five of the seven Warlords on his side he had more than he could have hoped for a few days ago.

“Lord Eaglespike? How does Dregian vote?”

“Eaglespike,” he snapped angrily. “For all the good it does.”

“Lord Wolfblade? How does Krakandar vote?”

“Wolfblade.” He didn't need to say anything else.

“Then I declare Damin Wolfblade is the High Prince of Hythria. Long live High Prince Damin!”

“Long live High Prince Damin!” the others echoed, with the notable exception of Cyrus and Conin.

Cyrus pushed his stool back and rose to his feet. “This is a sad day for Hythria, my Lords. You have just handed our nation over to a man who is under the thrall of a Fardohnyan whore. You will live to regret this decision. Come, Conin, let us together commiserate on the death of our nation's independence.”

Lord Falconlance stood and followed Cyrus wordlessly. The doors swung open as they approached, and swung shut behind them when they left the room. The tension flowed out of the room with the departure of the Warlords.

“Anyone care to wager that Cyrus' idea of commiseration involves a civil war?” Rogan asked of no one in particular.

“I don't think I care for the odds, Rogan,” Tejay said.

“Kalan, as High Prince, I want command of the troops belonging to the Sorcerers' Collective.”

The High Arrion did not even hesitate. “They are yours, Damin, along with anything else you need.”

Rogan smiled. “You see, there's an advantage to keeping things all in the family. How long do we have, do you think?”

“Until sunrise, is my guess,” Damin replied. “I suspect they'll be waiting for us when we open the city gates in the morning.”

“Then we won't be opening the city gates,” Narvell predicted grimly.

“What about the harbour?” Tejay asked. “Cyrus and Conin have enough ships to blockade it.”

“I issued a warning to the fishing fleet this morning before I left the palace. Any boats that want to leave will be gone by now. As for the rest, if the demon child is to be believed, help is on the way. We won't have to hold out for much longer than a couple of weeks.”

“Help? What help?” Foxtalon asked suspiciously.

“The Fardohnyans.”

“The Fardohnyans! You can't trust them!”

“And I don't,” Damin told him. “But I do trust the demon child.”

“I hope your trust is warranted, Wolfblade,” Rogan warned. “We are placing a lot of faith in that slip of a girl.”

He smiled at the description. “That 'slip of a girl' has the power to destroy a god, Rogan.”

“She also has the power to destroy us,” Kalan reminded him ominously.

CHAPTER 32

The siege did not bother the citizens of Greenharbour at first. If anything, they considered it something of a novelty, a variation from the normal humdrum of their everyday lives. Crowds gathered at the walls each day, hoping for a chance to climb up to the ramparts and see the armies of Greenharbour and Dregian massed below. A few enterprising souls even began charging admission, after doing a deal with the guards on the walls, and they did a roaring trade until Damin got wind of it and had the entrepreneurs thrown in gaol.

By the second week the shortages began, and then the novelty quickly wore off. There was fresh water aplenty, but Greenharbour was a large city and it wasn't possible to store enough to keep the population fed for long. The city housed almost fifty thousand people, and relied on the bounty of the sea, as well as the numerous farms outside the city, for produce. With the harbour blockaded, there was no daily catch, and with the gates closed against the armies of Lord Eaglespike and Lord Falconlance there was no produce getting through. Damin heard reports of a loaf of bread costing a hundred times its normal value.

They fared no better in the palace though, because Damin had distributed most of the palace stores quite publicly on the seventh day of the siege, in the hopes of avoiding a hungry population storming the palace in the belief that food inside was being hoarded for the High Prince and his family.

Cyrus and Conin were carrying out typical siege tactics, he knew. They made no effort to attack the city. They didn't have to. It wasn't the threat outside the walls that would undo them, but the internal unrest. Damin had stationed troops to defend the walls of the city, but the bulk of his forces were employed simply keeping the peace. As the siege dragged on, he grew less and less tolerant of the opportunists and malcontents. He had begun by throwing them in gaol. This morning he had ordered three men beheaded for hoarding grain and then selling it at inflated prices. He did not regret their passing. As their heads dropped into the baskets beneath the executioner's block his only thought was, That's three less mouths to feed.

He had fifteen hundred Raiders in the city, comprising the three hundred men each Warlord was permitted. The Guards of the Sorcerers' Collective, although competent, had no combat experience to speak of. He had placed the Raiders on the walls and kept the Collective Guards for civil matters. They were well suited to the task. They knew the city and the people knew them. In total, he had two and a half thousand men, but no idea when, or if, help would arrive. There were close to ten thousand camped outside his walls.

A knock at the door disturbed him, and he looked up in annoyance. The elegantly carved desk in front of him was littered with parchment. Lernen never seemed to have to deal with this much work. He was beginning to wonder how his uncle had found time to indulge his wide variety of perversions. Damin had barely found time to eat or sleep since becoming High Prince.

“What?” he called angrily.

The door opened a fraction and Adrina's head appeared. “Do you have a moment, Damin?”

“No,” he replied unhappily.

She opened the door all the way and entered the study with the Harshini, Glenanaran, at her side.

Damin rose to his feet with a frown. “What is it now, Adrina? Are the peasants storming the Sorcerers' Collective?”

Glenanaran smiled, which was the usual Harshini reaction to anything one said in their presence. He was very tall and slender, with long, fair hair held back by a simple leather band. His height was emphasised by the long white robe he wore. His totally black eyes were wide with an innocence and hopefulness that no human could ever hope to emulate. “No, Your Highness. But it grieves me to see you so overwrought.”

“The administration of a city under siege is proving to be worse than I could possibly have imagined, Divine One. Being overwrought seems the only appropriate reaction.”

“Don't listen to him, Glenanaran. Damin enjoys feeling sorry for himself.” Adrina smiled at him. She was looking suspiciously pleased.

“What are you up to, Adrina?”

“We have an idea.”

“Actually, the idea belongs to the High Princess, Your Highness. I am merely the instrument of her desire.”

“Aren't we all,” Damin muttered as he sat down. “All right. Tell me this grand idea of yours, Adrina. The day can't get much worse.”

“You have to order the fishing boats to put to sea.”

“In case you haven't noticed, Adrina, the harbour is blockaded.”

“I know. The boats can't get past the blockade, but the fish can.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Fish, Damin. You know, those little silver wiggly things that people eat?”

He smiled, in spite of himself.

“What the High Princess means is that we can call the fish into the harbour and your fishing boats can net them without trying to get past the blockade.”

Damin leaned back in his chair and studied Adrina in amazement. “That is the most brilliant idea I've ever heard.”

“I thought so.”

“And you can do this, Divine One? Doesn't it conflict with your aversion to killing? Those fish will go straight into the cooking pots of Greenharbour.”

“We cannot abide violence, Your Highness, but we understand the laws of nature. Death is an inevitable part of life. All creatures serve to nourish and feed other creatures. Even humans, when they return to the soil, feed the creatures of the earth, who in turn feed other animals. I cannot say it will make me happy, but neither can I stand idly by while the people of Greenharbour starve.”

“Then I'll order the boats to sea immediately. And get some troops down to the harbour to avoid a riot when the catch comes in. I cannot thank you enough, Glenanaran. This may mean the difference between life and death.”

The Harshini bowed solemnly. “I am aware of that, Your Highness. And now, if I may be excused, I will return to the Collective to speak with Farandelan and Joranara. I will need their help for this task.”

“Of course,” Damin agreed. “And again, I thank you.”

As soon as he was gone, Adrina walked around the desk and pushed a stack of rolled parchment out of the way, so she could sit on it. Her expression was insufferably smug.

“So, how do you like my first official act as High Princess?”

“Not bad.”

“Not bad! It was a stroke of genius!”

“Yes, it was. But you already know that. I'm not going to inflate that ego of yours any more than it already is by admitting it, though.”

Adrina laughed. Despite the siege, despite Tamylan's death and everything else that had happened to her recently, Damin had never seen her happier. She was finally in her element, he realised. She had power and respect and the ability to use that awesome intellect for something other than causing trouble. Hablet had been a fool not to recognise what he had in his daughter. Then again, he might have actually seen her potential and banished her to Karien where he thought she could not threaten him.

Her laughter faded after a while and she became serious. “It's only a temporary measure, Damin. We can't ask the Harshini to call fish into the harbour indefinitely.”

“I know. But every day we hold out is a day closer to help arriving.”

“You still believe R'shiel will be able to convince my father to send help?”

“If anybody can, R'shiel can. It's simply a question of how long it takes. She knows the urgency of the situation.”

“Personally, I don't see why she couldn't just stay here and throw a few fireballs around like she did in the Defender's camp in Medalon. That would have softened Eaglespike's spine quick enough.”

“She wants peace, Adrina,” he reminded her. “Besides, throwing fireballs around might cow Cyrus into submission, but it would more than likely burn my city to the ground.”

“And you think a running battle through the streets of Greenharbour is going to be any less damaging?”

“No. But I've some control over the way a battle goes. R'shiel has no control over where her magic lands.”

“Do you think she'll ever be ready to face Xaphista?” she asked.

“I hope so.”

“If she fails,” Adrina warned, “we'll spend the rest of our lives at war. I've lived with the Kariens, Damin. I've heard what they preach. Xaphista won't be content until the whole world is on its knees before him.”

Following the Harshini summons, the fish netted in the harbour kept the city fed for another few days, but that problem was quickly replaced by another, more urgent dilemma, one that even outweighed the threat of imminent starvation. To make matters worse, it was an enemy Damin had no idea how to fight: garbage.

Normally, an army of slaves was employed to remove the refuse of the city and dump it outside in a vast old quarry several leagues away that had been disused for decades. But the garbage wagons were full and there was nowhere to go. Damin refused to let them dump it in the harbour and had ordered the rubbish burned instead. That would have worked if the refuse was dry, but in the humidity of Greenharbour, nothing ever dried completely and the burning could not keep pace. So the garbage piled higher in the streets and ten days after the siege began, Kalan came to him with the first reports of disease spreading through the poorer quarters of the city.

He ordered the affected areas quarantined, but it only served to slow the spread of the disease, not stop it. The Harshini, who were naturally immune to human ailments, worked tirelessly healing the sick, but there were only three of them - not enough to keep pace with the plague. Sorcerers from the Collective worked beside them until they either dropped from exhaustion or succumbed to disease themselves. He had seen Kalan only twice since the outbreak, and both times she had been haggard with fatigue.

He'd had a blazing row with Adrina when she decided that she should go out and help, claiming it would enhance his position as High Prince no end if his wife were seen to be caring for the sick. Her pregnancy was just beginning to show and even if he hadn't been terrified at the thought of her catching something, he was not going to let her endanger their unborn child. She had reluctantly given in, and only then when he reminded her of the danger to their baby. The atmosphere had not been pleasant since. Adrina was like a caged leopard, prowling around the palace, feeling useless and frustrated. But he did not resent her mood - he felt exactly the same way.

On the fifteenth day of the siege, Cyrus sent a message under a flag of truce. The messenger was let in through the postern gate, and proved to be Serrin Eaglespike, the Warlord of Dregian's younger brother. He was escorted to the palace followed by the curious stares of a population weary of the siege and hopeful that the young lord's presence heralded the end of their ordeal.

“My brother offers leniency, my Lords,” Serrin informed them as he stood before Damin, Narvell, Rogan, Tejay, Toren, Adrina and Princess Marla in the main hall. He handed Damin a parchment sealed with the Eaglespike crest - Cyrus' formal terms for surrender. Damin didn't even bother to open it.

“In return for what?” Rogan demanded.

“Lord Wolfblade must surrender the city, abdicate the throne, and agree to exile in the country of his choice. You, my Lords,” he added, addressing the other Warlords, “may retain your provinces, provided you agree to swear allegiance to Lord Eaglespike immediately.”

“Cyrus must think we're bored,” Tejay remarked. “He obviously sent Serrin here for a bit of light entertainment.”

“This is not a jest, my Lady.”

“It is from where I'm standing,” Tejay laughed. “Send him back to his big brother, Damin. Preferably a piece at a time.”

“Tempting though the idea is, Lady Lionsclaw, he's here under a flag of truce,” Damin reminded her. “If you want to cut him into little pieces, you'll just have to wait until he comes over the wall.”

Serrin glared at them in disbelief. “Don't any of you take this seriously? You are surrounded and starving and yet you make jokes! You cannot hope to hold out for much longer.”

“What we hope for is not your concern,” Damin told the young man.

“And that is your answer to our terms?”

“This is your answer.” Damin tore the unread document to shreds and threw the scraps at Serrin. “Go back and tell your treacherous brother and his allies that we do not deal with traitors. Instead of wasting his time figuring out the terms of my surrender, he'd be more gainfully employed putting his own affairs in order. I hear that's the wisest thing to do when one knows that their death is imminent.”

“You will regret this, Wolfblade,” Serrin warned.

“Not nearly as much as Cyrus will,” Damin predicted.

The following day, the bombardment began.

Greenharbour's walls were more decorative than defensive, and the only thing that had kept the enemy at bay thus far was Cyrus' willingness to wait. Once the war engines were rolled into place, however, Damin knew it was simply a matter of time before the walls were breached and the armies of Dregian and Greenharbour poured into the city.

But Cyrus did not attack the walls immediately. The boulders and burning pitch he lobbed into the city landed at random, killing any soul unfortunate enough to be in their destructive path. At first, Damin thought they were merely testing their range, but after two days he realised it was a deliberate attempt to further demoralise the people. The bombardment went on relentlessly, day and night, and the death toll mounted.

They had their own catapults mounted on the walls, but they were much smaller than the weapons Cyrus could bring to bear, and he kept his forces well clear of their range. By the end of the second day under the gruelling attack, the gates were stormed - not by Cyrus, but by a riotous mob desperate to flee a city that was rapidly becoming a death trap. The Raiders were forced to beat back their own people. A dozen or more died in the fracas; some trampled, others killed by the Raiders defending the gates from the mob. Damin ordered a curfew and threatened execution for anyone caught out on the streets without good cause.

It was later that night that he returned to his rooms, hoping to snatch a few hours' sleep before dawn and the next crop of crises emerged. Adrina was asleep when he arrived, and he stood in the moonlit chamber watching her through the flimsy curtain draped over the bed against insects. He'd not seen much of her lately and was a little surprised at how much he missed her. Pregnancy agreed with her, he thought. It was as if the budding life inside her had imbued her with some indefinable inner peace. She had always been beautiful, but now she was stunning. With a faint smile, he thought of the constant stream of potential brides that Marla had paraded before him over the years, glad now that he had held out for something truly worth fighting for.

Although he had made no sound, some instinct of self-preservation must have warned Adrina that she was not alone. Her eyes opened and she started a little, only relaxing when she realised who it was that stood in the doorway.

“I didn't mean to wake you.”

“I wasn't really asleep,” she replied, stretching languidly. “What time is it?”

“Late. Very late.”

“Then you should get some sleep. We'll still be under siege come morning.”

“I knew I could rely on you to cheer me up.”

She pulled back the curtain so she could see him more clearly. “You look tired.”

“Really? I only feel exhausted.”

“Was it that bad today?”

He nodded wearily as he crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Part of him wondered if it was worth taking his boots off. In a few hours the sun would be up and he'd only have to put them on again. Another part of him was trying not to recall the trampled bodies he had seen at the gate.

“I'm beginning to wonder if I should have accepted Cyrus' offer.”

“Surrender? Damin, you can't mean that!”

“I could save a lot of lives.”

“You'd be ending ours.”

“Cyrus offered us exile.”

“And you believe him?”

He saw the look of fierce determination in her eyes and smiled wearily. “No, I don't believe him. And don't worry, I haven't given up yet.”

“And if you do, it won't be Cyrus you have to fear,” she declared. “I'll run you through myself!”

He didn't doubt that she meant it. With a yawn he lay down beside her, fully clothed, as she moved across the bed to make room for him. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he felt fatigue wash over him. He closed his eyes with relief.

“Damin, if you're coming to bed, you could at least take your boots off.”

“I haven't got time to sleep,” he murmured. “I'm just going to rest my eyes for a moment.”

She moved into the circle of his arms and laid her head on his chest. He could smell the fresh scent of her hair and feel the slight bulge of her belly against his hip.

It was the last thing he remembered until Almodavar burst into the bedchamber next morning to inform him that Cyrus was breaking down the walls.

CHAPTER 33

Cracks appeared with the first hits. The walls were made of fragile chalkstone and had never been designed to withstand a serious attack. When Damin heard the news, he rode out to see the damage for himself. He was no engineer, but even he could tell that they would not last long.

“Call up the Collective Guards,” he ordered Almodavar. “Have them reinforce the troops on the walls.”

“You want me to take them off riot duty?”

“Riots are going to be the least of our problems shortly,” he said, as the crash of a boulder striking the wall made their horses rear in fright. The crack he had been examining widened alarmingly. A few more direct hits and it would be large enough for a man to walk through.

He turned his horse and cantered back through the streets to the palace, distressed by the devastation the bombardment had caused. There were blackened buildings everywhere he looked; others had crumpled under the weight of the boulders dropped from the sky. He avoided looking at the people. It was too hard to confront the fear in their eyes, the agony of their grief. Cursing himself for a fool, he wondered if he should have attacked sooner - tried to break out of the city and take the battle to Cyrus on open ground, where he at least would have had some freedom of movement.

He should never have put so much faith in R'shiel.

Another boom sounded, and his horse reared again, but this was a different sound to the solid cracking of stone against stone. The noise came again and he looked at Almodavar with a puzzled expression.

“That didn't come from the walls.”

“It sounded as if it came from the harbour.”

Another boom rolled over them as Damin spurred his horse forward. The sounds became more frequent, like a constant wave of thunder. As he neared the palace, the faint smell of smoke was drifting on the still air. But it wasn't ordinary smoke. It had a flavour he did not recognise. He flew from the saddle and ran up the steps into the palace and through the main hall to the balcony overlooking the harbour, gripping the balustrade in astonishment.

The sight that greeted him left him speechless. Three of the ships that had been blocking the harbour entrance were in flames. Behind them were a dozen or more warships. Fardohnyan warships. The booming sounded again as flames shot out from the nearest ship, and another of the blockaders fell victim to the Fardohnyan cannon. The ship in the lead headed for the gap in the sinking blockade line and sailed majestically through, her oars dipping and rising in a flawless rhythm.

“The Fardohnyans,” Almodavar remarked unnecessarily.

“They believe in cutting things a bit fine,” Damin agreed, finally finding his voice. The relief he felt was so intense he felt faint with it. “Where's Adrina?”

“I'm here, Damin,” she said, stepping out onto the balcony. She was smiling fondly as she pointed to the ship in the lead. “That's the Wave Warrior.”

“Your father's flagship?”

“R'shiel has outdone herself.”

“Does that mean Hablet has come?” Almodavar asked.

“Gods, I hope not,” Adrina muttered, stepping up to the balustrade. “Do you have a looking glass?”

Almodavar produced one from a pouch on his belt and handed it to her. She placed the tube to her eye and trained it on the ship. Then she laughed and lowered the glass.

“What?” Damin asked impatiently. “Is it your father?”

“No. It's better than that. He's sent my half-brother, Gaffen.”

Damin refrained from telling her how relieved he was that he would not have to confront her father. They watched the ship sail forward, heading for the dock below the palace. As it neared the wharf the oars banked sharply, turning the ship into the dock.

“Come on. Let's go and greet our new allies. We've about an hour before Cyrus breaks through the walls.”

“That'll make Gaffen happy. He'd be dreadfully disappointed to come all this way and not have someone to fight.”

By the time they reached the dock, the ship was secured and a long gangplank was being shoved out from the tall deck of the Fardohnyan warship. The first man off the ship was a tall, blond fellow who strode purposefully up the dock and swept Adrina up in a massive bear hug. She squealed as her feet left the ground. He put her down then held her at arm's length for a moment.

“You're getting fat,” was the first thing he said.

“I'm having a baby, Gaffen. I'm allowed to get fat.”

Gaffen looked startled at the news. He turned to Damin and eyed him up and down. “You'd be Wolfblade, I'm guessing. Where's the fight?”

“You guessed correctly. And the fight is just about to start, my Lord. They are breaking down the walls as we speak.”

“Then what are we standing around here for?” The Fardohnyan spun on his heel and marched back towards his ship, yelling orders for his troops to disembark as he went. Damin turned to Adrina, looking rather bemused.

She smiled. “Don't worry. He likes you.”

“How can you tell?”

“He didn't try to kill you. That's always a good start with Gaffen.”

Before he could answer, a messenger came running down the dock towards them, calling for him. The man skidded to a halt and bowed hastily before delivering his news.

“Lady Lionsclaw said to tell you they've broken through, Your Highness.”

“Where?”

“On the north wall. Near the weaving district.”

“Tell her I said to hold on. I'll be there with reinforcements shortly.”

The courier glanced at the Fardohnyans pouring off the Wave Warrior and saluted sharply, suddenly grinning from ear to ear. He ran back the way he came, whooping with delight.

“Seems your brother's arrival has somebody happy today,” Damin murmured as he watched the young man's departure. Then he turned to Adrina. “I want you to go back to the palace and stay there.”

“Yes, dear.”

“I mean it, Adrina. You're not to stick your nose outside the palace until this is over. With your brother's troops, we could have Cyrus on the run soon enough, but I don't intend to spend the next few hours worrying about what you're getting up to.”

“Don't pussyfoot around, man!” Gaffen declared, coming up behind them. “Tell her to stay put, or you'll beat her senseless. It's the only thing that works with Adrina.”

“Gaffen, shut up!”

He grinned at his sister then turned to Damin. “Come on, Wolfblade! Let's go slaughter your enemies. Adrina, get back to the palace now, or I'll throw you over my shoulder and carry you screaming all the way back, and lock you up.”

Adrina glared at her brother, but to Damin's astonishment she turned and strode haughtily back towards the palace without another word. Gaffen noticed Damin's expression and laughed.

“I can see you and I need to have a talk about Adrina when this business is done with, Your Highness.”

“If I had threatened her with that, she would have killed me.”

“Probably,” Gaffen agreed cheerfully. “Can you organise someone to get the rest of my ships docked? I've a feeling we'll need every man before the day is out.”

“How many did you bring?” he asked.

“Three thousand. Do you think that will be enough?”

He'd been hoping for twice that many. Cyrus had ten thousand men outside the walls. Between Gaffen's reinforcements and the troops he had in the city they were still outnumbered, but at least the odds were a little better.

“It's going to have to be enough,” Damin said, trying not to sound disappointed.

The breach in the wall near the weaving district was contained easily enough, but it was followed by more reports of breaks in the walls from all over the city. By mid-morning, Cyrus had broken through and Damin gave up trying to plug the gaps. He pulled his troops back from the walls and the battle for Greenharbour was well and truly under way.

They fought for the city, street by street, falling back when they had to, surging forward to repel the invaders when they could, but slowly, a street at the time, they were pushed back towards the harbour. The Fardohnyan forces were still not completely disembarked. There simply weren't enough berths to get them all ashore quickly enough.

Gaffen ranted at his commanders to unload the troops faster, but there was little he could do to speed up the process. All they could do was hold out as long as possible, throwing Gaffen's fresh troops into the fray wherever the lines weakened. But they were coming off the ships at irregular intervals. A few of the Fardohnyans had gone charging into the battle without waiting for orders, bolstering lines that didn't need them, while Cyrus' men broke through in other places that were desperate for reinforcements. Another troop had ploughed into the fray and accidentally turned on Rogan Bearbow's men, not realising that they were not the enemy.

By mid-afternoon, Damin was seriously considering evacuating the palace. Cyrus had pushed so far into the city he was almost ready to admit they were losing the battle. Gaffen's troops were disembarked, but they were too little, too late. If he'd had them earlier, before Cyrus first breached the walls, he might have had a chance. As it was, they only filled the gaps. He didn't have the men to take the battle to Cyrus.

Rubbing his temples wearily, he glanced across the room at Adrina's brother, who wore a look of wounded pride as much as anything. Gaffen wasn't used to defeat.

“Perhaps if we turn my ships broadside to the city, we could turn the cannon on them,” he suggested hopefully.

Damin shook his head. “You'll kill as many of our people as you will theirs.”

“Then we fire the city.”

Damin nodded reluctantly. He had been hoping to avoid it, despite the fact that he'd had Almodavar quietly distributing barrels of pitch throughout the city for days prior to the battle. Setting fire to Greenharbour would stop Cyrus surely enough, but it was likely to destroy much of the city in the process.

“I was hoping to use that as a last resort.”

“Aye,” Gaffen agreed heavily. “But that moment is approaching rapidly.”

The battle continued without pause as the day wore on. The reports kept coming in, each progressively worse than the last. The sun was resting on the horizon when Damin's stomach rumbled, and he realised the day was almost over. He'd been too busy directing the fighting to eat. Damin hated combat like this. He was a warrior at heart, not a tactician. He would much rather be in the thick of battle, not directing others to do his fighting for him. Tarja was good at that sort of thing. Damin spared his friend a thought for a moment, wondering what had become of him. Was he waiting in Krakandar for aid that would never come? Or had he done something stupid and got himself killed by the Kariens?

Damin doubted he would ever learn the truth. Cyrus was all but knocking on the doors of the palace. It was little more than three hours after Gaffen suggested it that he was forced to concede that they had no other option but to fire the city in the hope of driving the enemy off.

“Gaffen, I want you to take Adrina and whoever else you can find in the palace and get them out of here.”

The Fardohnyan looked at him for a moment and then nodded in understanding. “And what of you, Your Highness?”

“I can't order anybody else to do this. If Greenharbour burns, then it will be by my hand.”

Gaffen hesitated for a moment, then called in one of his captains and began giving the orders to evacuate the palace. When he was done, he snatched up his sword from the table where he had been using it to hold down a map of the city.

“Let's go, then!”

“What are you doing?”

“You don't think I'm going to run away with the women and the children, do you?”

“This isn't your fight any longer, Gaffen. I'm not going out to do anything particularly heroic. I'm going to set fire to the city.”

“Well, someone has to watch your back. Besides, you're married to my sister. That makes you family.”

Damin took one look at the expression on Gaffen's face and decided not to argue. In truth, he didn't mind the idea of the big Fardohnyan watching his back for him. Gaffen was the sort of man who looked as if he could stop an avalanche if he stood in front of it.

“Let's do it, then,” Damin said, pushing away all thoughts of the consequences of what he was about to do. He strode from the command post with an air of grim determination and ordered the horses brought out. He didn't know how far he could get, but the further from the harbour he set the fires, the more people might have a chance to escape.

The sounds of the battle could be clearly heard as he and Gaffen rode out. The streets this close to the harbour were already clogged with people fleeing the advancing horde. They pushed through the crowds for several streets until they broke through into a reasonably deserted street. The fighting had not yet reached this part of the city and it looked oddly peaceful, like a calm oasis in the middle of a raging sandstorm.

That's when he heard the trumpets.

“What was that?” Gaffen asked curiously, his head cocked at the unusual sound.

“I don't know.”

The trumpets came again, drifting on the early evening breeze. Damin listened with a feeling of total bewilderment until he recognised the sound. He last heard it on the northern plains of Medalon and had never, in his wildest imaginings, expected to hear it in Greenharbour.

“Well, I'll be damned.”

He flew from his saddle and headed for the tallest building in sight, which was a gracious, four-storey residence belonging to some prosperous merchant. Gaffen followed him at a run. Damin kicked in the door, ignoring the screams from the merchant and his family sheltering within. He took the stairs two at a time with Gaffen on his heels, and finally burst onto the roof. He ran to the northern edge of the building and looked out over the devastated city.

The sound of the trumpets reached him again, clearly this time. Panting beside him, Gaffen stared at the scene before him with a puzzled look.

“What is that?”

Wordlessly, Damin pointed north, at the perfectly formed ranks of red coats preparing to march on the city, too stunned and relieved to speak.

There were two thousand of them at least.

Two thousand fresh, disciplined and well-trained Medalonian Defenders.

CHAPTER 34

The battle for Greenharbour was ugly, but blessedly short once the Defenders joined the fray. Cyrus' army broke and ran just after sundown. Conin Falconlance and Serrin Eaglespike died during the battle, but Cyrus survived and fled back to Dregian Province with the remainder of his scattered forces to make a last stand.

Damin sent Narvell after him, with Gaffen and a force of Fardohnyans. It wasn't that he thought Narvell needed the help so much as his desire to separate Adrina's half-brother and Tejay Lionsclaw, who would rather have perished in battle than accept help from her despised enemies. She made no secret of her distrust of their new allies, so Damin thought it prudent to put as much distance between Gaffen and Tejay as possible until things calmed down a bit. Gaining entrance to the castle by the same hidden passage that he, Adrina and R'shiel had escaped through, Narvell and Gaffen took Dregian Keep with barely a man lost in the fight.

Conveniently, Cyrus threw himself on his sword rather than face the consequences of his actions. Damin was privately glad that he had. It was always messy, following a civil war, to decide what to do with the miscreants. If he had executed Cyrus, there would always be a small core of resentment among the people that could be fanned into life in the future. If he left him alive, he left him free to plan further mischief. It was better this way. Cyrus' widow and three-year-old son were back in Greenharbour as prisoners, but Damin was inclined to be generous towards them. It was hardly their fault that Cyrus had let his ambitions run away with him, and anyway, he doubted he could bring himself to order the execution of a child, no matter how sound the logic behind the decision.

There were other issues to be resolved, too. Dregian, Greenharbour and Krakandar now needed Warlords, and everyone from Tejay Lionsclaw to the palace gardeners had an opinion on who should be awarded the positions. Although there were numerous candidates among the nobility, it was not uncommon for a Warlord to be appointed from the lower classes. Talent still counted more than bloodlines in Hythria, and Damin was seriously considering looking further afield for the new Warlords. He'd had enough of bored noblemen with delusions of grandeur. A few young bucks who were more interested in holding onto their own provinces than eyeing off his throne would let him rest much easier at night.

Then there was the problem of the Defenders.

Tarja was not with his men, which worried Damin a great deal. Denjon had told him what Tarja had planned to do, but the fact that he had not returned from his mission to sink the ferries on the Glass River was a bad sign. Damin felt he owed the Defenders an enormous debt. With Tarja missing, and with an administrative and political nightmare ahead of him, he was tempted to drop everything, gather up his forces, head for Medalon and leave Adrina to sort out the details here at home. He smiled grimly at the idea. Trusting Adrina was still very new to him. He could not bring himself to tempt fate by handing her that much power.

It was five days since the battle and his hope that things would improve had proved optimistic in the extreme. Although gradually being brought under control, disease still raged throughout the city. There were thousands of homeless, as many wounded, and another five thousand Fardohnyans and Medalonians to feed.

Cyrus had stripped the countryside of what food there was close to the city. Damin had a vast number of his men out scouring the land for grain to tide them over until supplies could be brought in from the outlying provinces. The fishing fleet had put to sea again, which prevented the situation from becoming desperate, but he was so heartily sick of fish for every meal, that he was certain he would never be able to face it again once this crisis was over.

The door to his study suddenly flew open and slammed against the wall. Adrina stormed into the room. The candles wavered in the breeze caused by her anger. She was shaking with fury.

“Do you know what she's done?”

“Tell me who 'she' is, and I might be able to answer you,” he replied calmly. Adrina's tantrum was a welcome distraction.

“R'shiel!”

“She sent your brother and three thousand men to save our necks?” he suggested.

Adrina actually stamped her foot at him. He fought very hard not to smile.

“Don't be so bloody obtuse, Damin! She promised Hablet a son!”

“I know. Gaffen told me.”

“You knew about this? Why didn't you tell me?”

“I have been rather busy lately.”

“Then what are you doing about it?”

“Nothing.”

“You can't do nothing! She has just cost you the throne of Fardohnya!”

“Well, as I never actually wanted the damned thing in the first place, it hardly seems worth getting upset over the fact that I've lost it.”

“How could you not want it?” she asked, genuinely puzzled by his lack of ambition.

“Not everybody shares your desire to wear a crown, Adrina,” he told her. “Anyway, you were furious at me for being the heir to the throne. Now you're angry because I'm not. Make up your mind.”

She glared at him for a moment then flopped inelegantly into the chair on the other side of the desk. “I'm in no mood to be reasonable, Damin. Fight with me.”

“I will,” he promised, “when the occasion warrants it. But in this case, it's not worth it. I've got my hands full holding onto to Hythria. I don't need your father's kingdom as well. The whole idea of splitting Fardohnya and Hythria in the first place was because they were impossible to govern as one nation.”

“We could have done it,” she grumbled.

“We? Ah, so that's what this is all about. If I don't become the King of Fardohnya, you don't get to be Queen. I'm sorry, but you'll just have to settle for being the High Princess of Hythria.”

She smiled faintly, as if she understood how childishly she was behaving. “You have no idea how good it would have felt to return to Fardohnya as her Queen. My father sold me like a side of beef to the Kariens because that's all I was worth to him. And for no better reason than I was born a girl. It didn't matter how clever, or well educated, or politically astute I was.”

“Personally, I think your political acumen had a lot to do with it,” he suggested. “You are far too clever for a disinherited Princess. If I was in your father's position, I'd have shipped you off to a temple somewhere when you were five.”

“I think he wishes he had,” she agreed. “But there's more to this than me losing my chance to revenge myself on my father, Damin. Do you know what's going to happen once this child is born?”

He shrugged. “You mean other than a very big party?”

“Once my father has an heir, he will remove any threat to the child's claim on the throne.”

“But there are no other claimants to the throne.”

“I have thirteen living baseborn brothers, Damin. Hablet was quite prepared to legitimise one of them if he couldn't get a son. Each of them is a potential threat.”

Damin looked at her aghast. “Are you telling me he'll kill his own children?”

“He'll kill them and not lose a moment's sleep over it. This may be hard for you to understand - Hablet loves every one of his bastards - but they know as well as he does what fate will befall them should he produce a legitimate heir.”

“You're right. I don't understand.”

“It's tradition. When Hablet was born, his father had seventeen baseborn children and his three unmarried daughters put to death. When my father took the throne, every pregnant concubine and court'esa in the harem was executed. His own sister committed suicide as proof of her love for him. She was hailed as a heroine.”

“And you call me a barbarian.”

She shrugged, helpless to make him understand. “It's the Fardohnyan way.”

“Then I'm glad I won't ever have to sit on a throne that is soaked in so much innocent blood.”

“Don't you see the irony? You would never have countenanced such slaughter. I think that irks me more than anything else does. We could have put an end to that dreadful custom.” She rose to her feet and smiled at him sadly. “I'm sorry to burden you with this, now. I know you have a lot to do. Is Gaffen back yet?”

Damin nodded. “He arrived back with Narvell this morning.”

“Then I'll go find him and leave you in peace. As soon as I've slapped him around a few times for being such a pig to me when he arrived, I shall endeavour to make the most of what little time we have left together.”

Adrina walked to the door, leaving Damin staring at her back. It wasn't learning of the fate awaiting her siblings that disturbed him as much as her quiet acceptance of its inevitability.

“Adrina, wait!”

She turned and looked at him questioningly.

“If you can't be Queen, would you settle for Regent?”

“Regent of Fardohnya? How?”

“Your father's how old? Sixty? Sixty-five?” he asked, suddenly excited as the idea formed in his mind. “He'll live another ten years, perhaps, less if we're lucky. His son won't be old enough to take the throne when he dies.”

“He would never appoint me Regent.”

“He will if we make him an offer he can't refuse.”

“Like what?” she asked suspiciously.

“I'll renounce the Wolfblade claim on the Fardohnyan throne. I'll remove forever the threat of Fardohnya having a Hythrun King.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “And in return, he appoints me Regent? You know, that may actually work. But what of your plans for unity between Fardohnya and Hythria?”

“That will be up to you. This child will be as much your brother as Gaffen is. If you manage to get along with him half as well as you do with your bastard siblings, there'll be no danger of war between us. For that matter, he'll only be a few months younger than our child. If we're smart about this, they'll grow up the best of friends.”

“And you'd do this? You'd renounce a throne for me?” She appeared to be putting a rather romantic slant on something he considered a coldly rational and practical course of action. But he didn't correct her.

“Yes. I'd renounce a throne for you, Adrina.”

With a sob, she ran to him, threw her arms around his neck and buried her head in his shoulder. He could feel the slight swell of her belly pressing against him.

“Gods, you're not crying, are you?”

Adrina sniffed and looked up at him with glistening eyes. “No.”

He gently wiped a tear from her cheek. “If I'd known this was going to reduce you to tears, I wouldn't have suggested it.”

“Nobody ever loved me enough to renounce a throne for me, Damin.”

“That probably has more to do with lack of opportunity, rather than you being unloved,” he told her with a smile.

“Can't you be serious? Even when I'm trying to be nice to you?”

“I'm sorry. You bring out the worst in me.”

She kissed him then leaned back in his arms with a sigh. “I don't like admitting it, but I suppose I must feel something for you, Damin Wolfblade.”

“Well, I won't tell if you don't,” Damin promised with a smile.