Harshini

CHAPTER 47

Damin's coronation as High Prince was a subdued affair, for which he was grateful. He had no wish to indulge in the orgy of excess that normally accompanied such an event. Greenharbour was still getting over the siege and the battle that had raged through the city streets. There were thousands of homeless and some foods were still being rationed. It would have been asking for trouble if he had sanctioned such indiscriminate waste. Adrina had agreed with him, although Marla had been rather put out. She had spent her life imagining the day when her son would finally be crowned High Prince and was rather annoyed that her grandiose dreams were to be so easily dismissed.

Kalan had placed the crown on Damin's head with a wink that only he could see, then placed the High Princess' crown on Adrina's dark hair with only the faintest hint of reluctance. There had not been a High Princess in Hythria for more than fifty years and the last one had been a small, timid girl who had struggled through two pregnancies and then finally given up on life when she delivered a healthy girl. She had not lived long enough to learn that the baby had been named Marla. In fact, since the death of one of her twin boys she had delivered the year before, she had not paid much attention to anything. Damin glanced at Marla and wondered what she was thinking as her mother's crown was placed on his Fardohnyan wife's head. Her expression was unreadable.

Following the coronation, they retired to the banquet hall for a moderately extravagant feast, at which all the Warlords of Hythria lined up to pay their respects and renew their allegiance to the House of Wolfblade.

The four Warlords who had supported him during the civil war approached the high table one by one, and repeated their oaths without hesitation. Tejay Lionsclaw was jovial, Rogan Bearbow grave and respectful. Narvell could barely contain his glee. Only Toren Foxtalon appeared a little wary, no doubt still thanking the gods that he had changed sides before it was too late.

Once the oaths were out of the way, Damin stood up and silence fell over the gathering. The hall was full, crowded with the Hythrun nobility he could not afford to offend, his new Fardohnyan allies and the Defenders who had arrived in time to save them all. He cast his gaze over them, wondering if ever a High Prince had addressed such an oddly assorted gathering before.

He raised his cup. “To Hythria!”

“Hythria!” the guests responded dutifully.

“It is customary, when a new High Prince takes the throne, to reward those who deserve it, and to punish those who deserve it also. I think we can dispense with the latter. Most of the punishments that needed meting out were taken care of before the coronation.”

A smattering of laughter wafted through the hall. Damin had been ruthlessly efficient in dealing with his enemies. He had no intention of bringing his child into a court riddled with potential assassins. If there were any souls left who wished him harm they were keeping very quiet about it.

“It now falls to me to name the Warlords of the provinces that find themselves without a ruling lord. The first province I wish to award is Krakandar, and I gift it to the man who deserves it better than I did. Step forward Lord Almodavar Krakenshield.”

Almodavar had been warned, of course. One did not hand out entire provinces on a whim and the Convocation already had ratified in secret every decision he would announce tonight. But Almodavar still looked stunned. He had worn the same look of blank surprise since Damin had told him about this three days ago.

The condition for Almodavar's acceptance had been that he take the name Krakenshield, so that Laran's name might live on. Almodavar had been his father's closest friend and had not objected to the condition. No one but he and Almodavar knew of the other condition that Damin had imposed. It made him smile with immature, vengeful delight - his only regret that he would not be there to see the look on Starros' face when Almodavar finally acknowledged him as his son and informed the head of the Thieves' Guild that he was now the heir to Krakandar.

Almodavar had guarded Krakandar as if it were his own since before Damin was born, and if his son could manage an organisation as volatile as the Thieves' Guild, ruling an entire province should prove easy by comparison. He had given Almodavar a message for Starros, which his old captain had promised to deliver when he returned home.

“Tell Starros he did not beat me. I let him win.”

“Is that it?” Almodavar had asked curiously.

“He'll know what I mean.”

Almodavar stepped forward and swore his oath of allegiance with pride and then moved to the empty seat on the high table with the other Warlords. Applause followed him to his seat. Nobody present doubted either Almodavar or his ability to rule Krakandar. More than a few mothers eyed him speculatively, aware that he was unmarried. More than a few young women present saw the look in their mothers' eyes and cringed - Almodavar might be capable, but he was old.

“The next province I wish to award is Dregian.”

The crowd stilled, wondering who would win the province of the man who had led the coup against the Damin. Many eyes turned on Garina Eaglespike and her three-year-old son Tav, who had been invited to attend. Her elder daughter Bayla sat next to Valorian Lionsclaw with a look of quiet terror in her eyes. If Damin took it into his head to destroy the Eaglespikes completely, she had only her marriage to Valorian to protect her, and Tejay was notoriously intolerant of her daughter-in law. Damin had it in his power to ruin her and there were many wondering why he had allowed her brother and mother to live.

“I grant Dregian Province to Tav Eaglespike, to be held in trust for him by Lord Bearbow. Tav is to be fostered with his sister at the court of Lady Lionsclaw until he comes of age. Lady Eaglespike may continue to reside in Dregian Province at Lord Bearbow's pleasure. She may see her son and daughter at Lady Lionsclaw's pleasure.”

The decision met with a relieved round of applause. Damin had avoided future trouble by leaving the province in the hands of the Eaglespike family, which had held it since time began, but with Tav raised under Tejay's watchful eye, he would grow up far differently from the way he would with an embittered mother to poison his mind. Nor would Dregian suffer until the child came of age. Rogan Bearbow's province was close enough to Dregian that he could easily administer both. Garina had accepted the decision with mixed feelings. She had lost her home and her son, but she would be permitted to keep her life and her position, such as it was. It was more than she could have hoped for and more than most people thought she deserved.

“That just leaves Greenharbour,” Damin announced as the applause dwindled away to nothing. He glanced across the table at Tejay Lionsclaw. Although she knew what he was about to do, and had even voted for it in the end, she wasn't particularly happy with the idea when he first proposed it. There were no heirs to the Falconlance name. Conin had risen from the ranks and been awarded the province on the death of the previous Warlord. There were no cousins to placate and no heirs to object to his decision. Adrina sat beside him, unsuspectingly.

“I grant Greenharbour Province to my brother-in-law, Gaffen of Fardohnya on the condition that he renounces his Fardohnyan citizenship and swears his loyalty to Hythria. He must also renounce any claim to the Fardohnyan throne, and chose a Hythrun name for his House.”

Stunned silence met his announcement. Adrina stared up at him in astonishment, understanding immediately what his declaration meant. By adopting a Hythrun name and renouncing his Fardohnyan ties, Damin was removing Gaffen from the line of Fardohnyan succession, even indirectly. If Hablet followed tradition and had his bastard sons murdered once he had a legitimate heir, her half-brother would be spared.

“Thank you,” she mouthed silently, a wealth of emotion in her eyes.

Damin smiled at her briefly then turned back to face the gathering. They were still staring at him silently. It was Tejay who broke the tension, leaping to her feet as she banged her tankard on the table.

“Damn it! If I can live with this, the rest of you can!” she declared. “Here's to Gaffen! None of you would be sitting here if it wasn't for him and the Defenders who came to our rescue and thank the gods no more of us got killed or we'd have had to appoint a few Medalonian Warlords, too!”

Someone laughed. Then someone else started clapping and then the whole room joined in. Gaffen stepped forward and swore the oath, just as conscious of its ramifications as his sister.

He took his place beside Tejay, who appeared to have had something of a change of heart about the big blond Fardohnyan since the Convocation. She was probably ten years his senior, but Tejay liked big men and Gaffen was endowed with a great deal of his court'esa mother's charm when he wanted to be disarming. Damin shook his head with a smile and resumed his seat.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Adrina asked.

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“My father is going to be furious.”

“I know,” he replied with a grin.

“You're really enjoying this, aren't you?”

“I'm starting to,” he admitted. “Provided I can keep my head on my shoulders and stop having to go to war every time I turn around, I think I might actually get to like being High Prince.”

“I thought you liked going to war?”

“I like a nice clean fight, Adrina. If I never see another siege as long as I live, it will be far too soon.”

It was too soon, he learnt later that evening, when Glenanaran strode purposefully through the hall to stand before the high table, his black eyes filled with concern. The Harshini bowed before the High Prince and spoke in a voice laden with regret.

“I am sorry to disturb your celebrations, Your Highness, but I have a message for you from the demon child and I'm afraid it cannot wait.”

Glenanaran said nothing further until they had gathered in the throne room. Everyone had scrambled to follow when Damin left the banquet hall, but in the end he had restricted the meeting to include only the Warlords, the two Defender captains, Denjon and Linst, Adrina, Marla and Kalan.

“R'shiel is at the Citadel,” Glenanaran informed them, when they were finally gathered. “At least she was when I spoke to her demons.”

“I thought she was in Fardohnya?” Tejay remarked. “She certainly gets around, this demon child.”

“What makes you think she's not there now?” Adrina asked.

“King Korandellan has collapsed. Sanctuary is back in real time. She may have gone there to render what aid she can.”

Damin glanced around at the others, certain his own face was just as concerned as the other Warlords were.

“What's the situation at the Citadel?” Denjon demanded impatiently.

“The Defenders have taken back the Citadel, Captain, and are holding the Karien dukes and a number of priests as hostages, but the Karien host still surrounds the city. I believe you call such a situation a... stand-off?” Glenanaran turned to Damin then, his expression grave. “The demon child asks that you gather up the Defenders and whatever Hythrun you can muster and come to their aid. I have already dispatched Joranara to Fardohnya to request King Hablet's aid.”

“You think he'll come?” Tejay scoffed sceptically.

“He'll come,” Gaffen assured her. “When he heard what happened to Tristan and his Guard, he was ready to attack Karien the next day.”

“How many men do the Kariens have surrounding the Citadel?” Another siege, Damin thought. Damn, how I hate siege warfare!

“At least a hundred thousand, I'm led to believe.”

The High Prince swore under his breath then looked around at his Warlords. “Counting the Fardohnyans, how many can we put in the field?”

“Fifty thousand, perhaps, maybe sixty, if Hablet is serious,” Rogan replied. “But it will take months. The logistics of moving such a force are unthinkable.”

“How long can the Citadel hold out, Divine One?”

Glenanaran shrugged. “The demon child did not say, Your Highness. But she did say that the gods have agreed to expedite your journey.”

“What does that mean?” The question came from Linst, the other Defender. He looked singularly unimpressed by the assurance.

“It means that if Hablet sails up the Glass River, he'll have fair winds all the way,” Glenanaran explained. “Sickness will not plague you, nor lack of fresh water. The bounty of the land will be at your disposal.”

“That doesn't help us much,” Toren Foxtalon complained. “The gods can't make the roads any shorter, or make our troops eat any less.”

“Pity we can't sail to Medalon, too,” Almodavar remarked.

“I'm not sure the gods had rearranging the geography of the entire continent in mind when they offered their help, my Lord,” the Harshini told him with a thin smile.

“Then how do we get there?” Gaffen asked. “I'll take every man I have, but it won't do them much good if we can't get to the Citadel before next winter.”

Damin studied Glenanaran's serene expression for a moment then turned to Gaffen. “We'll get there the same way I got to Medalon the last time.”

The Harshini smiled. “I see you understand, Your Highness.”

“Well, I'm glad he understands, because I certainly don't,” Tejay grumbled.

“When his Highness crossed into Medalon to aid the demon child at Lord Brakandaran's request, we called on the power of the gods to expedite our journey,” the Harshini explained unhelpfully.

“That tells me nothing.”

“Don't worry about it, Tejay. Just get your Raiders mustered.”

“And what happens to my borders while we go chasing off to Medalon?”

“I will send Farandelan to Sunrise Province and she will see that your Fardohnyan neighbours do not try to take advantage of your absence.”

“I appreciate the offer, Divine One, but Farandelan cannot kill.”

“There is no need to kill, my Lady. Her presence will be enough. She will not permit any killing at all. That is how it was in the past and how it will be again.”

“And assuming we manage to get to the Citadel before it falls?” Denjon asked. “What then? We're still outnumbered two to one.”

“The demon child was of the opinion that your numbers would be sufficient, Captain. I can tell you no more than that.”

“And we all know what a tactical genius R'shiel is,” Linst muttered sarcastically.

“Captain, I cannot ease your mind or tell you what I do not know. All I can do is ask that you heed the demon child's request and gather your forces as quickly as possible. Other Harshini will join you to aid your journey north.”

“Other Harshini?” Kalan asked.

“With Sanctuary no longer hidden, our people will be safer with your forces than they will be at home. We will do what we can to help, High Arrion.”

“I guess that settles it then,” Damin said, looking around at the others. “We're going to Medalon.”

CHAPTER 48

Mikel helped Adrina pack for the journey to Medalon, quite certain that he would have to unpack it all again once Damin Wolfblade discovered she was planning to join him. Her condition was plainly visible now, although it did not seem to bother her. The fatigue that had plagued her previously had passed. Her skin glowed with health; her emerald eyes were bright as jewels and her dark hair shone with lustre. Having spent much of the early months of her pregnancy in the saddle, she carried little extra weight other than the child. She was full of restless energy and had been, for the past few weeks at least, quite easy to get along with. Mikel had even overheard Princess Marla complain that a woman had no right to look so damned healthy in her condition.

Mikel had fallen back into the role as her page after R'shiel vanished. With Tamylan gone, Adrina had worked her way through a score of slaves since then, none of them meeting her exacting standards. The latest had fled in tears this morning when Adrina accused her of being a fumble-fingered half-wit. Mikel didn't blame his Princess, and had his suspicions about the slaves sent to wait on her. Marla hand-picked them and he suspected that the Dowager Princess was not going out of her way to be accommodating. For some reason, perhaps because of their previous history, Adrina found Mikel to her liking. Although his earlier innocent worship of her had been replaced by something a little more realistic, he still admired her and was happy to be of service.

“Is it cold in Medalon, Mikel?”

He dumped the pile of clothes he was carrying on the bed and looked at the Princess. She was holding a fur cloak in front of her, studying her reflection in the mirror.

“I don't know, Your Highness. It will be nearly summer by the time we get there.”

“Maybe just the woollen cloak then. I want to travel light.”

Mikel cast an eye over the mammoth pile that Adrina had already labelled her “essentials” and frowned. “Your Highness, I'm not sure that Prince Damin will consider that 'travelling light'.”

She looked at the heap of clothes and sighed. “You're right. I'm lost without Tam. I wish she were here.”

He didn't know how to answer that. He had liked the Fardohnyan slave, but was not so attached to her that he could empathise with Adrina's grief. His earlier guilt about her fate had faded with the passage of time. He was saved from answering by the appearance of Damin Wolfblade, who stopped at the door and looked around suspiciously.

“What's all this?”

“I'm trying to decide what to pack,” Adrina told him. “I wish Tam were here. She was so much better than me at this sort of thing.”

“What happened to the slave Marla sent you?”

“She was an idiot. I sent her away.”

Damin stepped into the room and examined the chaos scattered around the room more closely. “Why are you packing?”

“For Medalon, of course.”

He stared at her as if his hearing had suddenly failed him. “You're what?”

“Packing for Medalon. Do you think I'll need the fur?”

“No, Adrina, you won't need the fur. Or anything else, for that matter. You're staying here.”

She looked at him in astonishment. “Of course I'm not staying here! I'm coming with you.”

“In case it's escaped your notice, Adrina, you're having a baby.”

“I'm only pregnant, Damin, not terminally ill.”

“I'm not going to risk you or our child by taking you into a battle.”

“Oh for the gods' sake, Damin. If I was a peasant I'd be working in the fields until I dropped the brat and then I'd be back in the fields the very next day.”

“That brat, as you so eloquently put it, is the heir to Hythria.”

“Then travel will be good for him. It will broaden his horizons.”

“Neither are you a peasant,” he added, not at all impressed by her attempt at levity. “I forbid you to come.”

“I don't recall asking your permission.”

“That's because you knew damned well I wouldn't give it.”

Adrina threw down the fur cloak and put her hands on her hips. Mikel shrank back a little, having seen Adrina in a similar mood before. Her eyes glittered dangerously.

“Damin, I think we need to settle something. I am your wife. I am not your court'esa, or your lackey, your slave or your possession. I am going with you. If you refuse me, I'll simply find my own way there, but one way or another, I will go to Medalon.” Then she smiled suddenly, as if making her declaration had settled the matter. “Besides, you need me.”

“Why do I need you?”

“Because my father will be leading the Fardohnyans and you really don't want to confront him without me there to calm him down.”

“I can manage.”

“Don't be too sure about that,” she warned. “You don't know my father.”

Damin took a deep breath. He did that a lot when he argued with Adrina, Mikel noticed. “Adrina, even if I conceded the point about your father, the fact is, the Hythrun heir must be born on Hythrun soil. If you come to Medalon with me, you will deliver the child before we can get back.”

“Is that your only objection? Mikel, come here!”

Damin turned to stare at him as he edged his way around the High Prince to reach his mistress. Although Damin rarely paid him any attention, he was still more than a little afraid of the Hythrun Prince.

“Your Highness?”

“I have a job for you, Mikel.” She marched over to the bed and pulled one of the pillows from it, shaking it out of its silk cover. She handed Mikel the pillowcase. “Take this out to the gardeners and ask them to fill it.”

“With what, Your Highness?”

“With Hythrun soil, of course.” She looked up at Damin and smiled triumphantly. “If it's Hythrun soil you want so badly, Damin, then I'll simply take some with me. Off you go, Mikel! There's a good lad.”

Damin shook his head. “There's no way I can talk you out of this, I suppose?”

“No.”

They stared at each other, debating who was likely to give in first. Damin Wolfblade finally threw up his hands in defeat. He wasn't happy with the idea, but he seemed to admire her spirit. Cratyn would have hit her, Mikel thought with a twinge of guilt.

“Go on then, Mikel. Get us a sack of Hythrun soil. And guard it with your life, boy. We may need it in a hurry.”

Although the fighting had not reached this far, Gaffen's Fardohnyans had used the palace gardens as a shortcut from the dock below the palace and trampled everything in sight in their haste to join in the fray. The statuary was pushed over, the shrubbery bent and shredded, and even the large fountain in the centre was broken, its water dragons cavorting in a dry pool with snapped-off noses and missing fins. Mikel wandered through the vast gardens for quite a while, looking for someone to fill the pillowcase with soil. The gardeners were nowhere in sight.

“A sad sight indeed, don't you think?”

Mikel glanced across the broken fountain and discovered the old man sitting on the edge of the pool. He had not seen him for a while, but he seemed to pop up in the strangest places. Although he looked a lot like the old man he had seen in the stables in Roan Vale, Mikel had convinced himself it could not be the same person. This man roamed the Hythrun palace at will. He was, so Mikel figured, a retired slave or old family retainer, who had been given the freedom of the palace in return for a lifetime of service. Mikel often bumped into him in quiet, out-of-the-way places, and had come to think of the old man as a friend, although if pressed, Mikel wasn't sure he even knew the old man's name.

“They'll fix it eventually, I suppose. They're too busy rebuilding the houses to think about fountains.”

“Ah, yes, the ever practical Hythrun,” the old man chuckled. “They were always like that. One of the reasons I could never get much sense out of them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing. So, are you off to Medalon with the others, then?”

He nodded and walked around the fountain to sit beside the old man. “I'm going with Princess Adrina. I'm her page now.”

“That's wonderful!” the old man cried, patting Mikel on the back. “You must be very proud. Imagine the things you will do, the places you will see, the important people you will meet.”

“I suppose. I'll probably meet the King of Fardohnya. He's going to Medalon, too.”

“Is he now? Won't he have trouble getting there in time?”

“The Harshini Glenanaran said the gods are going to help.”

The old man's expression grew fierce for a moment, as if some uncontrollable anger had suddenly consumed him. Then it was gone; so quickly that Mikel thought he had imagined it.

“Well, he should be fine then. And what of you, my young friend? Will you see the demon child again, do you think?”

“I suppose so.”

“That is excellent news. I shall have to give you a message for her.”

“Do you know the demon child?”

“Very well,” the old man said. “Very well, indeed.”

Mikel looked at him curiously, not sure what it was about the old man's tone that unsettled him. “What did you want me to tell her?”

“Ah, I shall have to compose my message most carefully. I will see you before you leave. I'll let you know then. Now, what are you doing strolling the gardens of the palace clutching an empty pillowcase, my lad?”

He glanced down at the pillowcase and shrugged. “Princess Adrina wants me to fill it with Hythrun soil in case she has her baby in Medalon.”

The old man laughed. “A wise precaution. Well, don't let me keep you from such an important task, Mikel. We'll meet again, never fear. And I will give you my message for the demon child.”

Mikel stood up and turned to say goodbye, but the old man was already gone.

CHAPTER 49

Sanctuary glittered in the dawn as R'shiel and Brak flew over the mountains, sitting proudly atop the ranges where for so long it had remained hidden. Brak watched it draw closer through eyes that watered from the cold wind, feeling as if he had stepped back in time, rather than Sanctuary coming into real time to meet him.

It was almost two hundred years since he had ridden on the back of a dragon towards Sanctuary. The last time it had been to warn Lorandranek that he must hide the settlement or risk the Sisterhood finding it - a mission the Sisters of the Blade had pursued for decades after the First Purge. Lorandranek had conceived the idea of hiding the settlement out of time, a burden that he found trying, but not unbearable. In those days he had shared the task with his nephew, the young Korandellan, and between the two of them, Sanctuary had been able to appear and disappear at will, safe from the Sisterhood, the Karien priests and the odd marauder who stumbled into the mountains trying to escape justice.

But since the madness and death of Lorandranek and the arrival of the demon child, that luxury had been denied them. Sanctuary had stayed hidden as Xaphista grew stronger and more desperate to find his nemesis. Korandellan had carried the burden alone, although why Shananara had not taken up some of the load concerned Brak. She was just as much a té Ortyn as the King, and just as capable as her brother of wielding the power such a feat required. He planned to ask that of the Princess when he saw her. His relationship with Shananara té Ortyn was such that he had no qualms about demanding an answer. They had been lovers once, in a distant past.

Brak glanced across at R'shiel, smiling at her awe-struck expression. She had never seen Sanctuary like this before and it obviously left her breathless. Or perhaps it was the altitude, he thought cynically. R'shiel wasn't impressed by much these days.

Without any prompting from Brak, his dragon began to bank to the right, circling over the slender towers of the Harshini settlement with Dranymire and R'shiel close behind. With surprising gentleness, the dragons beat their massive wings and lowered themselves down onto a high terrace circled by a balustrade that appeared dipped in silver in the soft dawn light. A solitary figure waited for them, dressed in the customary long white robes of the Harshini.

Brak jumped down from the dragon and squinted into the rising sun as the figure approached. As soon as he was clear of the dragon, the meld crumbled and the demons spilled over the terrace, delighted to be home.

“You're a bit late, Brakandaran,” Shananara said, sidestepping demons as she approached. “And you've brought the demon child.”

“Hello, Shananara.”

The Princess glanced over Brak then turned her attention to R'shiel. “You're still alive, I see. Amazing.”

“We felt Sanctuary return.”

“That's hardly surprising. Every god, every sorcerer, every priest and every village charlatan on the continent probably felt it. You'd better come with me. Korandellan wants to see you.” She turned on her heel and walked towards the tall doors that opened off the tower, expecting them to follow.

“What's the matter with her?” R'shiel asked as they followed.

“She's angry.”

“I thought the Harshini couldn't get angry?”

“They can't.”

“She's doing a pretty good imitation.”

Brak shook his head and said nothing. He understood what Shananara was going through. Denied the human outlet of anger or fear or recrimination, she was boiling inside with emotions she did not have the luxury of being able to voice.

They followed the Princess through the halls of Sanctuary, past a subdued and cautious population, to the King's chambers. When they finally reached the broad white doors, Shananara waved them open then looked at R'shiel.

“You must speak with the King. Alone.”

R'shiel glanced at Brak, as if she wanted him to confirm the instruction. He nodded imperceptibly, and he watched as she took a deep breath, visibly bracing herself for what she would find within. He watched her walk through the tall doors, watched Shananara wave them shut behind her.

“What happened?” he asked, as soon as the doors were completely closed.

“Not here,” the Princess replied, with a glance around the empty hall. “Let's go to my chambers.”

He did not try to hide his surprise. This was Sanctuary. There were no secrets here. But he followed her wordlessly down to the next level where she lived. Stepping across the threshold, Brak decided that her rooms had not changed at all since he had last been here. They were still large and airy and filled with the clutter of her many forays into the human world. She closed the doors by hand and stood leaning against them, watching him as he looked around the room.

“Why did you bring her here?”

“R'shiel? She has a plan to save the Harshini,” he said, picking a small statue from the table near the hearth. It was a small horse, exquisitely carved in jade. It looked Fardohnyan.

“If it's anything like her plan to deal with Xaphista, we'd be better off without her help.”

Brak replaced the tiny statue and smiled at her. “Cynicism does not become you, Shananara. Actually, you sound ridiculous. You need a bit of human blood in you to make it really effective.”

“The demon child should thank the gods I don't have any human blood. If you could see Korandellan...”

“How bad is he?”

“Bad enough.” She moved away from the door and walked to the tall open window. The rising sun touched her dark red hair with flecks of gold and lined her perfect Harshini features in crimson. She crossed her arms, as if she was cold, although the temperature in Sanctuary was constant and always pleasant. “He's dying, Brak.”

“How... ?” he asked, too stunned to ask more.

“How do you think? The demon child draws on our power like it has no end. She threatens, she cajoles, she coerces, and she contemplates violence with every breath she takes. Korandellan has been linked to the power without a break since R'shiel was born, and may the gods help me, I taught her to tap into it. Do you know what it's done to him? Can you imagine what it must have been like for him to try to hold Sanctuary out of time while the demon child is on the loose, throwing her anger around without a care for anything or anybody? It has destroyed him.”

“Can't Cheltaran help him?”

“It's the power of the gods that has hurt him, Brak. More of it will simply make him worse.”

“But Cheltaran has helped others in the past who've drawn too much. He did it not so long ago in Greenharbour.”

“Glenanaran and the others drew too much of one strand of the power. Cheltaran could heal them because he was using a part of it they had not touched. Korandellan has been drawing on all of it. If the gods intervened, any one of them could kill him.”

“Then why didn't you help? You could have taken some of the load off him.”

“You think I didn't try? I've begged him, Brak, time and again. But he believed R'shiel would prevail and that she would do it before he faltered. An idle wish, as it turns out.”

“He's not dead yet, Shananara, and the Harshini are still safe. At least until Xaphista's minions can find a way into the mountains. There is time yet.”

“Time for what, Brak? For Korandellan to die? And you know what will happen if he dies, don't you? R'shiel is Lorandranek's daughter. She is the rightful heir.”

Brak stared at the Princess, aghast at the mere suggestion. “You're not seriously considering letting R'shiel take the throne? That's insane! Doesn't Korandellan have a child?”

“There are no children, Brak.”

“Then it must be you.”

“I cannot step forward unless R'shiel refuses the crown.”

“Then I'll make damned sure she does refuse it,” he promised. The idea of R'shiel ruling the gentle Harshini was too bizarre, too horrible to contemplate.

Shananara smiled at him fondly. “I believe you would, Brakandaran. But it is not my decision, or yours. It is between Korandellan and the demon child.”

“She won't do it.”

“Perhaps. But the crown is hers for the taking should she ask for it.”

“She won't ask for it. R'shiel is driven by anger, not power for its own sake.”

“Your opinion of her has improved somewhat, I notice.”

“She's learning.”

“Yes, but what exactly have you been teaching her?”

He shrugged. “Only what I have to. But she's a quick study. She sees a thing once and remembers it.”

Shananara nodded. “Her tutors here said much the same thing. Unfortunately, she lacks wisdom and wisdom is something gained through experience, not learnt by rote, no matter how well meaning the teacher.”

R'shiel was gone for hours, leaving Brak little choice but to impatiently pace Shananara's chambers, waiting for news. Samaranan came to visit for a while, delighted to see her half-human sibling, but even his sister's smiling presence had a fragile edge to it. They spoke of inconsequential things, both of them avoiding the real reason Brak was here. The Harshini were averse to violence, but they were not blind to the consequences of Korandellan's collapse. They knew the demon child had returned and that Xaphista was as strong as ever. Their future was bleak and for a race unable to imagine such desolation, it was a trying time indeed.

Eventually, Dranymire materialised in the apartment, startling Brak with his sudden appearance.

“Lord Brakandaran. Your Highness. The King wishes to see you both.”

They hurried upstairs to Korandellan's chambers and found the doors open and waiting for them. Brak entered the room hesitantly, afraid of what he would find. R'shiel was waiting for them by the door to Korandellan's bedroom. She looked pale and rather chastened. Without a word she stood back to let them enter, and then followed them inside, closing the door behind her.

Brak was shocked by the King's appearance. Korandellan lay on the bed, his golden skin sallow and almost as pale as the sheets beneath him. He was as thin as a man who had not eaten for a month and his once bright eyes were dull and lifeless.

“Thank you, Brakandaran, for bringing the demon child home.” His voice, once so vibrant and resonant, was barely more than a hoarse whisper.

“It was her idea, Your Majesty. I merely showed her the way.”

The King smiled weakly. “It is good that you did... Shananara?”

“I'm here, Koran,” the Princess said, moving to her brother's side. Brak stepped back to let her pass. R'shiel had not moved from the door.

“R'shiel has come to lead our people home.”

“We are home, brother.”

“No. Sanctuary has been our prison these last two hundred years. The Citadel is our true home.”

“The Citadel?” Shananara's eyes flew to R'shiel in astonishment, then she looked back at the King. “You don't mean you want us to return to the Citadel?”

“We cannot be harmed there. The Citadel will protect us.”

“But what of the Sisterhood and their Defender henchmen?”

“There is no more Sisterhood,” R'shiel said from the door. “The Defenders are in charge. Tarja is the new Lord Defender. I have his word that the Harshini may return unmolested.”

Shananara glanced at her in disbelief then sat down beside Korandellan on the bed, taking his clammy hand in hers. “Don't worry about it now, Koran. We can discuss this when you've recovered.”

“I'll not recover, Shanan. You know that as well as I do. Take our people home. I charge you with their welfare.” Korandellan closed his eyes, as if the effort of so much conversation had exhausted him.

“Are you mad?” she asked R'shiel, softly. “How can you come here and offer him such false hope?”

“It's not a false hope, Shananara. The Harshini may safely return to the Citadel.”

She turned to Brak. “Is this true?”

He nodded. “I told you she had a plan.”

“You might have warned me what it was!”

The King's eyes opened again and he smiled at his sister. “You were always the practical one, Shanan. Do this thing for me. Our people need you.”

“They don't need me, Koran. The demon child will be their Queen once you are gone.”

“I've already told Korandellan I don't want the job,” R'shiel said.

“You see, sister, the demon child is wiser than you think.” Korandellan smiled wanly and held out his hand to R'shiel. She crossed the room and took it in hers. Brak was astonished to see that her eyes were filled with tears. “Do not regret what you have done, demon child. Think only on the good you will do in the future. You have what you need to defeat Xaphista, so remember what I have told you about the Seeing Stones. Do what you are destined for and be at peace with yourself.”

R'shiel nodded wordlessly then looked across at Brak. The King looked at him too, his dull eyes filled with forgiveness. “I give you the same advice, Brakandaran. Do not regret what you have done. Everything is as it should be. You have more than made amends for your mistakes. Face Death secure in that knowledge that your sacrifice was not in vain.”

“I will.”

“And you, Shananara. You are the last of the té Ortyn. It is up to you to see that we continue. Once you have returned to the Citadel, you should speak with Glenanaran. It is time you two had a child.”

Shananara smiled fondly at her brother. “If I wanted a child, what makes you think I would pick Glenanaran?”

“I know you too well, my dear.”

“That you do, brother. That you do.”

Brak looked up suddenly, as he felt a presence in the room. Although he could see nothing yet, he knew who it was. With a sharp glance at R'shiel, he waved her away from the bed. She could feel it too, but did not recognise it. Shananara leaned over and kissed Korandellan on the forehead, and then stepped back.

“What... ?” R'shiel began to ask, but Shananara glared at her so fiercely that she fell silent.

Death materialised slowly at the foot of the King's bed. He had chosen the benign aspect of the Harshini to welcome the King into his realm, although his robes were translucent and his black eyes hollow orbs, rather than the bright eyes of the Harshini. Korandellan smiled when he saw him, unafraid.

“You will sup with me this night, Your Majesty.” Death's lips did not move, but each of them could hear him, as if his voice spoke directly to their souls.

“You do me a great honour, my Lord, to escort me personally.”

“You do me the honour, sire. It is not often I am able to welcome one of your people into my home.” Death turned then and stared at R'shiel, who took a step back from him in fear. “There is no need to be anxious, demon child. You and I will not meet again for quite some time.” R'shiel did not answer him. She appeared frozen in shock. Death swivelled his head to stare at Brak. “But you and I will meet, Brakandaran, and soon, I suspect. Our bargain is almost fulfilled.”

“Well, don't get too excited,” Brak warned disrespectfully. “It's not done with yet.”

“I will be waiting, Brakandaran.”

“I never doubted that for a moment, my Lord.”

The spectre turned his attention back to Korandellan. “Are you ready, Your Majesty?”

“I am ready.”

Death raised his arm and pointed at Korandellan. As he did so, the King appeared to change. He began to fill out and his colour returned. His aura glowed with strength, pure and unmarked by fear or pain. This was Korandellan in his prime. His eyes brightened and he assumed such an aura of wellbeing that Brak expected him to leap off the bed. Instead, he rose slowly until he was standing, his weight making no impression on the down-filled mattress.

Then with a smile of serene happiness Korandellan walked into the arms of Death and they both disappeared from the room.

CHAPTER 50

“I don't understand.”

“That's not unusual for you.” Brak smiled at R'shiel's scowl.

She waved her arm to indicate the gathered Harshini who were busily preparing to depart. Demon-melded dragons could be seen on every terrace, although some apparently preferred to travel by large and improbable birds who beat their vast wings slowly, as if warming them up for flight, and hissed impatiently at the dragons. The dragons varied in size and colouring. Some were massive, like Dranymire and his brethren; others more delicate, their metallic scales touched with fire as the sun set over the mountains.

“Why are they so damned happy?”

The whole atmosphere in Sanctuary had changed since Korandellan's death and Shananara's announcement that they were to return to the Citadel. The fragile cheerfulness that had permeated the fortress had been replaced by a sense of optimistic anticipation. The Harshini preparing to leave were so buoyant, R'shiel was surprised they didn't whistle while they worked. Some of them were heading for the Citadel; others for Fardohnya and Hythria. Shananara had also called for volunteers to fly to the aid of the relieving army that was heading for Medalon.

“They're going home.”

“To the Citadel? I didn't realise it meant so much to them.”

“The Citadel is part of the Harshini, R'shiel. It's been very trying on them being away from it for so long.”

“Don't they realise what's waiting for them there? The Defenders... the Kariens...”

“Of course they do. But you've assured them they'll be safe and they trust Tarja to keep his word.”

She noticed his smile and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“You remember what I said about the Citadel reclaiming the Harshini?”

“Yes.”

He laughed softly. “I can't wait to see what happens when they arrive.”

“Is this another one of those vital details you neglected to mention?”

“The Citadel has been hibernating for two hundred years, R'shiel. He's liable to wake up when the Harshini come home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm not certain myself,” he told her with a grin. “But it's bound to be interesting.”

Annoyed with Brak's smirking, R'shiel turned her attention back to the departing Harshini. They were sitting on the balustrade of the same terrace they had landed on, watching the demons melding. Dranymire and a dozen other prime demons were fighting for space on the crowded terrace, trying to pull their brethren into their melds. Occasional squabbles broke out among the younger demons, but they were put down swiftly and sharply by the older ones. They reminded R'shiel of unruly children.

“Look at them!” she scoffed. “Their King just died and they're being kicked out of their homes. You'd think they'd spare a thought for poor Korandellan, at least.”

“Grief is a human emotion. Besides, the Harshini are delighted. Korandellan didn't die. Death came for him personally.”

“Oh? You mean there's a difference?”

“Of course there's a difference. Death took Korandellan body and soul. That's a rare honour.”

“He's still dead, Brak.”

“Yes, but you saw him before he vanished. Death restored him. And there's always the chance that he'll come back.”

“What?” she said, turning to him, her eyes wide.

“It's happened before.”

“When?” she demanded sceptically.

“Well, it's a theoretical possibility.” He smiled at her doubtful expression. “Put it this way: if you die, and Death only takes your soul, then that's the end. You're gone. It's the reason your people cremate their dead, did you know that? Pagans believe in burial, so that Death can still claim the body if he has a mind to.”

“But if you burn the body, then there's no hope of resurrection?” she asked, nodding in understanding. She had never wondered why Medalonians practised cremation, or really cared why the pagans preferred to be buried, but it made sense now she knew the reason.

“That's right. If your soul ever comes back, it'll have to be in another body. But if Death takes your soul and your body, then he can send you back again, if the mood takes him.”

“And does it?”

“Not often. He doesn't like to disturb the natural balance of things. He's a real stickler for the rules.”

“He seemed to know you pretty well.”

“We've had dealings in the past,” Brak said abruptly. She could tell he did not want to elaborate.

“What did he mean about —”

“Here comes our new Queen,” Brak cut in, before R'shiel could frame the question she was certain he did not wish to answer. There was an inexplicable edge in his voice. “We'd best say goodbye.”

Shananara approached them, dressed in dragon-rider's leathers, her long-legged stride and easy grace marking her as Harshini, even more than her totally black eyes. She smiled as she neared them, then glanced over her shoulder to check on Dranymire and the demon-meld before turning to R'shiel.

“As soon as we have reached the Citadel, I will send Dranymire and Elanymire back for you both. Do you know what to do?”

R'shiel nodded. Although the Harshini were abandoning Sanctuary, they had no intention of leaving it empty to be pawed over by the Kariens and defiled in the same way the Citadel had been defiled by its new tenants. Shananara had shown R'shiel how to remove it from time, but on this occasion there would be nobody inside to suffer from it. The fortress would be completely empty of life. Every animal had fled. Every Harshini was preparing to leave. Even the insects had been advised to move out. Once the Harshini were gone, she would send Sanctuary so far out of time that only she or Shananara would have any hope of retrieving it.

“Then let the Kariens come. There will be nothing here for them to find.”

“I hope I do it right,” R'shiel said, suffering a momentary pang of uncertainty.

“You will,” Shananara assured her. “Korandellan was right about you, you know. You are not nearly as unreliable as I first thought.”

“Thank you... I think.”

“Things are as they should be, R'shiel.”

“Even though Korandellan is dead?”

“My brother was honoured by Death. There is no greater reward for a lifetime of service. Now, I must bid you farewell. I will try to ensure that our return does not wreak too much havoc on the residents of the Citadel.”

Shananara and Brak exchanged a look that was full of amusement.

“You both keep saying that! What are you talking about?”

“You'll see,” Shananara replied with a cryptic smile. “Will I see you again, Brak?”

“Yes. It's not over yet.”

“Then there is no need for goodbyes. I will see you both at the Citadel. Hopefully, Tarja will be a little more reasonable than the last time we met.”

“He wasn't unreasonable, Shanan. He was under a geas.”

Suddenly serious, Shananara nodded. “I know. And now the geas is gone. It's strange, but when we sat around that fire beside the Glass River trying to coax the demon child home, I never imagined that a couple of years later I would be returning to the Citadel as the Harshini Queen and Tarja would be the Lord Defender. Even destiny can play tricks on us at times.”

“Go easy on him, Shanan,” Brak advised. “He's had a rough time lately.”

“Never fear, Brak. I know how to handle humans, even testy ones.” She turned to R'shiel and hugged her briefly. “As for you, little cousin. Do this thing for us then return to the Citadel to fulfil your destiny. I will help you locate the Seeing Stone.”

“Why not use the Stone here?” Brak asked. “Now that Sanctuary is back in real time, does it matter?”

“Korandellan told me that only the Seeing Stone of the Citadel is capable of what I need. I must find that or find another way, I'm afraid.”

“We'll find it, R'shiel. The High Arrion was right. No human could have destroyed it. If it's still in the Citadel, we'll locate it eventually.”

Shananara then turned on her heel and walked back towards her dragon. She leapt aboard with practised ease and the dragon lifted into the sky with a powerful beat of his massive wings. Her departure was the signal for the other Harshini to take off, and within minutes the sky was dotted with dragons climbing towards the red-tinted clouds. There were too many for R'shiel to count. She watched them dwindle into the distance until they were little more than specks in the sky. The sight both cheered and saddened her. The Harshini were abroad once more, but they were facing a world they had been removed from for centuries and it was radically different from the one they had left behind.

“Will they be all right, Brak?”

“Yes. Shananara is right, you know. Things are as they should be.”

She turned to look at him, puzzled by the sadness in his voice.

“Korandellan was a good King, but he never stepped foot outside Sanctuary. Shanan has been walking among humans since she was a child. She'll rule the Harshini much more effectively now that they have gone back among humans than Koran ever could.”

“But you still grieve for Korandellan, don't you?”

He nodded. “He was a good friend.”

“How many good friends have you lost for me, Brak?”

“More than you will ever know.”

She had no answer for that and darkness was falling rapidly over the deserted fortress.

Brak jumped down from the balustrade and held out his hand to her. “We'd better make sure this place is empty before you send it away.”

She took his hand and jumped down beside him and together they walked back into the silent, empty halls.

CHAPTER 51

The last room they checked was Brak's. R'shiel looked about in fascination, seeing a side of him she never suspected. There was an easel by the window with a half-completed landscape resting on it. Leaning against the wall near the bed was a beautifully crafted lyre, and beside it a thick pile of music. She picked the lyre up and strummed the strings thoughtfully. Brak looked up from papers he was sorting through on the table on the other side of the room and frowned.

“Please don't touch anything, R'shiel.”

“I didn't know you played.”

“I used to.”

“I didn't know you painted, either.”

“There's a lot you don't know about me.”

She replaced the lyre carefully and sat on the bed. “Why did Death say he would meet you again soon?”

Brak shrugged. “He's a sociable sort of fellow.”

“I noticed,” she said with a smile, hoping to lighten his mood. He had grown ever more morose the longer they spent in Sanctuary's echoing, silent rooms. “Korandellan told you to face Death secure in that knowledge that your sacrifice is not in vain. Shananara asked if she would see you again, too. Why would she say that?”

“Ask her.”

Brak was shifting papers across the table without purpose. She had angered him and couldn't understand why.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No... look, why don't you go and see if there's any other rooms on this level we haven't checked? I'll meet you on the terrace when I'm finished here.”

She rose to her feet, a little hurt that he was dismissing her so coldly. “Can't I help?”

“No.”

“Brak...”

“Out!”

R'shiel jumped at the anger in his voice. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“Right now, you're breathing!” he retorted. “That's enough.”

“What's gotten into you, Brak? This isn't my fault, you know.”

“Actually, R'shiel, it is your fault. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to be alone while I sort out my things. I'm not likely to get another chance.”

“Fine!” she declared. “Take all the time you want. I'm not going anywhere!”

R'shiel stormed from the room and ran down the long hall, her footsteps loud and discordant in the dark, silent halls. She stopped when she reached the balcony overlooking the valley, angry and hurt by Brak's sudden rejection. The waterfall tinkled musically down the rock face on the other side of the valley, although the perpetual rainbow had been swallowed by the half-light that passed for night here. The sound soothed her. She had done nothing to deserve Brak's anger that she could recall. No more than usual, at any rate.

His sudden intolerance mystified her. She tried to recall everything that had happened since they arrived at Sanctuary. Nothing sprang to mind that would make him turn on her like that. Except when she questioned him about Death. He'd been rather touchy about that up on the terrace, too. And why, in the name of the Founders, did he suddenly decide to sort his papers out? Anyone would think...

With the thought only half completed, R'shiel ran back to Brak's room and threw open the door. She glared at him accusingly, tears blurring her vision, anger and grief battling each other for dominance.

“It's you!”

“What?”

“It's you, isn't it? The life you traded for mine? ‘A life of equal value,’ that's what you said. You told me you traded someone's life for mine when Joyhinia almost killed me. You bargained with Death and offered your life to save mine, didn't you? That's why Death said your deal was almost done. It's why Shananara asked if she would ever see you again. You damned, sentimental, self-sacrificing, half-breed, bastard idiot!”

Brak stared at her for a moment and then looked away. His anger had faded. He looked simply resigned. “It doesn't matter.”

She crossed the room and grabbed his shoulder, forcing him to look at her. “How could you?”

“How could I not?” he asked her softly.

She wiped away her tears angrily and punched his arm. “You can't do this to me! You can't do it to yourself. I don't deserve it. Founders, Brak, what am I supposed to do? Spend the rest of my life - all ten thousand years of it - knowing I'm alive because you squandered your life on me?”

She tried to hit him again but Brak pulled her close and held her while she sobbed. She could not believe what he had done, or the guilt such knowledge had burdened her with.

“There, there,” he said, as if he was comforting a small child. “It's too late to do anything about it now.”

“Why did you do it?” she cried, her face buried in his chest.

“I only had one life to bargain with, R'shiel. To offer another life would have been murder.”

“You could have let him take me.”

Brak kissed the top of her head and lifted her chin with the tip of his finger. With his thumb he gently wiped away a tear. “No. That I couldn't do.”

For a timeless moment he looked at her. Then he kissed her, lightly, his lips just brushing hers, as if he expected her to pull away from him. It sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. There was a world of promise behind his kiss, so different from Tarja's artificially imposed desire that it left her unable to breathe. R'shiel stared at him in wonder, suddenly understanding the source of her anger, the reason for her grief. This moment had been long in the making, she realised, simmering at the back of their often-volatile, strangely dependent relationship, waiting for an opportunity to catch them unawares.

R'shiel reached up, running her fingers through his dark hair and pulled his head down towards hers, with the certain knowledge that no god had interfered in his desire, no geas had imposed feelings for her that he did not want to own. He pulled her even closer, the slow burning heat of his desire searing away her doubts. He kissed her neck, her ear and then her mouth again, then broke away from her embrace suddenly and took her face in his hands.

“Look at me.”

She met his gaze evenly, unafraid, wishing he would stop talking.

“You know this changes nothing, don't you?”

She shook her head wordlessly, wanting to deny him, not trusting herself to speak.

“Nothing can be altered, R'shiel. Whatever happens, if you succeed or fail, I cannot alter the bargain I made.”

“But —”

“There are no buts. No loopholes. No way out. Do you understand that?”

R'shiel felt fresh tears prick her eyes as she nodded her reluctant agreement.

“Then understand this, too. You are part-human, R'shiel, but you are also part-Harshini. There is so much you don't understand. So much you have yet to learn. You can't send Sanctuary out of time until sunrise. We have one night. I can show you a part of being Harshini that you cannot possibly imagine. But I'm not doing this for payment and I don't want you doing it out of guilt, or to get even with Tarja. Tomorrow, you will still be the demon child, he will still be the Lord Defender, and I will still be the half-breed who will die as soon as you succeed. There is no future. There is only now. The choice is yours.” His eyes bored into her, demanding an answer. Then he added huskily, “Stay, or stay out of my way until morning.”

The decision was harder than she imagined. But tomorrow was a lifetime away, and deep down, despite everything she had seen, everything she had done, R'shiel was still not convinced that she was ruled by her destiny.

“I want to stay.”

He searched her face, looking for some sign that she was uncertain. When he found none, he smiled briefly and his eyes began to darken as he kissed her again, harder, and more hungrily. R'shiel followed his lead and kissed him back, opening her mouth to his and her mind to the power. Her eyes blackened until they were orbs of glittering ebony as the intoxicating sweetness filled her. Brak reached for her, not with his hands but with his mind. The space between them blurred as he wove an enchantment around them that left no room for anything but a sweet, seductive desire that had no parallel in the human world.

This was what the legends spoke of. This was the gift of the Harshini that ruined humans for any other lover. She'd heard stories about it. The Novices had whispered about it in the dormitories late at night, fascinated and repelled by it. The Sisterhood had tried to destroy the Harshini for fear of it. All the violence they could not contemplate, all the conflict they could not confront was transformed into this offering, this all-consuming, passionate inferno that consumed every thought, every fibre of one's being in the pursuit of mutual pleasure. It was the ultimate expression of the Harshini quest for happiness.

R'shiel lost all sense of time; could not separate reality from fantasy. She did not know how they got to the bed or how long the night lasted. She could not distinguish touch from desire, or pleasure from pain. Nothing she had experienced in the past had prepared her for this and nothing would ever come close to it in the future.

It was the first time she truly understood the meaning of magic.

Brak shook her awake at sunrise. She turned in his arms, a little surprised that she was still holding onto the power. It filled her with a heavy, languid weariness.

“Time to get up and do your good deed for the day, demon child,” he reminded her with a smile.

“Brak, I...”

“No,” he said, placing a finger on her lips to silence her. “Don't say it.”

She smiled and nodded. “I was going to ask if there's anything to eat. I'm starving.”

“I'll find something while you're getting dressed.”

By the time Brak returned with a platter of impossibly perfect fruit, grown here in Sanctuary where even the grubs were considerate of others, R'shiel was dressed and ready to leave. They ate as they walked through the silent halls. Brak made no attempt at conversation and R'shiel didn't try to engage him. There was nothing to be said. He had laid down the conditions of their one night together and they bound her, despite what it would cost her in the future. There was nothing to be gained by talking about it.

The sun was almost over the peaks as they stepped through the Gateway and out into the chill, snow-covered mountains. They walked some distance from the fortress before R'shiel stopped and turned to look back at Sanctuary.

“I wonder how long it will have to remain hidden?”

“Not as long as the last time, I hope.”

She frowned. “If I get this wrong, we may never be able to find it again.”

“Then don't get it wrong,” he suggested dryly.

She hesitated a moment, framing her next question carefully. “Can I ask you something, Brak, about last night?” When he did not answer, she chose to take his silence as permission. “When we... well, could the other Harshini feel it?”

“Yes.”

She felt her face redden with embarrassment, but that was not what she wanted to know. “What about the demons?”

“If they were paying attention.”

“And the gods?”

“Certainly.”

“So Kalianah would know?”

“Oh, yes, Kalianah would know.”

“Would Xaphista have felt it?”

“Undoubtedly.”

She tossed her apple core to a curious squirrel come to investigate them. “Good.”

He stared at her curiously.

“I want that bastard to know I was having a good time.”

“If it's any consolation, he was probably squirming the whole night. When he rose to power the first thing he did was forbid his people to indulge in anything so wantonly pleasurable. They call all sex a sin now in Karien, but his original intention was to stop his people consorting with the Harshini. He had that in common with the Sisterhood. They too were afraid of the effect it had on humans. It's like a drug, in some ways. As the only way to get more of it is to have a relationship with a Harshini who can't abide violence, the end result was a fairly peaceful and very happy community - back in the days before Xaphista and the Sisters of the Blade.”

“And a lot of half-breeds,” she added with a grin.

“That too.”

“So Xaphista despises pleasure.”

“He's afraid that it will distract his people from him.”

R'shiel nodded, filing the information away for future reference. Then, unable to delay what she was planning any longer, she drew even more of the power she was still channelling and turned her attention to Sanctuary. The fortress glittered in the sunrise, as if it had put on its best face to bid them farewell.

With infinite care, R'shiel wove the glamour Shananara had taught her, sending the threads of power over and around Sanctuary. In the background, she could feel Brak linked to her, guiding her hand. He had the training to help her envelop Sanctuary, but only she and Shananara had the strength to fling it beyond the reach of mortals.

When she was certain she had wrapped every part of the settlement in her magical cocoon, she hesitated. She felt Brak sever the link that joined them as he let go of his power. What she was about to do would destroy him if he stayed coupled to her.

She glanced at him, saw his eyes had returned to their usual faded blue and then gathered her strength. With a mighty push, she flung every ounce of power she was holding towards Sanctuary. It shimmered for a moment, almost as if it was fighting to stay put, and then, with a boom that rolled over the mountains like a distant thunderstorm, Sanctuary disappeared from sight.

R'shiel was sagging from the effort, but Brak caught her before she could fall. She let go of the power with relief.

“Did I do it right?”

“I guess we won't know that until you try to bring it back.”

She smiled wanly. “You're a real comfort.”

“I do my best.”

Suddenly she laughed. Whether from relief or amusement she did not know. There was a lightness in her that came from more than just the knowledge that she had successfully hidden Sanctuary. It came from somewhere inside her. It was as if she had stepped over an invisible wall that she had not known was holding her back.

“What's so funny?”

“I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think that for the first time in my life, I'm actually happy to be alive.”

Brak smiled slowly. “So am I.”

Sitting close together for warmth, they settled down with their backs to a large pine tree and waited in companionable silence for the dragons to return.

CHAPTER 52

“Oh Tarja, they're beautiful!” Mandah breathed reverently.

He glanced at her and smiled. She was staring up at the sky as though seeing something from her dreams. He had allowed her to come to greet their new guests because he could think of no way to stop her. And besides, of all the people in the Citadel, Mandah was the least likely to offend the Harshini when they arrived.

Tarja watched the dragons settling on the sandy floor of the amphitheatre, almost as awestruck as Mandah and the Defenders who stood behind him. He hadn't expected there to be so many of them. Or so many dragons. Garet Warner studied the swarming sky with a frown, then turned to him with a shake of his head.

“I hope you know what you're doing, Tarja,” he murmured.

“My Lord! Sir!”

Tarja turned towards the urgent voice. A cadet was running towards him across the sand. Garet had pulled all the Cadets out of training and was using them as messengers and for minor administrative tasks to free up as many Defenders as possible. The lad was no more than fourteen and seemed torn between fear and pride that he had been chosen for such an important task as he skidded to a halt in front of the Lord Defender.

“What's wrong?” Tarja asked.

“It's the Kariens, sir. Captain Symin sent me to fetch you.”

“What are they up to now?” Garet asked.

“It's the dragons, sir. Ever since they appeared the Kariens have been going wild. Some of them are even fleeing the field.”

Garet glanced at Tarja in surprise. “Well, that's an unexpected bonus. I'll check out what's happening at the gate. You'd better stay here and keep your new friends under control.”

Garet followed the boy back to the tunnel entrance, as a tall Harshini with dark red hair slid gracefully from the back of the dragon that looked like the one who had accosted Tarja at the vineyard near Testra. He walked forward to greet her, pushing back a momentary wave of apprehension. She looked so much like R'shiel.

“Hello, Tarja.”

“Shananara.”

“Thank you for letting us come home.”

“You may not thank me in a few days. We're under siege, and you're not exactly welcome here. This isn't going to be easy.”

“I know.” She noticed Mandah, who had followed Tarja cautiously, and smiled at the young woman. “Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Of course. Shananara, this is Mandah Rodak. Mandah, this is Her Highness, Princess Shananara té Ortyn.”

“I'm Queen Shananara now, but we can talk about that later. The gods' blessing on you, Mandah.”

“Your Majesty. Divine One,” she gushed, falling to her knees in the sand. The young pagan woman looked set to faint with happiness.

Shananara smiled indulgently. “Arise, child. We have no time to stand on ceremony.” She looked at Tarja then, and her smile broadened mischievously. “I fear I have an apology to make, my Lord Defender. Childish and petty as it may seem, I'm afraid I could not resist taunting your besiegers. We strafed the fields surrounding the Citadel on our approach. I fear I've caused something of a panic among the Kariens.”

Tarja tried without success to hide his amusement. “I'm sure I can find it in myself to forgive you.”

“I thought you might.”

He glanced over her shoulder at the other Harshini, who were climbing down from their dragons and looking about them with expressions ranging from happiness to rapture. There were no children among them, which surprised him a little.

“I've made arrangements for you to be accommodated in the dormitories. As we've no Sisterhood any longer, there didn't seem any point keeping the Novices and the Probates.”

“What did you do with them?” Shananara asked with a hint of concern.

He was tempted to tell her he'd murdered them all in their beds, just to see what her reaction would be, but thought better of it. “We sent them home.”

“May we visit the Temple of the Gods?” When Tarja looked at her blankly, she smiled. “I believe you call it your Great Hall.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps, and I'd prefer you did it in small groups. Hundreds of Harshini marching through the streets of the Citadel might cause a riot.”

“We shall be discreet, my Lord.”

“Thank you. Mandah will act as liaison between us. She's a pagan, and a number of her people are here. I thought you might be more comfortable dealing with them, rather than the Defenders.”

“Your consideration of our feelings is both unexpected and appreciated, Tarja,” she told him with a slight bow. “It seems R'shiel was correct when she said you could be trusted.”

“She's not with you?”

“She and Brak had something else to take care of, but they should be back by nightfall. Which brings me to a rather delicate matter. I cannot ask the demons to stay melded in dragon form, and you have nowhere to accommodate them in any case. But if I dissolve them, I cannot guarantee their good behaviour.”

Tarja groaned silently. He hadn't thought about that when he'd told R'shiel the Harshini could return. On the other hand, she had conveniently neglected to mention that the demons were a part of the deal.

“Can't you just... disappear them, or something?”

Shananara laughed. “A demon you can't see is likely to cause a lot more trouble than one you can keep an eye on, Tarja. I'll do what I can, but I really should dissolve the melds.”

“Just try to keep them out of trouble.”

“I will. And now, if you would be so kind as to let us find our accommodation, we'd like to settle in. It has been a long night.”

“Mandah will show you the way.”

Shananara looked at him with a sad little smile. “We know the way, Tarja.”

Tarja refused to acknowledge the unspoken accusation. “These men will escort you.”

“Are we prisoners?”

“They are for your protection, Shananara. I'm not worried about what you'll do to the citizens of the Citadel; I'm worried about what they'll do to you.”

“Then once again I thank you for your consideration. Will we meet again later? There are things we need to discuss.”

“Of course.”

Shananara bowed and returned to her people, who had patiently gathered behind her, waiting for their Queen to finish her discussion. Mandah followed her, still wearing that same look of awe that she had acquired when the dragons first appeared over the Citadel this morning. Tarja called over the lieutenant in command of the escort, gave him his orders and then headed for the tunnel.

As he entered the cool darkness he felt the ground tremble faintly under his feet. He stopped, curious, waiting for it to happen again, but when no further tremors eventuated, he shrugged and kept on walking, certain that he must have imagined it.

“The Kariens are frantic,” Garet informed him later that day.

“Shananara did more than just fly over them, Garet,” Tarja told him with a grin. “She strafed them. They must be having quite a crisis of faith at the moment. How many priests do you think they have left out there?”

“Not many. The priests liked their creature comforts. Most of them were billeted in the Citadel.”

“Then they lack spiritual guidance as well as leadership. How many fled?”

“A few thousand at least,” Garet informed him. “Any word from King Jasnoff yet?” Their demands had been sent in a carefully worded message to the Karien King. They'd dispatched a dozen birds carrying the same message, to ensure that at least one got through.

Tarja shook his head. “It's far too early to expect a response. The birds we sent may not have reached Yarnarrow yet.”

“What about our relief forces?”

“Maybe R'shiel will be able to tell us something when she gets back.”

Garet nodded and took a seat on the other side of the desk. Tarja was too restless to sit. There was too much to be done.

“I've had the lads check the stores. We've enough here to hold out for years. Mathen was looting the countryside, but he was rather considerately storing it all here in the Citadel. He was expecting to use it for the troops outside.”

“Which means they'll get hungry soon.”

“That'll thin their numbers some more. Desertions are always a problem when your army isn't being fed.”

“Well, between the Harshini scaring the wits out of them and their bellies grumbling, hopefully, by the time help arrives they'll be down to a manageable number. Has there been any trouble in the city?”

“No more than usual. Once again, thanks to Squire Mathen, the people are getting quite used to living under martial law. And we reopened the court'esa houses, so that's eased the tension, somewhat.” Garet smiled faintly. “I did it in your name, of course. You're very popular at the moment.”

“I wonder how long that will last?”

The walls trembled faintly again before Garet could answer. The tremor he had felt in the tunnel under the amphitheatre had not been his imagination. They had been going on all day, growing steadily stronger and more frequent. He frowned and glanced at Garet, who looked just as concerned.

“That's all we need,” he muttered. “First a siege, then the Harshini, and now a bloody earthquake.”

“It's not an earthquake, Tarja,” Shananara informed him, stepping into the office as Mandah opened the door for her. “It is the Citadel awakening from his slumber.”

“You talk as if the Citadel is alive.”

“The Citadel may not be 'alive', by your definition, Tarja. But it is sentient by ours.”

“This is where I leave,” Garet announced, rising to his feet. “You can sit here and swap pagan fairytales with the Harshini, Tarja. I have better things to do.”

Shananara turned her regal gaze on the commandant. “You are Garet Warner?”

“You've heard of me?”

“Brakandaran speaks quite highly of you, sir. For a human.”

“Does he now?”

Tarja recognised the dangerous edge to Garet's soft-spoken reply and inwardly cringed. This could get very ugly if he didn't head it off, and quickly.

“Are your people settled in, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, thank you, although we took the liberty of removing the tapestries and other... impediments, that you have used to disguise the Citadel's origins. I hope you don't mind. It looks almost like home again, now.”

As far as Tarja was aware, most of the dormitories had been whitewashed to conceal the Harshini frescoes that had once decorated the walls. He sighed; they had been here barely more than a few hours and already they were redecorating.

“You didn't do any structural damage, I hope?”

“The Citadel is not that easy to harm, my Lord.”

He wasn't sure what she meant by that and decided he really didn't want to know. “Garet was just telling me that your rather dramatic entrance this morning has caused quite a stir among the Kariens.”

She shrugged. “We cannot fight with you, my Lord, but we help where we can. Xaphista's believers either deny our existence or consider us the essence of pure evil. Either way, they do not know how to react when they see us.”

“We deny your existence, too,” Garet pointed out. “Yet our people aren't panicking.”

“No, Commandant, you have never denied our existence. You tried to eradicate us and thought you had succeeded. There's a distinct difference.”

Garet glared at her, but made no further comment. The building trembled again, hard enough that Tarja clutched at the desk for support. Shananara looked around the room thoughtfully for a moment then turned to Tarja.

“I really should do something about that, I suppose.”

“Exactly what did you have in mind?”

“I need to speak to the Citadel. It can feel our presence, but the humans here are disturbing it. Once I've reassured it that you mean us no harm, things should settle down.”

Garet muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

“How can you speak to... it... him... whatever the hell it is?”

“It will have to be in the Temple of the Gods. The Citadel's presence is strongest there.”

“I'll have someone escort you.”

“Founders, Tarja! You don't seriously think sending this woman down to talk to a building is going to stop an earthquake, do you?”

Shananara turned to Garet with a serene smile. “Perhaps you and the Lord Defender would like to accompany me, Commandant?”

“Why? So we can watch you talking to the walls?”

“No, Commandant,” the Harshini Queen replied with solemn dignity. “You should come because you and your people have occupied our home for two hundred years. You have vandalised and defiled it, with no thought to the consequences. It is time you understood what you have done.”

CHAPTER 53

Like R'shiel, Tarja had never been able to refer to the Great Hall as Francil's Hall without choking on the words. At least now he could change that, if nothing else. The Great Hall would be known as the Great Hall once again, although, as he escorted Shananara up the broad steps with Garet, he wondered how long it would be before the Harshini convinced everyone to refer to it by its original name: the Temple of the Gods. If they were as determined to do that as they were to return the dormitories to their original condition, he figured it would only be a matter of days.

It was almost sunset and the chill of the coming evening was settling rapidly over the Citadel. A score of Defenders stood on guard outside the Hall, causing Tarja to glance questioningly at Garet. He'd ordered no detail to guard the Great Hall, and there was no need he knew of to protect it. Shananara strode on ahead, anxious to do whatever it was she was planning. The ground trembled under their feet.

“Why the guards?” he asked the commandant curiously.

“We've confined the priests in there. Couldn't think of anywhere else to put them.”

Tarja cursed softly and hurried after the Harshini Queen. The guards on the doors, seeing the Lord Defender and Commandant Warner were escorting the Harshini, made no effort to prevent her from entering. She disappeared inside before Tarja could stop her.

He pushed open the door to find Shananara frozen in shock. She was as pale as the whitewashed walls and looked as if she had forgotten how to breathe. More Defenders lined the walls, watching the Karien priests warily. The hall itself was littered with bedrolls and the milling priests who had been confined within. They were still dressed in their dull brown cassocks and all but a few had stubbled heads and the beginnings of scraggly beards.

Nobody was foolish enough to give these men a razor.

Robbed of their staffs and their dignity, they were a sorry lot. The priests turned at the sound of the doors opening, showing no interest in the new arrivals, until someone noticed Shananara's eyes.

And then all hell broke loose.

The priests began shouting hysterically. Some of them rushed towards the Harshini Queen while others backed away in fear. The building trembled, as if in outrage. Shananara cried out, but it was a cry of despair, rather than a scream. The Defenders reacted immediately, calling for the guards outside to reinforce their numbers as they drove the priests back. Tarja drew his sword and stepped in between Shananara and the oncoming priests, whose eyes burned with fanatical hatred.

He felt, rather than saw, Garet take a stand beside him, just as ready to carve a few priests up as he was. The priests who had thought to attack the Harshini backed off sullenly, as wary of the dangerous look in Tarja's eyes as they were of the blades he and Garet wielded.

Once the other Defenders were inside the Hall, the ruckus was put down quickly. The Kariens were no match for the armed Defenders, particularly men who were itching for any excuse to cause them harm. Garet Warner issued his orders with a few hand signals and the priests were herded into a loose circle in the centre of the Hall, surrounded by the Defenders. Tarja studied them warily for a moment then slowly sheathed his blade before turning to face Shananara. She was shaking all over, and although he had no ability to detect it, he had a strong feeling that she was channelling her power. For a moment he was very glad it was not R'shiel standing there. The priests would be splattered all over the walls if it had been Shananara's half-breed cousin under attack.

“I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I didn't know they were being held in here. I'll have them removed at once.”

Shananara shook her head. “No. Leave them. Just keep them out of my way.”

“Are you sure?” He studied her warily. He knew the Harshini were incapable of doing harm, but right at that moment he wasn't that certain Shananara could be trusted.

The Queen nodded then took a deep breath and walked past Tarja towards the centre of the Hall. The Defenders cleared a path for her, pushing the priests back, being none too gentle about it.

Shananara looked about her, ignoring the priests and the Defenders, then she closed her eyes and the Citadel began to tremble in earnest.

Silence descended, fractured only by a whimper that came from one of the priests as the Harshini Queen stood in the centre of the Hall, her head thrown back, her eyes closed in concentration. Certain he was imagining it, he thought he saw a faint glimmer of light surrounding her in a soft, white nimbus. Small white flakes began to fall from the whitewashed ceiling.

The Citadel rumbled beneath his feet.

It was only a few at first, and Tarja thought them simply the result of the building's movement. But soon the flakes of whitewash began to fall faster, until he felt as if he was caught in a snowstorm. A sudden popping made him jump as a plug of plaster burst out of a small alcove in the pillar on his right. It was followed by a dozen or more tiny explosions as the plastered-over niches spat out their fillings, which shattered into powder as they hit the floor.

The Hall shook so hard it rattled his teeth.

The paint on the ceiling was coming away in strips now, and he could just make out the first signs of the paintings underneath. The walls blistered and their whitewash began to fall off, too. He was powdered in flaking whitewash and plaster as he glanced at Garet, who looked as if he'd been dipped in flour. The commandant's eyes were dark sockets of incomprehensible horror set in a bone-white face. The priests began to wail in terror as the building shuddered so hard that Tarja could barely stand upright.

Shananara did not move.

Then a splintering sound echoed loudly through the hall. Tarja looked in the direction of the sound through the swirling white storm and noticed a large crack had appeared on the wall at the back of the podium. Another crack appeared and then another, sundering the painted symbol of the Sisters of the Blade that decorated the far wall. Shananara had claimed the Citadel was not easily harmed, but she appeared to be bringing the building down on top of them. The wall cracked even further and began to crumble, but amazingly, the half-cupola over the podium held fast.

As the wall tumbled down in a shower of plaster and white dust, taking with it the last vestige of the Sisterhood's imprint on the place, Tarja saw the reason why. The wall had been nothing more than a false front, concealing the rest of the podium behind it. Red light from the setting sun flooded the circular alcove, turning the falling white dust into glittering motes of fire. The cupola was tiled in an intricate pattern, resting on a curved wall that was painted with a glorious fresco, although from where he was standing, he could not make out the detail.

But it was not the fresco, or the gilded dome that made him stare in wonder. In the centre of the podium was a massive crystal, taller than a man, mounted on a block of polished black marble. He had no idea what it was, or what its purpose might be, but it obviously held pride of place in the Temple of the Gods. He realised then why the wall had been built to hide it. Too massive to move and probably indestructible, there would have been no way to get rid of the Stone when the Sisters of the Blade had tried to remove all vestiges of the Harshini from their new home.

They had done the next best thing and hidden it.

The shuddering slowly trembled to stillness and Tarja looked about him in awe. Shananara had restored the Hall to what it had been during the reign of the Harshini. Although it was almost nightfall, the pillars shone as bright as day. The ceiling had a painting on it that depicted the Primal Gods. Along the gallery was a mural dedicated to even more gods. It looked as if a hundred - maybe a thousand - different craftsmen had added to it over the years. The parts of it he could see were magnificent. There was writing - songs perhaps - covering some of the walls, too. The pillars supporting the gallery now had alcoves set in the side of each one and he wondered for a moment at their purpose.

Then he noticed the priests and forgot all about the Hall.

To a man, they were on their knees. Some were sobbing like broken-hearted children. A few others were tearing at their robes, howling with despair. One man was clawing at his own face until the blood flowed. Then a shattering scream pierced the sudden silence as one of the priests leaped to his feet and ran blindly towards him.

Tarja felt his stomach churn and had to forcibly stop himself from vomiting. Where the priest's eyes had been was nothing but two bloody sockets. In his hands he held his own eyeballs. The fool had clawed his own eyes out rather than witness the return of the Harshini.

Tarja caught the man and wrestled him to the ground. The man was howling in pain and outrage. Tarja looked up angrily at Shananara, who had finally lowered her head and opened her eyes. If she was distressed by what the priests were doing to themselves, she gave no indication.

Garet helped Tarja hold the hysterical priest down as Shananara approached. The commandant looked as pale as the powdered paint that coated him.

“Is this your idea of doing no harm?” he snarled at the Queen.

Shananara looked down at the blind priest for a moment before she answered. “This is Xaphista's work, not mine, Commandant. To heal him would mean forcing him to break his faith and he holds that more dearly than his eyes. Even if I could restore his sight and remove his pain, he would just claw his eyes out again as soon as your back was turned.”

There was a strange twisted logic in what she said. A Karien priest would rather suffer and die than acknowledge the existence of the Harshini or the God of Healing. Tarja had no doubt that she could heal him - he had seen the Harshini ability. He also had no doubt that she was right when she claimed the man would simply try to harm himself as soon as they let him out of their sight. They were a sick breed, these priests. The sooner R'shiel did something about Xaphista the better.

“Get him to the infirmary,” Tarja ordered, standing back to let two of the guards pick up the struggling, howling priest.

Tarja looked at the other priests, who had been stunned into silence by the courageous action of their brother. They wore the look of men who thought he had done something to be proud of. How many more of them were contemplating the same thing? Suffering for Xaphista was more than just a hopeful wish for these men; it was damned near a job requirement. He had to put a stop to it. Now.

“The next one of you that tries to harm himself,” he announced loudly, “will be delivered to the Harshini for healing. And he'll stay there until he denounces Xaphista and swears allegiance to the Primal Gods.”

Shananara looked at him in surprise then nodded approvingly as she realised what his threat would mean to these men.

“How long is that going to last?” Garet asked, ineffectively brushing the white dust from his jacket.

“Tarja's threat is very real to these men, Commandant. They will avoid stubbing a toe rather than risk being touched by one of my people.”

Garet stared at her coldly then looked around the Hall. “Did you make this much mess redecorating the dormitories?”

“Not quite.”

“And what the hell is that thing?” he asked, pointing at the crystal on the podium.

“It is the Seeing Stone.”

Garet stopped trying to clean his jacket and stared at the crystal with a thoughtful expression. “I thought that was in Greenharbour?”

“There is also a Stone in Greenharbour. This one belongs here.”

“What does it do?”

“It channels the power of the gods, among other things.”

Garet absorbed that piece of information silently and then looked at the priests. “I suppose we'd better get them out of here. I'll move them to the Lesser Hall.” He looked at Shananara and added frigidly, “Unless of course, you're planning to do this to every building you walk into, Your Majesty?”

“I will not disturb your prisoners again, Commandant,” she assured him.

Garet obviously doubted her word, but did not voice his scepticism. He looked at Tarja and shook his head. “Look at this place, Tarja. They haven't been here a day yet.”

“I'll get everything sorted out,” Tarja promised, not at all certain he believed his own words.

“Well, you can start by making the Harshini clean up this mess. After all, she caused it.” With a pointed and very unfriendly glare in Shananara's direction, Garet Warner moved off to organise moving the Karien priests from the Great Hall.

“I'm sorry, Tarja,” Shananara said as soon as Garet was out of earshot. “I thought only to help by calming the Citadel.”

The Harshini could not lie, so legend claimed, but he wondered if she was bending the truth a little. She must have known what making the priests witness her power would do to them. Or perhaps she really didn't understand. If she couldn't contemplate the thought of violence, how could she imagine a man willing to put his own eyes out?

“The damage is done now. At least the tremors have stopped.”

“That's because the Citadel is awake.”

“Is that going to cause problems?”

She smiled suddenly. “Come and see.”

Grabbing his hand she pulled him towards the doors. He noticed that the bronze sheathing had peeled away and they were now carved with unbelievably intricate knot-work designs that chased themselves across the doors in a complex pattern.

They stepped out of the Hall into a street that was crammed with people. The sun had set, but it was as bright as day. The walls of the Citadel had brightened and dimmed with metronomic precision for two centuries, but now, when they should have faded to darkness, they were burning with vibrant light. Every building he could see was ablaze, banishing the night.

“Founders!” he murmured in awe.

His sentiments were reflected in every face he saw. Although crowded, the street below the Great Hall was strangely silent as the people tried to make sense of what they were witnessing.

Then he heard the noise, like a distant wail of despair, coming from the distance, from the other side of the walls. The Kariens.

“Come with me,” he ordered abruptly, running down the steps. Shananara followed him as he pushed through the crowd. It took a while and a great deal of elbow work to get to the main gate, and he didn't stop when he reached it, or bother to check if Shananara was still with him. He bolted into the gatehouse and up the stairs to the wall-walk to look down over the plain.

The plain below was in chaos. The Kariens seemed to have moved from their earlier panic to utter desperation. Some cried out in horror at the sight that transfixed them. Others were fleeing in terror. Tarja glanced back over his shoulder at the tall towers and then looked down at the walls.

The whole Citadel was glowing like a beacon in the darkness, casting its benign light as far as the bridges over the Saran.

CHAPTER 54

Without consulting him, or giving him a reason, R'shiel announced that rather than return directly to the Citadel, she wanted to check on the progress of Damin and Hablet and the armies they were bringing to relieve the Citadel. He wondered at her decision but did not question it, suspecting that it had much to do with the night they had spent in Sanctuary. She did not want to face Tarja so soon, he guessed, or the Harshini who would know what they had done.

He wanted to explain to her that the unique Harshini way of sharing pleasure was not riddled with the same emotion-laden guilt that humans insisted on attaching to sex. For the Harshini it was a celebration of life; simply another way to express their joy for living. Harshini did not marry and the concept of jealousy was unknown to them. They shared their bodies and their irresistible, magical gift with no thought to the consequences, or any real understanding of the importance humans attached to it. Among them, it was never a problem. For the Harshini there was no need to explain and nothing to justify.

But when they shared that gift with humans, things got complicated. He had told R'shiel that life had been peaceful and happy before the Sisters of the Blade, but it was jealousy of that peace and happiness that had given rise to the Sisterhood. Their whole sick cult had grown out of the fear of a handful of human women afraid they could not compete with the impossibly perfect, magically gifted Harshini. The original First Sister, Param, had been a bitter old woman whose younger husband had had a fling with a Harshini woman and never recovered from the experience. Param never understood that what had driven her husband away was not the loss of love, but the fact that no human coupling could ever compare with the magic a Harshini could weave.

Only Brak knew that the Harshini woman who had so thoughtlessly shared her body and her gift with the handsome young human who took her fancy was actually Shananara té Ortyn.

She had told him about it a few days after it happened, afraid that she might have conceived, aware that any half-human child of hers would be a demon child. He understood her predicament a little better than her full-blooded kin. She was fearful of explaining what she had done to her uncle, Lorandranek - or worse, the gods, who, back then, would never have contemplated such a child being allowed to exist. Xaphista wasn't as strong then and the other gods paid him little mind. When her moontime came and went a few weeks later, Shananara swore off humans, claiming they weren't as satisfying as Harshini in any case, and thought nothing more of it. None of them had.

Until Param and her Sisterhood overran the Citadel and set about destroying the Harshini.

He glanced across at R'shiel as the dragons flew southward, following the silver ribbon of the Glass River, and decided not to tell her. She had too much going on inside that head of hers already. She would cope with what had happened in her own way, and if he had done nothing else, he had freed her from the last vestiges of her grief over Tarja. Although she did not realise it, her Harshini heritage was strong. Her conversation with Mandah in the hall outside the First Sister's office sprang to mind. Letting Tarja go like that, being so willing to stand back and let Mandah have a clear field, was probably the most Harshini thing he had ever seen her do.

They were a few hours north of Bordertown when they spied the Fardohnyan fleet. Brak was amazed they had come so far so quickly, even with Harshini help. The ships were strung out in a line, their oars dipping and rising in perfect unison.

Maera, the Goddess of the Glass River, and Brehn, the God of Storms, were assisting their passage. While Maera hadn't gone so far as to make the river flow backwards, the strong currents that characterised the river were now so mild that the oarsmen could keep up their steady pace for hours. Between Maera's help, the winds that Brehn provided (which conveniently changed direction with every bend in the river) and the Harshini, who had flown south to join them, the Fardohnyans were likely to be in Brodenvale within a couple of weeks.

Satisfied that the Fardohnyans were on their way, they did nothing more than swoop down over the fleet and wave before turning south-east towards Hythria.

It took them nearly a week to find Damin. His call to arms had been answered, but the same problem that had plagued Damin when Greenharbour was under attack was still causing trouble. The Warlords' armies were scattered throughout Hythria and it was taking a mammoth effort, both logistical and magical, to gather them all in one place.

They found him eventually, still in Hythria, but close enough to the border that he would be over it in a few days. They landed on the edge of Damin's camp at sunset. The High Prince was waiting to greet them, with Adrina at his side. She was noticeably pregnant, but was glowing with good health. Brak frowned when he saw her. Damin should have had more sense than to let a woman in her condition ride into battle. Then again, when it came to Adrina, he guessed Damin probably didn't have much say in the matter.

“Nice of you to drop in, demon child,” Damin said as he stepped forward to greet them. His good mood no doubt had as much to do with the fact that he was off to war again, as it did with his pleasure at their arrival. Brak had always liked Damin, but he was a warrior at heart. The responsibilities of a High Prince, a wife and a child on the way weren't likely to change him.

R'shiel smiled, just as pleased to see her friends as they were to see her. She eyed Adrina with a slight frown and shook her head. “Adrina, what are you doing here?”

“Not much, if the truth be known. Damin won't let me do a damned thing.”

“He shouldn't have let you come at all.”

“As if I had any say in the matter,” Damin complained. “Hello, Brak. How was Fardohnya?”

“Interesting.”

Damin laughed. “I want to hear all about it. We're waiting for Rogan and his Raiders to catch up with us at the moment so we've a day or so to spare before we get moving again. Are you here to stay?”

“No,” R'shiel answered for him. “We have to get back to the Citadel.”

“Well, we might as well enjoy the evening, then. Will the dragons be all right out here?”

“They'll be fine. Is Glenanaran with you?”

“He's resting at the moment. It's taken a lot out of him to get us this far so quickly.”

“Did the others arrive safely?” He wasn't sure who among the Harshini had volunteered to join the Hythrun, or even how many there were.

Adrina nodded. “They arrived a couple of days ago. I've never seen so many Harshini before.”

“Neither has anyone else,” R'shiel agreed. Then she caught sight of a small figure half hidden behind Adrina. “Mikel! What are you doing hiding back there?”

The Karien boy stepped forward with a hesitant smile. “My Lady.”

“Look at you, Mikel! You've shot up like a weed! What are you feeding him, Adrina?”

“Hythrun army rations,” Adrina told her with a grimace. “I'm glad they have such a beneficial effect on small boys. They do absolutely nothing for my taste buds.”

“Always complaining,” Damin sighed, but he was smiling at Adrina, who glanced back at him warmly. The change in them was astounding. Adrina had never looked better, and Damin, who had always been a cheerful sort of fellow, appeared ready to burst with happiness. “Come on then. Let's go sample the culinary delights of Hythrun army rations, and you can tell me how the hell you managed to get Hablet to send his fleet to our rescue.”

R'shiel slipped her arm through Damin's and the three of them turned back towards the tents, as R'shiel began to relate how she had blown the doors off Hablet's palace in Talabar.

Damin's tent proved to be more luxurious than he normally preferred - no doubt a concession to Adrina, who made no secret of her desire for life's creature comforts. Despite the dire warnings about Hythrun army rations, dinner was delicious, the wine excellent and the company entertaining.

The High Prince and his Princess sat close together on the low scattered cushions and once Mikel cleared the remains of dinner away from the low table, Adrina leaned against Damin unselfconsciously as they shared their news from the past weeks. Damin draped an arm over her shoulder in a gesture that seemed as much possessive as affectionate. They still argued a lot, but it lacked the vicious edge of their earlier encounters - although Adrina's caustic wit had not dulled, and neither had Damin learnt to take anything seriously.

Watching Adrina and Damin together, Brak wondered if Kalianah had taken a hand in their romance. He decided she hadn't. They were too well suited to each other. Kalianah's interference was required only when a couple would never fall in love unless she stepped in. She took a perverse pleasure in doing that, too. It gave her a sense of power. But the Hythrun High Prince and the daughter of the Fardohnyan King were obviously kindred spirits. He wondered idly whether if Damin had not been so keen to avoid Adrina earlier, their obvious attraction - which, according to what he'd heard in the Defender's camp in Medalon, was apparent from the moment they laid eyes on each other - would have caused trouble sooner.

It might be a very different world if it had.

Damin was relating the tale of Greenharbour's dramatic rescue by the unexpected appearance of the Defenders when Brak caught sight of Mikel out of the corner of his eye. He turned and watched as the child approached R'shiel. He was holding a goblet - a plain, metal cup with nothing to distinguish it from any other in the tent - but he held it reverently, as if it was an offering to the gods.

“So, there we were,” Damin was saying, “ready to burn Greenharbour to the ground and I hear trumpets in the distance. I thought I was going mad.”

“But why did the Defenders head for Greenharbour?” R'shiel asked. “I thought the plan was to muster them in Krakandar.”

“It was,” Damin agreed. “But somehow the messages got mixed up and the Defenders thought I'd left orders for them to move south. The irony of it all,” he added with a laugh, “was the reason they got there so damned quickly. Denjon and Linst were so furious that I'd left such high-handed orders, they pushed their men south as fast as they could move, just so they could tell me off.”

R'shiel laughed and glanced up at Mikel. She accepted the cup and turned back to Damin and Adrina. “I wish I could have seen the look on your face when you realised the Defenders had come to your rescue. How did the rest of your Warlords take it? It must have irked them no end.”

“By the time the Defenders arrived, I think they would have accepted help from just about anybody,” Adrina told her with a smile. “They'd already had to swallow their pride and accept my brother's help, but grateful though they seemed, I think the Defenders were like rubbing salt into an open wound.”

R'shiel chuckled and lifted the cup to her lips. Mikel had remained standing behind her. His eyes were wide, his body tense.

“R'shiel! No!”

Brak threw himself across the low table, knocking the cup from her hand before she could take a swallow. Adrina screamed. R'shiel was thrown backwards by the force of his sudden weight and struggled to push him away, more startled than frightened. Damin was on his feet, his sword in his hand before Brak had rolled clear. Mikel froze with panic for a moment then ran for the entrance. Still on his hands and knees, Brak reached out and snatched at the boy's ankle, bringing the child down. Mikel cried out in protest, but Brak's vice-like grip allowed him no escape. Damin stepped over the cushions and picked up the discarded cup, sniffing it suspiciously.

“Jarabane,” he said. “It's poisoned.” He hurled the cup to the ground then he turned his attention to the boy.

Mikel was stretched out face-down on the floor of the tent, trying to kick his way free, but unable to escape while Brak held him.

Damin nodded to Brak, who released him as Damin grabbed the child by his shirt and hauled him to his feet. He pressed the point of his sword into Mikel's neck.

“Damin! No!” Adrina cried, reading the murderous look in her husband's eyes. “He's a child!”

“He's an assassin,” Damin corrected.

Brak climbed to his feet, offering R'shiel his hand to help her up, and they exchanged a worried glance. There was no trace of humour left in the High Prince, and no trace of mercy.

“Damin, Brak and I need to take care of this,” R'shiel said. She sounded calm and reasonable, just as aware as Brak that at that moment, Damin was dangerously close to - and more than capable of - cold-blooded murder.

“This child is a member of my household. He tried to kill a guest under my roof. Even if you weren't the demon child, R'shiel, the penalty for such a crime is death.”

Mikel had not uttered a sound. He was paralysed with fear. A small trickle of blood oozed from his neck where Damin held the point of his sword with his right hand, his left gripping the boy by his shoulder.

“If you kill him, Damin, we won't be able to question him.”

“What's to question? The child is Karien. He obviously follows the Overlord. What more do you need to know?”

R'shiel turned to Brak, her eyes silently begging him to reason with him.

“We need to know why he turned from Dacendaran,” Brak added. “The God of Thieves took a personal interest in this boy, and somehow he's been subverted. I don't want to interfere with your idea of justice, Damin, but if you harm that boy before we have a chance to talk with him, you'll regret it.”

Damin glared at Brak. “Are you threatening me?”

“Yes, Damin,” he replied softly. “That's exactly what I'm doing.”

For a moment, Brak wondered if that had been a wise thing to do. He may have just said the one thing guaranteed to push Damin beyond reason. For a long, tense moment, the High Prince stared at Brak defiantly, then he lowered the sword and thrust Mikel at Brak.

“You have an hour, Brak. Ask him what you want, do what you want. But in one hour that child dies for what he's done. R'shiel, I hope you will forgive this grievous insult.” He sheathed his sword as Brak caught the boy who was shaking so badly he could barely stand. “Oh, and by the way, don't think to leave this camp with him,” he added with an icy glare at Brak. “If you do, I will simply turn around and go home. I'll call off my Warlords, and the Medalonians can face the Kariens on their own and to hell with them.”

Damin strode out of the tent without another word. Brak pushed Mikel down onto the cushions and looked over at Adrina.

“Can you talk him out of this?”

She shrugged helplessly. “I don't know. I've never seen him so angry.”

“You've got an hour, Adrina,” R'shiel pointed out coldly.

The Princess nodded. “I'll do what I can, but he may not listen to me. I was the one who brought Mikel here.”

“Then you'd better do something about keeping him alive, hadn't you?” the demon child said unsympathetically.

CHAPTER 55

The God of Thieves appeared at R'shiel's summons, although he looked rather put out by the call. R'shiel had told Brak that Kalianah thought Dace was sulking about something and he wondered if the reason had been Mikel.

The child was a study in abject despair. He sat huddled on the cushions, his knees drawn up under his chin, tears streaming silently down his face. He had said nothing. In the warm glow of the candlelight he was an island of misery and dejection.

“What do you want, demon child?” Dacendaran asked sullenly as he materialised behind R'shiel.

“What's the matter with you?” she demanded as she spun around to face him. Although she knew he was a god, R'shiel had known Dace as a simple thief in the Grimfield first, and she often made the mistake of still thinking of him that way. Brak wished she were a little more cautious. He might look cute and adorable and wear an air of guileless innocence, but Dacendaran was still a god, and a powerful one at that.

“I'm busy,” Dace muttered, scuffing the rug with a boot that did not match the other he wore.

“I want to know what happened to Mikel.”

“You stole him from me,” Dace accused with a petulant scowl.

“I stole him from you? Don't be ridiculous! I'm not a god! How could I steal him?”

“You gave him to Gimlorie.”

“Oh,” R'shiel said, suddenly looking guilty. “That.”

Brak glanced at R'shiel for a moment and then looked at Mikel. “Why did you give him to the God of Music?”

“I needed to make sure the Kariens would leave, so I asked Gimlorie to help.”

“What exactly did you do, R'shiel?” Brak asked suspiciously.

“I asked him to teach Mikel a song that would instil an irresistible longing for home in the Kariens. I knew it might be a little bit... dangerous... so I asked Gimlorie to make his brother Jaymes his Guardian. That way, if he got lost in the song, Jaymes would be there to pull him back.”

Brak muttered a curse. “R'shiel, have you any idea what you've done? A Guardian is only effective if he's in touch with his ward. Once Jaymes left his side Mikel was vulnerable to this sort of manipulation.”

“Hey, how come suddenly this is all my fault? He tried to kill me!”

Neither Brak nor Dace answered her.

“I needed to turn them back,” she added defensively. “It seemed like a really good idea at the time.”

“Gimlorie's songs are dangerous, R'shiel. They can twist men's souls around. You should never have taught one to this boy.”

“I didn't teach it to him. Gimlorie did. He didn't seem to mind when I asked him.”

“Of course he wouldn't mind. Every soul who hears it hungers for him. But it's what it has done to Mikel that you should be concerned about.”

“Are you saying Gimlorie is the one who turned Mikel into an assassin?”

“No,” Dacendaran said. “Gimlorie wouldn't do that. But what you did do was leave Mikel vulnerable to Xaphista.”

“Humans need faith to believe in the gods, R'shiel,” Brak added in a lecturing tone. “What you did was take away Mikel's freedom to believe or not believe. You destroyed his free will and made him a creature of the gods. Any god.”

R'shiel turned to the boy and stared down at him impatiently. “Is that what happened, Mikel? Did you go back to worshipping the Overlord?”

Mikel shook his head silently, too distraught to speak.

“Then why? Who told you to do this thing?”

“The old man,” the child replied in a voice so low even Dacendaran had to strain to hear him.

“What old man?” Brak asked.

“The one in Hythria. At the palace. He told me to give the demon child a gift. He said it would help her see the truth.”

“What old man is he talking about?” R'shiel asked Brak.

“It was probably Xaphista himself,” Dace shrugged.

“Can he do that?”

The God of Thieves gave the demon child a withering look.

“Oh, well, I suppose if you can do it, so can he.” She turned and studied the miserable figure hunched on the cushions for a moment then turned to Brak. “Why Mikel?”

“Because he's young, he's impressionable, he's feeling guilty for turning away from his god in the first place, and,” he added with a frown, “you left him wide open to manipulation when you opened his mind to Gimlorie's song.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know it would do that? The Harshini sang it all the time in Sanctuary. It didn't seem to bother them.”

“The Harshini are already a part of the gods, R'shiel. But even they will only share it among themselves. No Harshini would ever share the song with a human.”

“So what do we do with him?”

“I don't know, but we've got about half an hour to make up our minds,” he reminded her grimly.

“Dace? Can't the gods do something?”

The god shook his head. “You can't unteach him, R'shiel, and he's done the Overlord's bidding. None of the gods has any interest in saving this child.”

“But he was your friend, Dace!”

The god stared at her. His smile faded and for a moment he let R'shiel see the true essence of his being. The lovable rogue was gone and there was simply Dacendaran, the God of Thieves, powerful, implacable and concerned only with his own divinity. Brak had seen it before and the knowledge of what the gods were truly capable of was at the core of his distrust of them. But R'shiel had never been confronted with it until now and it stunned her.

She took a step back from Dacendaran in fear.

“Do what you want with the child,” Dacendaran said in a voice that chilled Brak to the bone. “His fate is of no concern to the Primal Gods.”

Dace vanished, leaving them alone in the tent. R'shiel appeared to be having trouble breathing. Mikel had still not moved, resigned to his fate - perhaps even welcoming it. He would soon be dining at the Overlord's table.

Damin Wolfblade would see to that.

They came for him on the hour, three heavily armed Raiders who were there to stop them from trying anything heroic, Brak suspected, rather than any real need to escort an eleven-year-old to his execution. They did not try to prevent the men from taking the boy, even with magic. It would simply have angered the High Prince. The bind that Damin Wolfblade had placed them in was untenable: go to the rescue of those in the Citadel or stand back and watch a child put to death for the crime of being easily manipulated.

Adrina was waiting outside with Damin. Her eyes were swollen and she had obviously been fighting with him. Damin's eyes were bleak and unforgiving. Behind Adrina were the Harshini who had come to aid the Hythrun in their quest to relieve the Citadel. Glenanaran stood at the front of the small gathering of Dragon Riders. Brak could feel their pain from the other side of the clearing. This was a vicious way to reintroduce them to the world of humans.

One look at Damin and Brak knew that Adrina had not changed his mind.

“You can't order this, Damin,” R'shiel told him as Mikel was escorted across the clearing to stand before the High Prince of Hythria. “You can't ask a man to execute a child!”

He looked at her. “I don't ask anything of my men I wouldn't do myself.”

“Damin, no!” Adrina cried in horror. She ran forward and grabbed his arm, but he shook her off impatiently.

“You don't have to watch, Adrina. Nor do you, Divine Ones,” he added, looking over his shoulder at the horrified Harshini. “This is none of your concern.”

“Damn it, Damin, be reasonable!” R'shiel yelled angrily as he began to walk away with Mikel and the guards in his wake.

Damin stopped and turned to her, then he walked back to confront her, his eyes blazing in the torchlit clearing among the tents.

“Reasonable?” he snarled. “Define 'reasonable', demon child. Is it reasonable that I let this child live so he can turn on you again? It is reasonable that I let an assassin reside in the heart of my family? Suppose Adrina had taken that cup? Suppose Brak hadn't noticed something was wrong? What the hell do you expect me to do?”

“You cannot murder an eleven-year-old boy for something that wasn't his fault. He's a child, Damin, a tool. If anyone is to blame, it's me.”

Her calming tone did nothing to deter him. “R'shiel, I have lived with assassins all my life. I grew up afraid of the dark, because for me, the darkness was likely to conceal danger. I will not have my child raised the same way. I will not have him sleep with armed guards standing over him. I want him to grow up playing with children his own age, not learning how to take down men twice his size in case he's attacked. I want the whole damned world to know what I'm capable of if they dare to threaten me or mine. This ends now.”

“He didn't threaten you, Damin, or your wife and child. He was trying to kill me.”

“You're my friend, R'shiel, and he did it under my roof. It amounts to the same thing.”

“Do this thing and we won't be friends any longer, Damin.”

Brak watched him hesitate for a moment, but the implacable rage that consumed the Warlord was not something so easily swayed. Even faced with the horror of what he was about to do, Brak found himself sympathising with Damin. He'd been alive for seven hundred years and seen worse things done for lesser reasons. He did not know how many men had tried to kill Damin as a boy, but he could see now the scars that it had left on him. He was willing to do anything, literally, to save his unborn heir from the fear he must have lived through as a child, not realising that in order to slay the monster, he would become a monster himself.

Brak saw the look of horror in Adrina's eyes and the pain of this confrontation emanating from the Harshini like waves of desperation. And he could see in Damin's eyes the weight of the decision he had been forced to make. For Damin it boiled down to a simple decision: the life of a Karien child or the life of his own child.

“I'll do it,” Brak said, stepping forward into the torchlight.

R'shiel rounded on him in horror. “Brak!”

“I'm sorry, R'shiel, but Damin has a point. If he doesn't deal with this, he'll never put an end to it. The child needs to die. He has to make an example of him.”

Damin looked stunned to find such an unexpected ally. “I cannot ask a Harshini to do this. I won't even ask it of my own men.”

“I'm a half-breed, Damin, and it won't be the worst thing I've done.” He turned to the Harshini and met Glenanaran's black eyes evenly. “Take the others away from here, Glenanaran. Just pray to the gods that watch over this child that Death comes quickly for him.”

The Harshini stared at him for a moment, while Brak silently willed him to understand. Then Glenanaran nodded solemnly. “We will pray for the child.”

Then do it quickly, Brak urged silently.

The Harshini turned and vanished into the darkness. R'shiel watched him with dismay as he walked across the clearing and took Mikel by the hand. Damin stood beside her, surprised and a little suspicious of Brak's willingness to kill.

“How do I know this isn't a trick?”

“This is no trick, Damin.”

He grabbed Mikel by the arm and pulled him clear of the guards, then drew the dagger from his belt. He turned it for a moment in his hand as if testing the weight, then he glared at Damin.

“Are you planning to watch?”

“Yes.”

“You're a sick son of a bitch, aren't you?”

“No, just a distrustful one. I don't believe you'll do it.”

He's calling my bluff. But he could not draw on his power to create an illusion. Damin would notice what he was up to as soon as he saw his eyes darken. R'shiel stood with Damin and made no move to stop him, either. She too was calling his bluff.

He looked into the eyes of the confused child. Mikel had moved beyond fear and stepped over into paralytic terror.

“Are you ready to meet Death, Mikel?” he asked softly, almost gently. Adrina choked back a sob in the background and the torches were hissing loudly in the unnatural silence.

Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, he felt the presence of a god and almost sagged with relief. All around them, the air was suddenly filled with unnatural, crystalline music as the figure of Death appeared in the clearing. He wore a long hooded cloak, blacker than the night surrounding them. His face was a pale skull, his hollow eyes radiated light and he actually carried a scythe in his left hand.

Theatrical bastard, Brak thought sourly.

“This is the child you wish me to take?” the spectre asked in a musical voice that boomed through the clearing.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“You presume a great deal, Brakandaran.”

“This is necessary, my Lord.”

The being glanced around the clearing until his eyes alighted on R'shiel. Brak noticed, with some relief, that she was more suspicious than frightened. She was a smart girl. She would work out what was going on sooner or later. He just hoped that when she did figure it out, she kept her mouth shut.

“Demon child,” he said, with a slight bow in her direction.

“Divine One.”

The creature swivelled his fearsome head towards Mikel then and held out a skeletal arm to the child. “Come.”

As if in a trance, the Karien boy walked towards the spectre unresistingly. There was no fear in his eyes now, only quiet acceptance. Death took the child by the hand, cast a withering gaze over the stunned humans and disappeared, taking Mikel with him.

The silence that followed was chilling. Adrina screamed.

The sound broke Damin out of his trance and he ran to her, but she pushed him away and turned on Brak savagely.

“Get out! Get away from here! You murderous, cold-blooded bastard!”

“Adrina...” Damin said, trying to take her in his arms.

“Don't touch me! This was your idea and now look what you've done. Leave me alone!” She fled from the clearing sobbing loudly. Damin spared Brak a helpless look and followed after her.

Brak turned to find R'shiel standing alone in the clearing, her arms crossed, staring at him disapprovingly.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Less blood this way.”

She crossed the space between them in three strides and punched him painfully in the shoulder. “What the hell was all that about?”

“Damin was going to kill him, R'shiel, make no mistake about that. It might have seemed like a good idea now, but I suspect it would have had long-term consequences he hadn't thought about. Don't worry about the boy. Gimlorie will keep him out of harm's way for the time being.”

She looked ready to hit him again. “You got Glenanaran to call Gimlorie, didn't you? That's why the Harshini didn't object.”

“Clever girl.”

“But why pretend he was Death?”

“Damin had to believe Mikel was dead, or he would have finished the job himself. Actually, I thought Gimlorie did a fair imitation of Death myself, although the scythe was a bit over the top.”

“Is Mikel dead?”

“He's residing with the gods, temporarily.”

“Will you stop being so bloody cryptic!”

He smiled at her anger, which did nothing to help. “I'll explain later. In the meantime, I think we should get out of here before Adrina decides to have me hung, drawn and quartered.”

“Where are we going to go at this time of night?”

“Back to the Citadel. I'm getting a little fed up with Xaphista. I think it's about time you fulfilled your destiny, demon child.”

CHAPTER 56

R'shiel was surprised by the number of Kariens camped around the Citadel as they flew towards it. The invading army had now pulled back behind the shallow Saran River. They had blocked the bridges with overturned wagons and there was clear ground between the Citadel and the Karien troops. There seemed to be fewer Kariens, although they still numbered in the tens of thousands. The combination of dwindling supplies, no spiritual or military leadership and, she learnt later that day, the news that the Harshini had returned, had played havoc with the siege army.

She had no time to dwell on it, though, as she noticed the Citadel. It was just on dusk, and she had expected to see the Dimming begin as the walls paled and lost their radiance with the coming night. But the Citadel shone like a lantern in the gathering gloom, casting its soft light out towards the Saran. It made sense, then, why the Kariens had pulled back behind the water. They were hiding in the darkness where the Citadel's illumination could not touch them.

The dragons settled on the sandy floor of the amphitheatre as the sun set completely, but even here the night was banished by the radiance. A Defender R'shiel did not know came out to greet them, casting his eyes over the dragons with the world-weary air of a man who had seen it all before, and informed them that the Lord Defender was expecting them, and required their presence immediately.

“Where have you been?” Tarja demanded as soon as they appeared in the doorway. “We expected you back days ago.”

“We were checking on Damin and the Fardohnyans.”

“How close are they?” Garet asked. He and Shananara were sitting in the heavy leather chairs facing the desk. Tarja paced behind it like a restless cat.

“The Fardohnyans should reach Brodenvale late next week. Damin's not far behind them. Another few days I suppose.”

“That's impossible!” Garet exclaimed. “There is no way they could have covered that much distance in such a short time.”

“You forget the Harshini and the gods are actively helping them, Commandant,” Shananara reminded him.

“I don't care who's helping them, Your Majesty. It is simply not possible to sail upriver so quickly, even in oared warships. Or march an army through anywhere at that speed.” He turned to Brak and R'shiel, shaking his head. “You must be mistaken.”

“We're not mistaken, Garet. Believe it, or don't believe it. It makes no difference to us.” R'shiel stepped into the office, took the seat beside Shananara and turned her gaze on Tarja. He looked tired. “The Defender who met us in the amphitheatre said you wanted to speak to us.”

“We got a reply from King Jasnoff.”

“What did he say?”

“It was pretty long-winded, but the essence was, 'Kill my dukes and I'll turn Medalon into a graveyard'.”

“What are you going to do now?” R'shiel asked.

“That's what we were just discussing,” Garet informed them. “Tarja wants to wait until the relief forces arrive, and then attack the Kariens outside. I think we should stick to our original plan: kill one of the dukes and send Jasnoff his head to prove we're not bluffing. Her Majesty here wants us to lay down our arms, put flowers in our hair, and swear eternal peace and brotherhood with our enemies.”

R'shiel smiled, not at all sure that Garet was joking. “Well, I happen to like Shananara's idea better.”

Tarja frowned at her. “This is no joking matter, R'shiel. Do you have anything constructive to offer? If not, we don't need you here.”

“Actually, I do. I want you to give the priests back their staffs and let them go.”

Even Shananara baulked at that suggestion. “You can't be serious.”

“She's serious,” Tarja said, studying her intently. “It was your idea to take them hostage, so I'm told. Now you want to let them go. You have a reason, I suppose?”

“We need them outside, where they can influence their troops.”

“I was under the impression that the whole purpose of confining them here was to stop them influencing their troops,” Garet remarked. Oddly, he had not objected to the suggestion. R'shiel thought his would be the loudest voice raised in protest.

“That was before I figured out how to influence the priests.”

“So, we let a hundred fanatical priests loose among the currently leaderless and uncoordinated troops outside, who outnumber us about seven to one, on the off chance that you can make them act the way you want?” Garet asked. He nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds reasonable. Perhaps we could just throw all the people in the Citadel off the walls, too, so our enemies won't have to go to the bother of putting them to the sword.”

“Your wit is exceeded only by your blindness, Garet,” R'shiel retorted impatiently.

“At least I have my wits. You seem to have lost yours.”

“Garet...” Tarja said warningly, in an attempt to head off the argument. He turned to R'shiel with an expression that left little doubt of his reaction if she continued to bait the commandant. “How can you influence the priests?”

“Their staffs are made up of pieces of the missing Seeing Stones. They're like a conduit. If I can find the Seeing Stone here in the Citadel, I can use it to channel whatever I want through it to the priests.”

“But how is that possible?” Shananara said.

“Well, if you don't know, that hardly fills me with confidence,” Garet muttered.

“My guess,” Brak interjected, understanding what Shananara was asking, “is that either the Fardohnyans or the Sisterhood sold their Stone to the Kariens and they broke it up. They're the only two that are missing.”

“Well, it wasn't the Sisterhood,” Tarja informed them. “We've found the Citadel's Seeing Stone.”

“You found it? Where?”

“In the Great Hall. There was a false wall at the back of... R'shiel!”

She did not answer him or even hear what else he had to say.

R'shiel was on her feet, out of the office and barrelling down the stairs with Brak on her heels before anyone could stop them.

“What happened here?”

R'shiel's voice echoed through the Great Hall, although it seemed strange referring to it by that name. This was the Temple of the Gods in all its majestic glory. This was the place that Brak had described to her with such melancholy longing. She understood now, what he had been trying to tell her.

“My guess is Shananara,” Brak said, his voice filled with awe. “If the Citadel needed placating, she would have done it here.”

“It's fantastic! Look!” She walked the length of the Hall to the podium. The Seeing Stone stood before them, twice the size of the one R'shiel had used in Greenharbour. It reflected the radiant pillars with a soft light that filled the hall, banishing the shadows, highlighting the exquisite artwork. “Oh, Brak, why did they ever try to hide this?”

“Because they were human, and humans have a tendency to destroy anything they don't understand.”

R'shiel reached up and ran her hands over the cool surface of the Stone, then turned to him doubtfully. “Do you think this will work?”

“It's theoretically possible.”

“That's what you said about coming back from the dead.”

He shrugged. “Well, that relies on the whim of Death, so it's not that cut and dried. This, however,” he said pointing at the Stone, “is a lot more straightforward. The problem is not if it's possible, though.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“R'shiel, you have raw power to burn. You threw Sanctuary into hiding like it was a child's toy. But that required brute force, not finesse. What you want to do to these priests is going to call for a delicate touch that you are a century away from achieving.”

“Then perhaps I should wait? That gives you another hundred years to live.”

He smiled at her. “I doubt the Primal Gods would be so patient. Besides, you'd be pretty sick of me in a hundred years, R'shiel.”

“How do you know?”

“Even the Harshini don't stay together that long. It's why they don't get married. There's only so much you can take living with another person before they start to wear on you.”

“Will I be as cynical as you when I'm seven hundred years old?”

“You're worse than me already.”

She smiled and sat down on the steps of the podium. He sat beside her for a moment in silence as she took in the monumental Temple. All of this was her legacy, her inheritance. She laid her head on Brak's shoulder, trying not to let the knowledge of his impending death distract her.

For a moment, she closed her eyes and let the silence and the memories of Sanctuary overwhelm her. She wished Brak had not put conditions on it - wished he would wrap them in that unbelievable cocoon of magic again and transport her to that other plane where pleasure and indulgence were the only things that mattered...

“Founders!” She sat bolt upright and stared at him wonderingly.

“What?”

“I don't need finesse, Brak.”

“You don't?”

“No! I need pleasure!”

“Here? Now? A bit public, don't you think?”

“Don't be an ass!” she said, leaping to her feet, giddy with the knowledge that she knew, with absolute certainty, how to bring Xaphista undone. “Don't you see? The other night the Harshini could feel us. You said even Xaphista could feel it. You said he made his people turn away from pleasure because it distracts them from him.”

Brak looked at her askance. “What are you suggesting we do, demon child? Have an orgy here in the Temple of the Gods and channel it through to the priests via the Seeing Stone?”

She laughed. “You'd be surprised how close you are to the truth, Brak. Come on!”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet then headed down the Hall, dragging him in her wake.

“R'shiel!”

“What?”

“Where are you going?”

“You'll see,” she said with a laugh.

He stopped and pulled her back. “Enough! I'm not taking another step until you tell me what you're up to this time.”

“Don't you trust me?”

“Not in the slightest.”

She sighed heavily. “Brak, I'm going to distract the Kariens. I'm going to take their minds off Xaphista for a while.”

“Is that all?”

She nodded. “That's all I have to do, Brak.”

She saw the dawning light of comprehension in his eyes and smiled. Brak shook his head ruefully. “You're a sneaky little thing, aren't you? I'm glad you're on our side.”

“It'll work, won't it,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.

He nodded slowly. “Yes. It should work.”

“Then let's go see Tarja.”

“Gods, you're not going to tell him what you're planning, are you?”

“Of course not. I'm going to ask him to throw a party.”

CHAPTER 57

The following day, Tarja relented and agreed to let the priests go. Garet objected vehemently, but once she had spoken to Shananara and had her support, his advice was overruled. Tarja doubted her, she could tell that from the way he looked at her and the edge of scepticism in his voice. But with the knowledge that the Fardohnyans were close, and Damin Wolfblade not far behind, he seemed to think that she couldn't do their cause much harm and was prepared to indulge her. Up to a point.

The priests were herded from the Lesser Hall towards the gate at dawn the next day. Two of them led another priest whose eyes were bandaged, although R'shiel did not know what had happened to him. Parked near the entrance to the gatehouse was a covered wagon, inside which were the confiscated staffs. Once she'd talked her way around Tarja's objections, and the Defenders realised the stones were mere crystals rather than diamonds, avarice gave way to apathy. But she was not so foolish as to stand in range of a priest wielding his staff, which was the reason she had chosen this vantage on the wall-walk, high above the main gate.

As they neared the wagon, a Defender threw back the tarpaulin. The tonsured men swarmed over it, grasping for the security of the symbols of their rank. One of the priests glanced up, caught sight of her and shook his staff, mouthing some insult she could not hear. Others followed his gaze as they reclaimed their sacred sceptres. An uneasy prickle of apprehension washed over R'shiel as she watched them.

“Brak, was it such a good idea to let so many of them gather like this armed with their staffs?”

“You can't influence the Overlord's priests through their staffs if they don't have them,” he shrugged. “Don't worry. I don't think they can —”

His words were cut off by a loud explosion, as the merlon near R'shiel shattered into a shower of flying pebbles. R'shiel ducked for cover as another explosion buffeted her with flying debris. Screams of terror, and the Defenders' cries of alarm, suddenly filled the street below.

“You don't think they can what?” she shouted over the commotion.

Brak saw her eyes darken and laid an urgently restraining hand on her arm. “They destroy magic, R'shiel. You're not linked through the Seeing Stone here. Don't try to fight them.”

“Watch me,” she snarled angrily.

R'shiel stood up and looked down over the street. Defenders were rushing heedlessly to fight an enemy they could not comprehend, while the citizens who had come to watch the priests being released milled about in panic, looking for a way to flee the sudden carnage, too afraid to approach the gate. All other escape routes were blocked by the Defenders.

She spied the cause of the trouble quickly enough. Three tonsured priests held their staffs above their heads, chanting in unison as they called on the power of the Overlord to strike down the demon child. The other priests were not yet organised enough to join in the Watching Coven, but it would not take them long. Three priests she could handle. She knew that from experience. Any more and she could not predict the outcome.

Turning her attention to the first priest, she hurled a burst of raw power at the staff, understanding now what she had done by accident on the northern plains of Medalon. Whatever spell made the staff drain magic, its focus was the small chip of Seeing Stone at its core. The power she threw at it overloaded the crystal and the conflict between the force at its centre and the staff's ability to absorb magic created an explosion that threw the priest to the ground with bleeding eardrums. She repeated her effort at the next man, and then the one beside him, careless of the power she was drawing.

Several others defiantly held up their only protection against her, only to find themselves lying prostrate on the ground, their staffs shattered, the gold star and silver lightning bolt fused into a glob of worthless metal. R'shiel could feel rather than see Brak beside her. He shouted something at her that she could not understand. Something about using restraint, but all he could do was stand at her side, ready to catch her if she fell.

It took a dozen or more explosions for the priests to be dissuaded from any further attempts to destroy the demon child; much longer for the Defenders to restore some semblance of order. R'shiel clung to the power, standing over the gateway, her eyes burning black as she dared them to try her again. She was trembling and exhausted and felt Brak's arm slide around her waist gratefully. If she appeared to be a tower of strength to the Kariens below, then let them think that. There was no need for them to know that he was holding her up.

“You've come this far. Don't give up now, demon child,” Brak whispered as she slumped against him.

“I think I'm going to faint.”

“No you're not,” he told her sternly. “You're going to stand up here and watch every last one of them leave.”

“Don't let me go, Brak.”

“I won't.”

She stood there for a long time, leaning into Brak's solid strength as the Kariens picked up their staffs and filed through the gate beneath her. Towards the end of the line, another small commotion broke out as the three priests left discovered they did not have a staff they could claim.

“Seems someone decided to collect a few souvenirs,” Brak remarked.

“Looks like it,” she agreed distantly.

R'shiel watched the last of the priests leave. She heard the gate close behind them, then turned to watch as they ran towards their forces on the other side of the Saran. She did not let go of the power until they had crossed the bridges and put the shallow river between them and the Citadel.

The celebration that was organised to mark the departure of the priests had been harder to arrange. R'shiel had eventually convinced Tarja that it would be good for morale, but more than that, it would annoy the Sisterhood. Even Garet didn't mind annoying the Sisterhood, and with the strict rationing the Defenders had imposed, they were in no danger of running out of food. A bit of largesse would go a long way to easing the minds of the population, she pointed out reasonably, and there were still a lot of Sisters of the Blade in the Citadel, looking for any excuse to stir up trouble. She had listed all her reasons calmly and didn't even try to pick a fight with Garet Warner. Tarja eventually agreed and had given Captain Grannon the task of organising such a mammoth affair. All R'shiel had to do now was convince the Harshini to do their part.

The dormitories where the Harshini were quartered were nothing like those R'shiel remembered living in. The whole building glowed with light and colour. She walked the corridors with her mouth agape at what had been hidden under the whitewash, until she reached the place Shananara was using as a dayroom. It had been the Mistress of the Sisterhood's office until recently.

“I hear there was some trouble at the gate,” Shananara remarked as R'shiel knocked on the open door.

“The priests took exception to my presence,” R'shiel told her with a shrug. “But I discouraged them from doing anything about it.”

“I know,” the Harshini Queen replied with a grimace. “I have the headache to prove it. I really wish you would learn some restraint, R'shiel. You can be very exhausting at times.”

“I'm sorry.”

Shananara smiled and indicated that R'shiel should sit. The heavy furniture seemed out of place now. With the walls restored to their former glory, these rooms needed light, airy pieces, not the cumbersome dark furniture the Sisterhood favoured.

“Brak tells me you have a plan.”

“I need your help,” she said, taking the seat opposite the Queen.

“We cannot help you destroy Xaphista, R'shiel. For that matter, I could not help you if you wanted to step on a bug.”

“I know that. And I won't ask anything of the Harshini that goes against their nature - but I need to distract his believers for a while.”

“Distract them? How?” Shananara asked suspiciously.

R'shiel explained what she had in mind. The Queen listened to her, nodding occasionally, then finally laughing delightedly. “And you honestly think this ploy will work?”

“Brak seems to think it will.”

“Yes, well Brak is half-human. It would probably appeal to his rather skewed sense of humour.”

“Then you'll help me?”

“Yes, demon child, the Harshini will help you.”

“Even knowing it may result in the destruction of a god?”

“I don't know that will happen for certain, R'shiel. For all I know, this will do nothing but annoy him.”

R'shiel nodded, aware that the Queen was right. Brak thought it might work, but none of them could be sure. “I have another favour to ask.”

“I'll grant it if I can.”

“I need you in the Temple of the Gods with me. I don't have the skill to do this alone.”

“I cannot take a direct hand in this, R'shiel.”

“No, but you can show me what I have to do.”

“Very well,” Shananara agreed with some reluctance. “But don't count on my help. I don't mean to sound like I'm threatening you, but I simply cannot do anything that goes against the nature of the Harshini. I will do what I can, but you may find, at the point where you need my help the most, I will be useless to you.”

“I'm prepared to risk that.”

“Then I will be there, demon child. And may the gods guide our hands.”

R'shiel had one other task to perform before she was ready, and when she left Shananara, she hurried through the streets to the Defenders' blacksmith shop. They had finished the job she had asked them to do and she examined their handiwork closely, careful not to brush against it, until she was satisfied that it was exactly what she had asked for. The sergeant in charge of the forge smiled as she looked over it.

“You can touch it, lass. It doesn't bite, you know.” He was shouting to be heard over the ringing of hammers on metal. The smiths and the fletchers had been working non-stop for days, turning out weapons and arrows to be stockpiled in case of a Karien attack.

“Actually, Joulen, it does bite.” She straightened up and nodded in satisfaction. “Can you get one of your men to take it over to the Great Hall for me? Ask them to put it near the Seeing Stone.”

“Aye, if that's what you want.”

“It is, thank you.”

It was late afternoon when R'shiel left the blacksmith's forge, satisfied she had done all that she could for the time being. All that was needed now was for Xaphista to walk into her trap.

CHAPTER 58

Music from the amphitheatre drifted on the night as musicians warmed up their instruments. The Citadel blazed softly under a cloudless, blue-velvet sky. R'shiel looked down over the Karien camp from the wall-walk at the scattered fires that pierced the plain like dollops of hot blood in the darkness. The fires stretched as far as she could see. She had done everything she could think of, covered every contingency.

There was nothing left to do now but wait.

“It's been pretty quiet down there since we let the priests go.”

She glanced at Tarja, aware that he was rather uncomfortable. This was the first time they had been alone since her return. She had brought him here to talk to him undisturbed. That was never going to happen in his office. There were things she needed to say to him, for her own peace of mind, if nothing else.

“They're probably down there plotting our downfall,” she remarked, trying to sound lighthearted.

“I'd say that was almost a certainty.”

She glanced at him, but he was staring down at the plain with determination. His profile was guarded. “Tarja.”

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry.”

He turned to look at her. “For what?”

“For what Kalianah did to you. For all of it, I suppose.”

Tarja shrugged, not comfortable with either the subject or her apology. “R'shiel, there's really no need...”

“Yes there is, Tarja. At the very least, it eases my guilt a bit.”

“In that case, apology accepted,” he said, smiling faintly to assure her of his sincerity.

There were ten thousand other things that R'shiel wanted to say to him, but Tarja seemed satisfied that the subject was painlessly closed. He turned back to watching the plain in silence. R'shiel sighed and decided to let the matter drop. There was nothing to be gained from opening old wounds. Tarja had obviously been at pains to put the past behind him.

R'shiel's thoughts turned to the coming confrontation. She tried to calculate how much longer she had to wait. It was the evening of Fifthday. Tomorrow was Restday and, at dawn, every Karien would be crammed into the village churches, every city dweller would be crowded into the nearest temple. Even the soldiers below would turn their backs on the Citadel to listen to their priests. And that's when she would make her move. When every Karien voice would be raised in worship of their god.

It was when Xaphista would be at his most powerful.

It was also when he was most vulnerable.

“If this works,” she said, breaking the silence, “all Damin and Hablet are going to have to do is mop up.”

“Mopping up tens of thousands of Kariens and getting them back across the border will be a job in itself, R'shiel. And don't forget that we still have to gain control over the rest of Medalon. The Sisters of the Blade here in the Citadel might appear to be toeing the line, but I suspect it's only because of the siege. They're happy to let us fight their battles for them, but the moment we're rid of the Kariens, they'll start trying to regain their position. We've a very long road ahead of us.”

“You'll make a good Lord Defender, Tarja.”

He shrugged. “I never wanted to be Lord Defender, you know, not even when I was a Cadet. I knew what people were saying about me. I knew everyone thought I was being groomed for the job and the idea terrified me. The responsibility terrified me. It still does. I was much happier as a simple captain on the southern border fighting Damin Wolfblade. Life was a lot less complicated back then.”

“I think Damin would agree with you. He's finding some of the decisions required of a High Prince a bit more than he bargained for.” For a moment she recalled Damin's unforgiving eyes as he sentenced Mikel to death. Tarja would be confronted with similar dilemmas, she was certain. She envied neither of them. Then she smiled, as something else occurred to her. “He has Adrina with him.”

“Oh, wonderful,” he groaned.

“Don't worry, Tarja,” she assured him, laughing softly at the expression on his face. “You'll be safe. She only has eyes for Damin, these days. Besides, she's due to give birth soon. You never know... she might have the child here in the Citadel and decide to name it after you. But I think you'll find her too preoccupied to worry about flirting with you.”

He looked very relieved. “I like Adrina, but she can be very... trying.”

With a sympathetic smile, R'shiel turned her back on the Kariens and leaned against the softly glowing wall. She folded her arms across her body and studied the pattern in the stonework beneath her feet for a moment, working up the courage to say what she had brought him up here tell him.

“Tarja, when this is over, I'm leaving.”

He looked at her in surprise. “Where are you going?”

“I have some things to take care of. Loclon is still out there somewhere, for one thing. I won't rest until I've dealt with him.”

“I'm sorry we didn't find him. No, worse than that, I'm sorry I didn't kill him. You were right. You warned me years ago that I should have put an end to him that evening in the arena when he killed Georj. Do you know how often I wish I had?”

“Probably nearly as often as I do.”

For a moment, he could not meet her eyes. The memory of what Loclon had done to her was too dreadful to confront. He glanced back over the plain before he answered.

“We didn't see any sign of him when we let the Kariens out. He may still be in the Citadel.”

“No, Tarja. He's long gone. But it doesn't matter. I'm half Harshini. I have several lifetimes to fill. I don't mind using one of them to find Loclon.”

He nodded silently, needing no further explanation.

“I have to get Mikel back, too.”

“Mikel? That Karien boy who crossed the border with Adrina? What happened to him?”

“The God of Music is minding him for a time. I have to go and get him back.”

“A god is minding him?” Tarja repeated doubtfully. “I don't really want to know what that means, do I?”

She laughed softly. “No.”

“Will you come back when you've finished?”

“I don't know,” she shrugged. “There's something else I have to do, but I don't think it's going to be that easy, and I don't know how long it will take. You can keep a lantern burning for me, Tarja, but don't wait up.”

He smiled then, perhaps even a little relieved that she would not be around to remind him of a past he thought better forgotten. Kalianah's geas was not yet a distant memory. Time would make the past easier to come to terms with. He was no longer her brother and would never again be her lover, but she could count him a friend.

“I'll miss you.”

“No you won't. You'll be glad to see the back of me. So will Garet. And Mandah.” He turned from her, and it took R'shiel a moment to realise that it wasn't anger that turned him away, but embarrassment. “Oh, Tarja, don't be so foolish. I know I've never been friendly with her, but Mandah adores you. I worked that out when we first met in Reddingdale. I suppose that's why I never liked her. That, and the fact that she's so insufferably nice. She's probably one of those Novices who grew up in the Citadel lusting after you and Georj. It doesn't bother me, and you shouldn't let it bother you.”

Tarja suddenly grinned at his own foolishness. “That's very noble of you, R'shiel.”

“Actually, Brak said the same thing.”

Tarja's grin faded at the mention of Brak. There was still a degree of residual distrust between them, R'shiel knew. Brak had done a great deal that Tarja found hard to forgive. “Is he going with you when you leave?”

She shook her head sadly. “No, Tarja. Where Brak is going, I can't follow.”

He was silent for a moment then looked at her strangely. “Do you love him, R'shiel?”

“Not in the way you think. It's something else. You wouldn't understand. The Harshini would.”

“The Harshini,” he sighed heavily. “I don't suppose there's any chance the Harshini will want to leave the Citadel too, once this is all over and done with?”

“Not much,” she agreed with a grin.

He shook his head ruefully. “Well, wherever you go and whatever you do, R'shiel, spare a thought for me every now and then. Things are going to get a lot worse before they get better, I fear.”

R'shiel smiled sympathetically, but did not answer him. They stayed on top of the wall for a while longer, until the discordant notes of the distant musicians ceased. Then the air was filled with the strains of a cheerful melody as the party in the amphitheatre got under way. By unspoken agreement, they turned and walked back down the spiral staircase in the gatehouse to the street and headed towards the music.

CHAPTER 59

R'shiel had feared that allowing the Harshini to mingle with the people of the Citadel in the amphitheatre would be inviting trouble, but she need not have worried. Although the Medalonians had spent two hundred years reviling their race, when confronted with one in person, the Harshini were almost impossible to dislike. They did not share the human frailties of shyness or self-doubt, and assumed everyone was as happy to meet them as they were to meet others. Their wide-eyed joy at being invited to share the celebration was infectious. After a moment's awkward silence when the Harshini first arrived, the party settled down again and the citizens of the Citadel set about enjoying themselves as if the Karien army outside did not exist.

“Isn't it amazing what a bit of free food and alcohol will do for a city's morale,” Brak remarked as he found R'shiel sitting high up in the tiered seating of the amphitheatre watching the party.

“You think that's going to help morale? Just wait till they find out that the court'esa have been laid on free of charge for the evening.”

“How did you get Tarja to agree to that?”

“Ah, well... come to think of it, I didn't actually mention it to him. He's pretty busy at the moment. I didn't want to burden him with details.”

“I'm sure he'll appreciate your consideration when the court'esa houses send him their bills for this evening's entertainment.”

“He'll get over it.”

“You spoke to him, then?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And what? There's nothing much to tell, Brak.”

“No more guilt? No more pain?” he asked gently.

“No.”

“Then all that is left to do is wait, demon child.”

She nodded silently. Brak slipped his arm around her shoulder against the cold and she leaned against him as they watched the party in silence, waiting for the dawn.

The party was still well under way when R'shiel and Brak rose from their seats high in the amphitheatre and made their way to the Temple of the Gods. The sky was still dark, but R'shiel could feel the morning approaching. The Citadel was ablaze with light, adding its own unique essence to the celebrations. They walked through the almost-deserted streets in silence, aware that the overwhelming atmosphere in the Citadel was not one of fear or tension, but - temporarily at least - one of joy.

Shananara was waiting for them in the Temple of the Gods, her expression serene and hopeful. She smiled as they walked across the echoing floor to greet her.

“For the first time since I've been back, the Citadel almost feels like it used to,” she remarked.

“Let's hope it lasts,” R'shiel said, suddenly plagued with doubt.

“Have faith, demon child.”

R'shiel did not bother to answer that. Faith was something she had been raised to scorn. Instead, she looked at Brak and Shananara questioningly. “What time is it?”

“Almost dawn.”

“Then there's no point in putting this off any longer.”

She turned to face the Seeing Stone and opened her mind to the power. Drinking in the intoxicating sweetness, she let it fill her until her eyes burned black and she trembled with the raw force of it. She could feel Shananara reach for it too, and then Brak. His eyes darkened until they were as black as ebony. The torrent that she and Shananara could channel was vast compared to the mere stream he had access to, but his touch was that of the maestro next to her ham-fisted grasp. At the edge of her awareness, she felt him call to the Citadel. The mammoth awareness was slow to respond. But Brak knew the Citadel and the Citadel knew Brak. It was a relationship that was centuries old and beyond her comprehension.

In the distance, inside the Citadel, she heard shouts of alarm and the sound of a woman screaming. The walls began to pulse with light. They throbbed as the Citadel responded to Brak's call. R'shiel felt him stir. She felt the Citadel's touch and it almost brought her to her knees. Once before he had reached out to welcome her. She realised now that the last time he had merely glanced over her with mild interest.

R'shiel turned her attention to the Temple of the Gods and called out silently for Brehn, the God of Storms. He was waiting for her. Clouds began to gather over the fortress with unnatural speed, blotting out the rising sun and casting a pall of fear over the army outside.

She called out to the other gods. Jagged lightning split the awakening sky as Dacendaran appeared beside her in his motley garb, and beside him Jondalup, the God of Chance materialised. Further along the hall Kalianah appeared, but for this occasion she chose to appear as a young woman, rather than the child she normally preferred. She stood there in all her radiant glory, blinding any man foolish enough to look upon her. One by one, the other Primal Gods appeared, many of whom R'shiel could not even name. But every one of them she had summoned had answered her call. They could not help it. She was drawing on so much of their essence that even they were under her compulsion for a time. Finally Zegarnald appeared, curiously smaller than normal, although he still stood as high as the gallery.

Through the link she shared with Shananara she had no need for words. By mutual agreement they reached out to embrace the Citadel. Every thought, every mood, every happy laugh, every bawdy song and dancing couple, every lover's caress was drawn into their net. R'shiel drew it to her, relying on Shananara's skill to filter out the odd discordant thought - a fight between two drunken Defenders over an insult from their Cadet days. Two women squabbling over whose baby was the prettier. A lover's quarrel. All of it swirled through the net they wove, and with the skill of a master, Shananara refined it and filtered it until it was almost a concentrated essence of joy and happiness and pleasure.

But mixed in with the joy was more than just simple human pleasure. The Harshini were here and they willingly lent their essence to the emotions R'shiel and Shananara were distilling. Passion, pleasure and a hint of the wonder R'shiel had experienced in Sanctuary with Brak were added to the potent blend. The feel of it was enough to make R'shiel's spine tingle, and she had to concentrate hard to avoid losing herself in the sheer ecstasy of it.

R'shiel had no concept of time, no idea if it was fully dawn yet, or if a whole day had passed. She opened her eyes, seeing nothing but the crystal that loomed in front of her, and placed her hands on the Seeing Stone.

Taking a deep breath, R'shiel hurled everything she had gathered at the Stone, not attempting subtlety or finesse. She had only her strength to rely on, and the knowledge that every Seeing Stone would respond to her sending. Every Seeing Stone and every part of one. Every staff that contained chips of the broken Stone absorbed the elixir of joy that she threw at it greedily. Every drop of pleasure that she could wring from the Citadel she hurled at them, then sent her mind out to follow.

She had unleashed chaos.

The Seeing Stone in Greenharbour pulsated with light, and she caught a glimpse of Kalan, standing before the Stone, her face alight with rapture as she tried to fathom its unaccountable behaviour. With a blurring, gut-wrenching twist, R'shiel found herself looking down over another Stone in a dank cave, surrounded by tonsured priests, who wailed with despair as the pleasure emanating from the Stone began to draw them from their god. In the back of her mind she felt the Stone in Sanctuary, hidden far out of time, trying to answer the call. She gathered her thoughts that were rapidly being torn apart by the maelstrom and threw her mind northward towards Karien.

She reached for any part of any Seeing Stone that she could touch, and the chips of crystal responded immediately. She saw a large temple with a ceiling covered in mother-of-pearl tiles, a priest in glorious robes gripping his staff with wide, terrified eyes as his congregation fell under the spell she was weaving. Another place, another temple. Another terrified priest. Another congregation caught in the thrall. An orgy of rapturous pleasure. Everywhere she cast her mind the response was the same. Her own savage joy suddenly swelled the link and she turned from the Stone.

It didn't matter now. The damage was done. The power flowed through the Seeing Stone like a dam that had broken under the weight of too much rain. All the pleasure, all the joy, all the sin denied to his believers hit the Overlord's people like a wave of bliss that made them forget everything for a brief moment in time... including their god.

She felt a surge of power from the Citadel as it reached out to embrace her, to bolster her resistance - and not a moment too soon. She had barely taken her hand from the Stone when Xaphista appeared, striding through the other gods, his eyes burning with anger.

“Stop this abomination!”

Although she well knew the seductive touch of his spirit, R'shiel had never seen Xaphista in material form. She found the sight a little disappointing. He chose to appear as an old man, with long white hair that flowed around his broad shoulders, although the physique he affected belonged to a much younger man. His dark cassock rippled in the breeze of his passing and in his hand he carried a staff that almost brushed the ceiling, topped by a small sun that radiated beams of blinding light through the Temple.

“How dare you! These are my people!”

The ground trembled with his wrath.

“I'm just reminding them of what you've made them forget!”

Xaphista's answer was to hurl a blast of rage at her that almost knocked her off her feet. But the Citadel surged to meet it, adding his implacable will to her own, so it merely buffeted her like a sudden gust of magical wind.

The Primal Gods did nothing. There was nothing they could do but grant her open access to their power. Xaphista was stronger than them combined. That was the danger of him. It was the reason they created the demon child, and the reason they could do little but rail helplessly against him. Individually, they did not have the strength to fight him, and their own, inviolable laws did not permit them to kill him. The demon child was their only hope.

“You defy me at your peril, demon child!”

“You threaten me at yours!”

And then, like a tap suddenly turned off, she felt Shananara let go of her power. R'shiel felt it go, and staggered under the weight of Xaphista's wrath, but the Harshini Queen could not hold her power against the might of the God's anger. But as the torrent through the Seeing Stone dwindled to nothing, Xaphista let out a cry of unimaginable pain. Although she wasn't certain, R'shiel guessed that across the length and breadth of Karien, the thrall was slowly being shaken by his followers. In the aftermath of R'shiel's storm of pleasure and joy, one overriding, overwhelming feeling now consumed the hearts of his believers.

Doubt.

“It's over, Xaphista. The Kariens have begun to doubt you. How long will they belong to you once Kalianah or Zegarnald walk among your followers? They are yours no longer!”

“You will never be strong enough to defeat me, demon child.”

“I'm not trying to defeat you, Xaphista. I just want your people to doubt you.”

The Overlord looked down on her with blazing eyes. “You cannot take my people from me!”

“You think not? You've spent centuries convincing them the others gods don't exist. Every time a Karien turns round now, there will be a Primal God waiting for them. I'll flood the world with miracles. I will have Jondalup turn every human who games into a winner. I will have Dacendaran turn every person into a thief. Cheltaran will heal every wound, every sick child, every dying old woman. I'll make the Primal Gods answer every single prayer your people utter. You'll be so deep in divine intervention that there won't be a Karien left who can deny the presence of the Primal Gods within a month.”

“Such recklessness would destroy the natural balance of the universe.”

“I don't care.”

She truly didn't, and Xaphista knew she wasn't lying. R'shiel had not been raised among the Harshini. Despite everything they had tried to teach her at Sanctuary, despite everything Brak had explained to her since, she still did not quite understand the place the gods held in the scheme of things. It was her ignorance that lent her threat its power. No full-blooded Harshini could have contemplated such a course of action. R'shiel did not appreciate the consequences of her behaviour. She was a child who had accidentally stumbled over a weapon of mass destruction and wanted to use it to get her own way, totally oblivious to the fact that it would destroy her along with her foes.

The Overlord glared at the other gods, who had remained silent for the entire exchange.

“You cannot hide behind this child. Each one of you will fade into nothing as I grow in strength.”

“You cannot destroy us, Xaphista,” Zegarnald boomed, unable to contain his anger. “Look at you! Already the doubt begins to take its toll.”

Zegarnald was right. In the short time Xaphista had been in the Hall, he had visibly diminished. R'shiel was not sure how long she had before his priests restored order. Not sure how long the doubt and uncertainty of his believers would last, or how long the pleasure she had swamped them with would distract them from their god.

“We will have an accounting for this, demon child.” The statement was as close to an admission of defeat as Xaphista was likely to get. He was not conceding victory and he wasn't going to quit without a fight. He turned on the God of War savagely, even as he dwindled a little more. “I have no need to destroy you, Zegarnald. When the whole world lies prostrate at my feet there will be no wars and you will be obsolete... Each of you represents a vice that my believers eschew. You, Kalianah, and you, Dacendaran - when every human believes it is a sin to love or steal, there will be no need for you, no need for any of you... Enjoy your dying moments, Primal Gods. Before long you will be nothing more than sad, forgotten legends.”

Xaphista's defiant words were at odds with his stature. He was no taller than Brak now, and he no longer had the power to assume the form he chose. A demon stood before them, larger than normal, but still raging defiantly. It was not a smooth transition. He surged up in size every now and then as pockets of his followers denied what they had seen and felt, but he was dwindling fast. But how much longer did they have before doubt gave way to habit? Before wonder gave way to fear? Before his people shrugged off what they felt, or worse, attributed it to the Overlord and their belief in him came surging back, like the backdraft after a savage explosion?

Not long, R'shiel knew. Not very long at all.

“Go!” she cried to the Primal Gods. “Go out among his people! Now! While you have the chance!”

Most of the gods vanished abruptly and R'shiel became aware of the noise. A wailing arose that seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. She discovered she was rigid with tension. The Citadel and the plain surrounding it were filled with incredulous, panicked shouting.

She turned to Xaphista, looking down at him as he shrank back to a demon no larger than Dranymire.

And then she felt it.

On the very edge of her awareness.

The backlash.

“Brak!” There was more than a little panic in her voice as she cried out to him. She did not have the skill, or even the energy, to do what was needed now. Brak did, however. The crude iron cage built by the Defenders flew through the air, guided by Brak's mind, rather than his hands. He could no more touch it than R'shiel could. It landed with a clatter over the cringing demon that had once been a god - and would be a god again, as soon as the racing wave of belief hit them. Xaphista howled his outrage and then his pain as he snatched at the bars of the cage. The three staff heads welded to the bars absorbed his power as easily as they had tortured the little demon caught by his priests when R'shiel had tried to fool the Quorum into believing that a demon meld was really the First Sister.

And then it hit her.

R'shiel fell hard, only vaguely aware of Brak calling out to her, only dimly seeing Shananara as she collapsed beside her. Xaphista leapt at the bars of his cage, but the force of the backlash hit her and she plunged into unconsciousness before she could discover if her trap was sufficient to contain him.

CHAPTER 60

When R'shiel finally awoke, it was to find Death standing over her.

The Hall was quiet; even the gods were gone. Daylight, splintered by the stained glass windows, striped the floor in coloured light. Her head was pounding, her body wrung out and weak. R'shiel felt like she had been hit by a falling building.

“Am I going to die now?”

Death looked down at her and shook his head. He was once again in the form of a Harshini, the same benign form he had assumed to escort Korandellan into the Underworld.

With a start, R'shiel realised what that meant and pushed herself up painfully. Brak lay not far from her, his skin pallid. He wasn't breathing. She scrambled on her hands and knees to his side and shook him, but he showed no sign of life.

“You've taken him already!” she accused, tears spilling down her face.

“It was the backlash, demon child. It affected all the Harshini.”

She glanced over at Shananara, who also lay unconscious on the floor of the Hall. “Are the other Harshini dead?”

“No. The Citadel will not permit a Harshini to die within his walls. They were protected. The Harshini outside the Citadel would have been too far out of range to suffer more than the edges of it.”

“What about the humans?”

“The backlash would not have affected them. Not physically. Only a half-breed would be in danger.”

“Then I killed Brak,” she said dully. Her emotions were numb from exhaustion.

“Brak offered his life in exchange for yours some time ago, demon child. He did not die unwillingly.”

She stared down at Brak, unwilling, even now, to accept it. He did not deserve to die for her. “Have you come to take him?”

“That was my intention, demon child. But you sent his soul on its way without the body.”

“But you can take his body now, can't you?”

Death stared at her but did not answer. R'shiel was suddenly frightened that the answer would be one she didn't want to hear. She leaned forward and gently placed a kiss on Brak's rapidly cooling forehead, then climbed slowly to her feet and staggered past Death, falling on her knees near the cage that held Xaphista.

The trap had held. Xaphista cowered in the centre of the cage, trying to stay clear of the magically charged bars. He was whimpering. The magic of the staff heads had shielded him from the blast but his own magic had prevented him from drawing strength from the backlash when he needed it most. She had been afraid the trap would not hold. But the power that had washed over the cage was unfocused. There was no Seeing Stone to direct it, no determined will behind it. Xaphista the God was vanquished. All that remained in his place was Xaphista the demon. And he was a small and rather pathetic looking demon at that.

“I have come for this one too,” Death told her, gliding to her side. “He will cause less trouble in my keeping.”

“Just his soul,” R'shiel said, glancing up at Death. “Not the body. I don't want you getting bored one day and deciding to send him back.”

“You presume much, demon child.”

She glanced around the Hall at Brak's body and Shananara's prone form, then looked back at Death. “I've earnt it, don't you think?”

“Perhaps.”

“And you have to take Brak's body. All of him.”

“His soul has already fled, demon child.”

“You're Death. You can reunite them.”

“To what purpose?”

“Because the gods owe me that much.”

“Was there anything else?” Had she not been so exhausted, she might have detected a slight note of impatience in his tone.

“Is there any way I can get Brak back?”

“I am Death, demon child. I do not run an inn. Lives do not come and go as they please through my realm.”

Significantly, Death hadn't said no. R'shiel climbed to her feet and faced him, willing for the moment to let the matter drop. “Then can I ask you a question before you go?”

“You may.”

“How many hells are there?”

If he was surprised by her question, he gave no outward sign. “As many as there are creatures to imagine them, demon child. I do not create them. Each soul creates its own hell. Whether they suffer the afterlife or enjoy it is entirely up to them.”

“So if I want someone to suffer, how do I make sure?”

“Evil is its own reward, demon child.”

She nodded, thinking she understood what he meant. Death turned away from her and looked at Xaphista. The demon trembled under his scrutiny and then suddenly slumped against the bars. The withered grey body no longer cared about the shielded cage. Its soul was gone. Death turned then and opened his arms. R'shiel watched silently as Brak's lifeless body floated across the Hall until it was resting in Death's embrace.

Then, without another word, Death vanished, leaving R'shiel standing alone in the cavernous, empty Hall. She heard Shananara stirring and went to help the Harshini Queen, wrapped in a cocoon of numbness and grief that kept the pain at bay.

They stumbled out into bright sunlight. The Citadel was in chaos. The streets were crowded, and the sounds of shouted orders overlaid the general panic. They stood at the top of the steps, looking down over the confusion. R'shiel had her arm around Shananara, but she wasn't really certain who was holding up whom.

“You certainly know how to create a riot, cousin,” Shananara said with a wan smile.

She helped Shananara down the steps and they pushed their way against the panicked crowd towards the dormitories. R'shiel had to push them flat against the walls on several occasions as troops of mounted Defenders galloped by. The last troop to pass them stopped as their officer called a sudden halt. He flew from his saddle and ran to them. It was Tarja.

“What happened?” he demanded as R'shiel collapsed against him.

“Xaphista is dead,” she told him weakly.

Tarja looked at her in concern then waved his men forward. A lieutenant jumped down from his mount and caught Shananara before she fell.

“Get her back to the dormitories,” Tarja ordered the man holding the Queen. “Get her own people to help her. And take an escort.”

The young officer saluted with his free hand and scooped up the Harshini Queen into his arms. He lifted Shananara up into his saddle, swung up behind her, and then, waving a few of the troopers forward, pushed his way through the throng and headed back towards the dormitories. Once Shanan was safely out of harm's way, R'shiel sagged with relief. Now she only had herself to worry about.

“Can you stand?” Tarja asked.

“I think so.”

“Where's Brak?”

“He's dead.”

“I'm sorry.” Tarja sounded like he meant it, but R'shiel knew he would not grieve his death for long. Not like she would. “Let's get you out of here.”

“Is everyone all right?”

He glanced over his shoulder for a moment at the chaos in the streets and smiled. “You mean this?”

She nodded.

“Oh, yes, everyone is fine, as far as we can tell. Just after dawn there was some sort of... well, I don't know what it was, but it knocked most of the Harshini unconscious and everybody else just seemed to go berserk for a while. We're getting it under control, but it's taking time, and now the Kariens are attacking.”

“Attacking?”

“Don't worry, it's nothing serious. They're fighting amongst themselves as much as they're aiming at us, but we still have to do something to put it down. Sergeant!” A Defender hurried forward and saluted. “See that she gets back to her rooms and post a guard. I don't want anybody disturbing Lady R'shiel while she's resting, is that clear?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Tarja, I don't need —”

“Shut up, R'shiel. You can hardly stand. Sergeant, once the Lady R'shiel is in her rooms, find Mandah Rodak and send her to keep the lady company.”

“Tarja!”

Tarja grinned at her, knowing full well what his order meant. Mandah would not let her budge until she was convinced she was fully recovered. Worse than that, Mandah would insist on calling her “Divine One”. He thrust her into the arms of the waiting sergeant and ran for his horse, yelling orders as he leapt into the saddle and resumed his push to the main gate. R'shiel watched him leave with a furious snarl, but she was too tired to resist and let the Defender lift her onto his mount and take her away from the bedlam that filled the streets of the Citadel.

CHAPTER 61

The Defenders beat back the attack on the Citadel with little effort. The Kariens were too disorganised to mount a serious campaign, despite their numerical superiority. By mid-morning they had withdrawn to the other side of the Saran. A significant number withdrew even further. Desertions were decimating the ranks of the Karien army on a regular basis. Garet estimated there were less than seventy thousand left.

By the time Tarja returned to his office to confront the remainder of the aftermath of whatever it was that R'shiel had unleashed, he was exhausted. He had not been immune to the party atmosphere last night and had consumed far too much wine. When all hell broke loose at dawn he had woken with a head as thick as a door, his bed a tangle of sheets and Mandah curled in his arms, her thick blonde hair spilling across the pillow and tickling his nose. He had pushed her away impatiently, annoyed at himself. He had not intended to get caught up in the celebrations. He had certainly not intended to take Mandah to his bed, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he had done so because R'shiel had given him her blessing. Damn her. Damn all Harshini.

Seeing that she was wounded by his rejection, Tarja had kissed Mandah soundly, promised to see her later and fled the room, getting dressed on the run. He was hopping on one foot, pulling his boot onto the other when Garet knocked on the door and opened it without waiting for an answer.

“We appear to be under attack, my Lord,” Garet said calmly. He looked over Tarja's shoulder towards the bedroom door. Mandah stood there wrapped in nothing but a sheet, yawning sleepily. “Good morning, Mandah.”

“Commandant.”

Tarja glared at Garet, waiting for him to say something, anything, about finding the young pagan woman in his room. He was in a foul enough mood to react rather badly if Garet even looked at him askance.

But the commandant's composure did not waver for an instant. “Oh, and the population appears to be rioting, too.”

“What the hell happened?”

“I assume it has something to do with R'shiel, but I can't be certain. I suggest you get a move on, my Lord. We've a busy day ahead of us.”

That had proved to be a vast understatement. Tarja yearned for a day that was merely busy. The Kariens had been pushed back and the population in the Citadel would calm down eventually. Already many had returned to their homes with sore heads and puzzled looks. But there was still more to be done.

There was always more to be done.

When he finally pushed open the door to his office, he found several Harshini waiting for him. Three were dressed in the long white robes they favoured. The other two were dressed in Dragon Riders' leathers. All five of them bowed solemnly as he entered the office and walked cautiously to his desk.

“My Lord Defender.”

“How is Shan... your Queen?”

“She is recovering, my Lord,” one of the white-robed Harshini informed him. “We are most grateful for your assistance this morning.”

“And the rest of your people?”

“They are well, my Lord. Thank you for your concern.”

The Harshini's constant thanks were starting to wear on him. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“We are here to do something for you, my Lord.” The Harshini who spoke was one of the Dragon Riders. She stepped forward with a smile. “I am Pilarena and this is Jalerana. I have been honoured to aid Prince Damin in his journey north and my companion has been with King Hablet and his navy. We have come to coordinate your forces, my Lord.”

Tarja slumped back in his chair in astonishment. “Coordinate my forces?”

“We will relay messages, my Lord,” the other Dragon Rider explained. “If they are verbal, then we will carry messages of goodwill. If you want to communicate anything... else, then we must ask that the messages are written and sealed and that we are not advised of their contents.”

Tarja nodded in understanding. The Harshini could do nothing to aid their attack. If they knew the messages they carried were likely to cause death, they would not deliver them. He smiled faintly, thinking that they were very easy to underestimate. This race had survived for thousands of years without being able to lift a finger in their own defence. He was beginning to understand how they had managed it.

“Can you show me where they are now?” he asked, indicating the map laid out on his desk. He and Garet had been poring over it yesterday, trying to guess where Damin might be.

Jalerana nodded and stepped forward. “The High Prince is here, my Lord. He has with him approximately forty thousand men. The King of Fardohnya is here and has another ten thousand. His Majesty asked that I pass on his apologies that he could not bring a larger force. In the time available it was all he could gather, and there are only so many ships he could carry them in.”

“Then we have fifty thousand men ready to attack?”

“You have fifty thousand men, my Lord. What you do with them is not our concern,” Pilarena remarked sternly.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you.”

She bowed slightly. “You are forgiven, my Lord.”

“How did Damin get here so fast? With an army that big?”

“With the aid of the gods,” Jalerana told him serenely.

Tarja shook his head, deciding he would be better off if he didn't know the details. “I'd like to send a message to both Hablet and Damin. Written messages. How soon before you can leave?”

“We will be ready when your dispatches are completed,” Jalerana assured him.

“Then if you would excuse me, Divine Ones, I have a lot of work to do.”

Four hours later, Tarja sealed the letters he had written to Damin Wolfblade and King Hablet. Garet watched him pressing the Lord Defender's seal into the warm wax and frowned.

“You know, those letters could cause us a lot of grief if they fell into the wrong hands.”

“The Harshini will deliver them safely.”

“Suppose they decide to deliver them into the wrong hands?”

Tarja shook his head at Garet's suspicions. “Haven't you seen enough yet to know that they're on our side?”

“They're not on our side, Tarja. They are on their own side. And you would do well not to forget it. Just because their Queen is stunning and they smile a lot, it doesn't make them harmless.”

Tarja grinned at the commandant. “Shall I tell Shananara you think she's stunning?”

“Not if you want to see the sun come up tomorrow,” Garet warned with a faint smile. “Any news on R'shiel?”

“Mandah says she's sleeping like the dead.”

“Any idea what she actually did in that Hall?”

“No, and I don't want to know.”

“Neither do I.” Garet rose from his seat and walked to the map, frowning as he noted where the troop placements were marked. He still thought the Harshini were lying about how far they had come. “Speaking of Mandah...”

“It's none of your business, Garet.”

“You're the Lord Defender, and she's a pagan.”

“Then you've got nothing to complain about. A few months ago I was sleeping with a Harshini. If I keep going at this rate, I'll have worked my way up to a Quorum Member by next spring.”

“This is no joking matter, Tarja. Once we clear out the Kariens, we still have the rest of Medalon to secure. As it is, we've got half the damned Sisterhood confined to their quarters. It's not going to help our cause with you flaunting a pagan lover.”

“You were the one who claimed I was the only one the pagans would follow.”

“Yes, but I didn't expect them to follow you into the bedroom.”

Tarja leaned back in his chair and studied Garet. “Is that your only concern?”

“Yes.”

“Then mind your own damned business.”

Garet shook his head and bowed mockingly. “As you command, my Lord. It's your neck.”

“Garet, you wanted change. You wanted the Sisterhood gone. You can't have just the bits you like and discard the rest.”

“True,” the commandant conceded reluctantly. “But you can't blame me for hoping.”

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Tarja called permission to enter and Jalerana and Pilarena entered the office. They bowed politely and accepted the letters Tarja handed them, not even glancing at the packets they held.

“Do you have any other messages, my Lord?”

“Just tell Prince Damin and King Hablet that we anxiously await their arrival. With joy, of course.”

Jalerana smiled. “Of course, my Lord.”

Garet watched them suspiciously as they left the office then shook his head. “You're too trusting, Tarja.”

“They can't knowingly cause harm, Garet.”

“Perhaps not, but they can do a hell of a lot of damage unknowingly. Besides, I never trust anybody who is always so damned happy.”

CHAPTER 62

Damin Wolfblade and his army arrived at the Citadel within an hour of the appearance of the first of King Hablet's Fardohnyans. The constant flow of messages delivered by the Dragon Riders between the Citadel, Hablet's ships and Damin's Warlords had allowed an unprecedented level of coordination. Their forces were in place, their strategy worked out to the finest detail, their victory almost a foregone conclusion long before the Citadel came into view.

The only thing that irked Damin as he rode out to meet his father-in-law was that Hablet had got here first.

Hablet proved to be a short, heavy-set man with a greying beard and a scowl that was reserved for the man who had run off with his daughter. Adrina had been left back at the camp, despite her protests. The Harshini had stepped in to aid him in restraining her, no more willing to let a pregnant woman near a battlefield than he was.

Hablet waited on a small rise overlooking the Karien army. The enemy was aware of their presence. One could hardly move an army this size in secret, but they were milling about aimlessly. The Karien dukes were still hostages in the Citadel and their forces lacked any sound leadership.

Damin frowned as he saw Hablet sitting astride a magnificent black stallion, waiting for the High Prince to approach. It was deliberate, Damin was certain. Hablet wanted him to be the supplicant. With a quick glance at Narvell, who rode on his left, Damin bit back his annoyance and galloped forward.

“Your Majesty,” Damin said, with a slight bow as he reined in beside the King. His own stallion sidestepped nervously as he caught the scent of the King's mount. The irony was not lost on Damin as he fought to keep the beast under control. Two territorial stallions, indeed.

“You're Wolfblade, I suppose?”

“That's very observant of you, Your Majesty.”

“Where's my daughter?”

“She's safe.”

“Married to you? That's debateable.”

Damin suddenly grinned at the Fardohnyan King as he realised Hablet was more afraid of meeting him than he was of meeting Hablet. This man had tried to have him assassinated any number of times, and had been planning to invade his country until recently. It would not be unreasonable for Damin to have called him out for it the moment he laid eyes on him.

“Your Majesty, I'm sure you've a lot to say to Adrina and I know she has quite a bit to say to you. But let's put aside our differences for the time being and do something about these Kariens, shall we?” He didn't wait for Hablet to answer. “This is Narvell Hawksword, the Warlord of Elasapine. He'll act as my liaison. Once the battle is engaged the Harshini will be forced to withdraw, so I thought it might be easier this way. As my force is four times the size of yours, and includes a couple of thousand Defenders, we'll be bearing the brunt of the attack, but any advice you offer will be welcome. If you wish to join us in the command tent, just let Lord Hawksword know, and he'll have someone show you the way.”

Hablet sputtered something in Fardohnyan at Damin's high-handed manner, but he didn't wait to find out what it was. He wheeled his stallion around and galloped back towards his own lines, laughing at the look on the King of Fardohnya's face.

Once the attack was sounded from the walls of the Citadel the gates opened, and rank upon rank of depressingly well-disciplined troops marched forth, followed by the Defender cavalry. As they formed up in front of the walls on the other side of the Saran River, Damin gave the signal to move forward. His advance forces were mostly mounted, and they moved onto the plain like a wall of impending death. He gave another signal and the Fardohnyan infantry moved in from the west.

And then they waited.

Shananara had insisted that the Kariens be given the opportunity to surrender. It was a condition of using her people to relay their messages back and forth between the Citadel and the armies coming to relieve them.

Damin took out his looking glass and focused on the Citadel as Tarja emerged through the main gate. Mounted beside him was a bearded Karien, one of Jasnoff's dukes, no doubt. Tarja let him take a long look at the forces arrayed against his men. The two men spoke at some length, the Karien gesticulating angrily, and then the duke wheeled his mount around and returned to the Citadel. Damin swung the looking glass up to the flagpole mounted over the gate. The white flag of truce was hastily pulled down and battle colours were raised in their place. A whoop of glee sounded along the Hythrun lines.

“It appears the Kariens aren't planning to surrender, my Lord,” Damin remarked to Almodavar with a grin.

“What a shame, Your Highness,” Almodavar said insincerely.

“Then I suppose we'd better go and kill them all.”

“That would seem to be the only option left open to us, Your Highness.”

Damin glanced over his shoulder. “Have the Harshini withdrawn?”

“They're clear of the field, Your Highness. They withdrew as soon as they saw the battle flags being raised.”

Damin nodded and passed his looking glass to an aide and unsheathed his sword. The sound of the Defender trumpets reached him faintly on the breeze and he raised his arm to lead his troops into battle.

The battle, once it got under way, was almost as bad as the one on the northern border. The Kariens were not acting under a coercion, but they were demoralised, hungry and leaderless. Their god was dead, their leaders held hostage in the enemy fortress. They put up a fight, certainly, but there was no need for strategy. It reminded Damin of quelling the riot that had stormed the gates of Greenharbour during the siege. All they did - all they needed to do - was draw inexorably closer, pulling an ever-tighter circle of steel around the Kariens until there was no escape and no quarter given.

The knights put up the best fight. Their code of honour would allow them no other course of action, but even they fell eventually to the unstoppable advance. By the time Damin thought to look up, bloodied and exhausted, he was surprised to discover the sun high overhead. The ground behind him was littered with more bodies than he could count, and in the distance the Saran River ran red as the Defenders splashed through its shallow waters to meet their foes.

Looking about him and realising there was nobody left to fight, Damin rested his sword across his saddle and looked up at the Citadel. The fortress seemed to glow, even in the bright sunlight. The archers on the walls had stopped loosing their arrows, as the only men within reach now were their own troops.

Then he heard another trumpet blare out and saw the battle colours come down, replaced with the plain blue flag that they had agreed they would hoist in the case of victory.

A cheer rose from the field, muted but heartfelt. Damin surveyed the battlefield, feeling strangely let down. Like the battle on the northern border it had been as much a cattle cull as it was a decent war. The only enemy worth fighting these days, he realised, were probably the Defenders, and he'd allied himself with them. Maybe he should have stayed at home, or planned to invade Medalon. Then at least he would have been guaranteed a decent fight.

“Your Highness? Prince Damin?”

He turned in his saddle to find a Defender riding towards him. “I'm Damin Wolfblade.”

The Defender saluted sharply. “Your Highness, the Lord Defender sends his compliments and requests that you join him in the Citadel.”

“Very well.”

“Would you happen to know where I could find the King of Fardohnya, sir?”

“Back that way,” Damin said, waving in the general direction of the command post some leagues distant. He was in no hurry to have Hablet join them in the Citadel. He wanted to speak to Tarja first. “He's in the command tent.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Oh, Lieutenant!”

“Your Highness?”

“Once you've delivered your message to King Hablet, could you ask Lord Hawksword to fetch my wife and bring her to the Citadel, too?”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

The Defender galloped off towards the command tent and Damin turned his stallion towards the Citadel.

“You look like hell,” Tarja announced by way of greeting.

Damin smiled wearily as he dismounted, handing his reins to a waiting cadet. The boy led the stallion away cautiously. “Well, some of us have been out fighting, you know, not sitting here in the Citadel playing Lord Defender. How in the name of the gods did they talk you into accepting that job?”

Tarja grimaced. “It's a long story. You're wounded.”

Damin glanced down at his blood-soaked sleeve and poked at it curiously, then shrugged when he felt no pain. “Must be someone else's blood. Any chance you can find me a clean shirt before Adrina gets here? I will be wounded if she sees me like this. I promised her I wouldn't get involved in the fighting.”

“She didn't really expect you to stay out of it, did she?”

“Who knows with Adrina,” he shrugged.

He followed Tarja up a broad set of sweeping steps to the front of an impressive building that looked vaguely like one of the temples in Greenharbour. Tarja pushed open the massive door and Damin stepped inside, gaping in wonder.

“The Temple of the Gods,” he whispered in awe.

“We prefer to call it the Great Hall,” Tarja said with a thin smile.

“I can't believe you left it so untouched.”

“We didn't. The Harshini Queen rearranged things a bit when she got here.”

Damin grinned at Tarja. “That must have been hard for your poor little atheist heart to cope with. Will you introduce me to the Queen?”

“Of course. She should be here soon.”

“And the demon child? I half expected her to be standing on the walls hurling lightning bolts into the enemy.”

Tarja's face clouded. “R'shiel has been asleep for days now.”

“Asleep?”

“She says she destroyed Xaphista.”

“Yes, well that would take it out of you, wouldn't it?” He slapped Tarja's shoulder to remind him he was joking. “You said she was asleep? Not unconscious? What do the Harshini say about her?”

“They don't seem to be worried.”

“Then neither should you.”

They walked the length of the Temple to where a long polished table had been set up in the shadow of the massive Seeing Stone. It would dwarf the one in Greenharbour. For a moment Damin wished he'd brought Kalan with him. She would have been awestruck to stand here in the fabled Harshini Temple of the Gods facing the Citadel's Seeing Stone.

As they approached the table, the Defenders on guard snapped to attention. Tarja sent one of them to find Damin a clean shirt as he pulled at the laces on his leather breastplate and lifted it over his head.

“Have you got anything to drink, or is this going to be one of those long, boring dry affairs?”

Tarja smiled and ordered a Defender to bring wine. He came back with a carafe, two goblets and the clean shirt he'd requested. Damin drank the first one down without taking a breath, changed his shirt and then poured another drink down his throat, before collapsing into one of the high-backed chairs around the table.

“So, I take it we're having this little chat in here to intimidate the Karien dukes?” he inquired as he poured himself another drink.

“That thought did cross my mind, yes.”

“Good idea. Where are they?”

“I want to wait until Hablet and Shananara get here before I let them in.”

Damin nodded approvingly. “You're getting very good at this, aren't you?”

“I suppose. How do you like being a High Prince?”

“I loathe it. I had to kill that Karien child a few weeks ago. He tried to poison R'shiel. I've never had to make a worse decision in my life.”

“R'shiel never mentioned it.”

“She wouldn't. Not after Brak stepped in. Where is he, by the way? Watching over the demon child?”

“He's dead.”

The news surprised Damin almost as much as Tarja's obvious lack of remorse. “Well, that will make Adrina happy. She was planning to kill him herself.”

The doors opened at the far end of the Hall and a woman stepped through. At first, Damin thought it was R'shiel. As she drew closer and he saw her black eyes and her air of serene calm he knew it could only be the Harshini Queen. He jumped to his feet and bowed low as she approached.

“Your Majesty.”

“High Prince,” she replied graciously, then turned to Tarja. “I hope you don't mind, Tarja, but I have sent my people out to help the wounded.”

“Of course I don't mind, but won't they be distressed roaming a battlefield?”

“We abhor violence, my Lord, but we abhor suffering even more. Don't fear for my people. They are not as fragile as you think.”

“Tarja!”

The man who called out from the entrance of the Hall was Garet Warner, the commandant the Sisterhood had sent to investigate the goings on when they were on the northern border. Tarja excused himself and hurried to speak to him and then walked back to the table. His expression was thoughtful.

“What's wrong?”

“We've just received a bird from Yarnarrow. Jasnoff is dead. He killed himself the same day R'shiel claims she killed Xaphista.”

Shananara took the news stoically. “He ruled Karien by divine mandate. With Xaphista gone, so is his crown.”

“So who's in charge now?”

“With Cratyn dead, the next in line is someone called Drendyn. He's Jasnoff's nephew. Apparently, we're holding him here. He's one of the dukes.”

“Drendyn?” Damin asked with a laugh. “Oh, Tarja, are you in for an interesting time! He's a boy. And I can promise you he wasn't raised to rule a nation the size of Karien.”

“Well, we'd better break it to him gently. I'm not sure how he's going to take the news that he's now their King.”

“If you want my advice, talk to him alone and leave the other dukes out of it. They'll just try to manipulate him. Maybe, with a bit of guidance, we can mould him into a half-decent King.”

“It is not for you to manipulate other nations to suit your own purposes, Your Highness,” Shananara scolded.

“Actually it is, Your Majesty. We've just spent thousands of lives out there for no good reason. If we can take this boy and turn him into a King, one who thinks before he attacks, we'll all benefit.”

The Harshini Queen suddenly smiled. “Perhaps we should consider returning to the old custom of Harshini advisers at court, Your Highness. You saw how effective it can be when scattered parties can communicate quickly with each other.”

“And that would include my court, I suppose?” he asked, admiring her quick mind - and her own blatant manipulation.

“We would not want to be seen playing favourites, Your Highness,” she replied ingenuously.

“Of course not,” he agreed with a wry smile and then turned to Tarja. “It's not a bad idea, you know. With Xaphista gone, the Collective will move in to Karien. But with a Harshini looking over his shoulder, we should be able to keep young Drendyn out of trouble while he grows into his crown.”

“The plan has merit,” Tarja agreed hesitantly.

“I do have one condition, though, Your Majesty,” Damin added, turning to the Queen.

“And what is that, Your Highness?”

“I want to be there when you break the news to Hablet,” he said with a malicious grin.

CHAPTER 63

R'shiel was awake for some time before she opened her eyes. She waited, feigning sleep until she heard Mandah leave the room. Once she was certain she was alone, she swung her feet to the floor and rubbed her eyes. The remains of what must have been a mammoth headache lingered behind her eyes, but other than that she bore no obvious evidence of her battle with Xaphista.

Climbing out of the bed, she padded barefoot to the door and opened it a crack. Mandah was talking to Tarja. She could not make out what they were saying, but when he was finished telling her what he had come to say he kissed her, hard and hungrily, before letting her go. Mandah shut the door behind him with a smile and headed back towards the bedroom. R'shiel raced back to the bed and pulled the covers over herself, closing her eyes and forcing her breathing into a deep rhythm. She heard Mandah cross the room, felt a cool hand on her forehead and then heard the door open and close, followed by the fainter sound of the apartment door closing.

So Mandah had gone; perhaps to join Tarja. It hopefully meant they were going to be occupied for a while. She hunted around the room for her clothes, finally finding them pressed and folded in a drawer under the window. Typical, she thought with a frown. Not only was Mandah insufferably nice, but she was neat as well. She shook out her clothes and dressed quickly, throwing the nightgown onto the floor.

There was a hairbrush on the dresser and she picked it up, running it through her tangled hair. She glanced in the mirror and froze mid-stroke. An alien reflection stared back at her. She was not drawing on her power, yet her eyes were Harshini black. The whites of her eyes were gone and her skin was as golden as a full-blooded Harshini. Whatever she had done in the Temple of the Gods had left an indelible mark on her. R'shiel slowly replaced the brush, aware that she would never be counted as human again. For some reason the thought did not bother her as much as she thought it would. Along with the change in her eyes came a sense of rightness, a sense that she was somehow complete.

She was Harshini.

R'shiel glanced around the room and realised there was nothing here that belonged to her. Nothing she need take. Her life was headed in a different direction and nothing here in the Citadel offered her any sense of ownership. Feeling suddenly cast adrift into an unknown future, she turned her back on the mirror and headed into the next room.

When she reached the outer door she pressed her ear against it and heard faint male voices in the hall. Tarja's guards - there to see that she wasn't disturbed. R'shiel reached inside herself cautiously and drew on her power. She surprised herself with the control she now had. Perhaps being linked so closely with Shananara she had absorbed some of her cousin's skill and knowledge. It was how the demons learnt from each other.

With a skill she hadn't known she possessed, she drew a glamour around herself and opened the door a fraction. The guard in the hall turned towards the sound, studied the door curiously for a moment before opening it wide. When he found no one, he shrugged and pulled it closed.

R'shiel ran down the corridor, still wrapped in the glamour that hid her from the notice of anyone who happened to pass her. She didn't remember learning how to do it so easily, but she seemed to know instinctively how to hold it in place. The last time she had tried such a thing, when she and Damin rescued Adrina from Dregian Castle, it had taken all her concentration.

R'shiel took the stairs to the ground floor and walked out into the street, amazed to find the city going about its business as if nothing was wrong. Wagons trundled down the street laden with produce and the roads were crowded with soldiers - but they wore Hythrun and Fardohnyan colours and looked more like tourists than warriors.

So the siege is over, she thought, beginning to wonder, a little uneasily, how long she had been asleep. If there had been time for the siege to be lifted and the city to regain some semblance of normalcy, it must have been quite a while. She walked down to the end of the street and out onto the main thoroughfare. It was even more crowded here, and there were Harshini on the streets, too. She wondered if they would notice her, or even feel the minimal power that she was drawing amidst the sights and sounds and smells of the city.

Crossing the road, R'shiel headed for the Temple of the Gods. She stopped on the corner as she saw Damin and a heavily pregnant Adrina climbing the steps. Behind them walked Tarja and Garet Warner, Shananara and a young Karien that R'shiel recognised but could not immediately name. On their heels strode a richly dressed man with a barrel chest and a greying beard. Hablet of Fardohnya.

R'shiel followed them into the Temple of the Gods, still wrapped in the glamour, and watched curiously as they took their places around the conference table.

Shananara remained standing as the others took their seats. She held a scroll in her hands and studied the others carefully for a moment before she spoke. Then she looked up, stared straight at R'shiel and smiled. Shananara knew she was watching, but she did not reveal her presence. She acknowledged R'shiel with a faint nod and turned her attention back to the table.

“It has taken quite some time, but I have here the treaty that you have all agreed to sign. If one of you breaks it, they must face the other three.”

R'shiel looked around the table curiously. Tarja and Garet looked satisfied. Adrina was positively smirking. Damin appeared relieved and a little smug. Whatever the treaty contained, it obviously hadn't done Hythria any harm. Hablet wore a look of wounded resignation. The young Karien, who R'shiel realised was the knight who had travelled with Cratyn to hunt down Adrina, looked caught somewhere between terror and relief.

“I won't go into details, but it boils down to this: all of you will withdraw your troops to the borders as they were set down prior to the Karien invasion of Medalon. No nation has gained territory and no nation has lost it. You, King Drendyn, will open your borders to the Sorcerers' Collective. Your god is dead and your people will suffer if they are not given an opportunity to find another god to believe in. King Hablet, you will also grant free access to the Collective, as will Medalon. No more arrests. No more gaols. No more persecution.”

Hablet muttered something inaudible, but he did not openly react to the rebuke. Tarja appeared unconcerned by the condition.

“Each monarch, and whatever government Medalon finally decides to adopt, will accept a Harshini adviser in their court,” Shananara continued. “The Harshini will act as final arbiters in case of disputes between the nations.

“The succession in each nation will remain as it is now, with two exceptions. In the event that King Hablet dies before his unborn son reaches maturity, then High Princess Adrina of Hythria will assume the role of Regent until he comes of age. The other change also concerns the Fardohnyan throne. The condition that requires a Wolfblade heir in the absence of a legitimate male heir is no longer valid. In the absence of a legitimate male heir to the Fardohnyan throne, it will fall to the eldest legitimate female.”

“Now, wait on!” Hablet objected. “I never agreed to that. If I die, Adrina only has to kill my son and she gets to be Queen.”

“Just because you don't think twice about eliminating members of your family, Father,” Adrina retorted frostily, “doesn't mean I share your sentiments. I give you my word; I will not kill my brother. Any of them.”

“It makes no difference in any case, Your Majesty,” Shananara explained. “Adrina is excluded from the succession by virtue of her position as Regent. If anything should happen to your son, the throne would fall to your next eldest daughter.”

“Cassandra?” Hablet laughed. “Gods preserve us from such a fate! Well, at least I know that Adrina will fight to keep her brother alive. I'm sure she'd rather die than see Cassie sitting on the throne.”

Peace.

R'shiel moved away from the pillar she was leaning against with a frown, as it dawned on her how superfluous she had become. Zegarnald would not die; he was a Primal God and truly immortal. But he would not walk into Karien and step into the vacuum left by Xaphista, either. He had wanted her tempered so that she was strong enough to face Xaphista. Well, he had what he wanted, but she had also gained a measure of revenge for the suffering he had condoned. The gods would rise and fall, gain strength and weaken as life rolled on, but the God of War would not have the strength to bully the other gods into doing his bidding. The balance had been restored.

There was no need for the demon child now. No destiny awaited her. No nation needed her counsel. That they had done all this while she slept left her feeling so inconsequential that it actually hurt.

Inkwells were being brought out, along with a number of quills, for the formal signing of the treaty. She left them to it.

There was nothing more to be done.

R'shiel slipped through the doors and out into the sunlight, realising that for the first time, she had nobody to please but herself. No destiny loomed over her like a shadow. She was beholden to no one - human, Harshini or god.

The glamour still wrapped around her protectively, R'shiel turned towards the Main Gate. She walked through it unseen by the Defenders on duty and out onto the busy road. The battlefield was still being cleared and troops were piling bodies into mass graves dug by the countless Karien prisoners that had been taken after the battle, but the Saran ran clear, its shallow waters tripping happily over the rocks beneath the surface. It was a bit grand calling it a river, actually. It was not much more than a wide stream. She stopped on the bridge and glanced back at the shining Citadel. It had been her home and her prison. Her ruin and her salvation.

Impulsively, she sent out a thought to the massive fort, a farewell of sorts. She did not know when, or even if, she would be back. She had to find Loclon. And she had an appointment with Gimlorie. Maybe she could find a way to convince Death to release Brak, too.

The Citadel responded with a benevolent wave of of affection that washed over her gently. Smiling to herself, R'shiel glanced down and discovered she was not alone. The little demon she had last seen with Mikel in Greenharbour was sitting on the ground at her feet, looking at her with its huge black eyes.

“Where have you been?” she asked, squatting down.

The creature chittered something incomprehensible and jumped into her arms.

“Is that your way of saying sorry about Mikel?” she chuckled. “It wasn't your fault, little one. You'll be a few hundred older before you can protect someone from the likes of Xaphista.”

Mention of the dead god's name set the demon off again. R'shiel stood up with the demon's skinny arms wrapped thightly around her neck. With a final glance at the Citadel, she released the glamour and crossed the bridge.

“I suppose,” she said to the demon, as she walked away without looking back, “we'd better do something about finding you a name.”

CHAPTER 64

Loclon tossed and turned on the hard ground as the nightmare took him again. It haunted him in his dreams and he lived it in his waking moments. It never left him. It never gave him a moment's respite.

It had begun as they left the Citadel. He was expecting to be smuggled into the Karien camp and treated like a hero - until they took the fortress and slaughtered everyone in it. But Mistress Heaner, her thug Lork and the chillingly beautiful boy Alladan had kept on going. They had not stopped until they reached Brodenvale, and then they had bundled him onto a small river boat and sailed downriver to Bordertown. When they reached the port town they stayed only long enough to arrange another boat, and before he could raise an objection, he found himself heading for the Isle of Slarn.

It hadn't been too bad at first. The island was dank and miserable, and the priests were a strange bunch, but they tended his malnourished body and helped him regain his strength and even began talking of letting him travel to Yarnarrow.

He had done the Overlord a great service, the priests assured him, and his reward was waiting for him.

For a time, he had foolishly believed their promises - until he remembered that for the followers of the Overlord, the rewards for service were not to be found in this life, but the next.

His first escape attempt had been treated as an unfortunate misunderstanding. His second earnt him a savage whipping. His third and last attempt had almost succeeded. It would have, had not the island begun to tremble as if in the grip of an earthquake, and the priests suddenly gone mad.

Something drastic had happened.

Loclon had been at the back of the Karien chapel for the Restday dawn service, waiting for the chance to slip out the door, when the staff belonging to the priest conducting the service had flared with light, and a wave of intense pleasure had washed over the congregation like a warm breeze. It took hold of him for an instant and held him in a thrall. There was a promise of so much in that wave. A hint of joy. A breath of sexual fantasy. A promise of paradise. Even a glimpse of the other gods. It had taken his breath away.

It had almost destroyed the priests.

They had fled the chapel and run towards the cavern where their sacred rock was hidden, howling with terror at whatever it was that it was doing. It only lasted for a few moments, then the feeling had faded abruptly and Loclon shook his head to clear it and bolted for the door.

His original plan had been to head for the small dock near the keep, but with the priests running everywhere like lunatics, he discovered that route no longer open to him. So he ran the other way, pulled himself over the wall that faced the leeward side of the island, cursing as he fell down the long drop on the other side, and ran until he collapsed onto the boggy ground. He was terrified, and at the limit of his endurance, expecting to hear the priests coming after him, not really believing he had succeeded in getting clear of them.

It was then that the nightmare truly began.

They found him that evening, shivering and exhausted, and in the darkness he could not make out their faces. They were not priests. All he knew was that someone wrapped a blanket around him and someone else thrust a cup of cool water in his hands. He drank it greedily and grasped at the mouldy bread they offered him. They led him through the darkness to a rough hut so close to the shore that he could hear the waves crashing below him as he fell into a fitful sleep.

At some time during the night he woke to find a body pressed against his, warm and young and unmistakably female. He smiled to himself, thinking that before he left this place, he might have some fun. If he was careful, and didn't leave any marks, they would not know he had hurt her until after he had gone. With a smile and a contented sigh, Loclon pulled the girl closer and went back to sleep.

With daylight came the horror.

He had opened his eyes slowly, enjoying the feel of the naked body pressed against him. He ran his hand over her small breasts and her slender hips and then over her belly, reaching down between her thighs to pull her legs apart. He felt something sticky against his hand and cursed. He pulled his hand away and held it up to the light.

It was not blood on his fingers - it was pus.

He screamed, leaping from the rough pallet as the girl turned over. She was grotesque. Her face was ruined, half of it eaten away by the disease that devoured a person from the inside out. Her whole left side was covered with open sores that wept pus, and a clear sticky fluid that stained the rough sheets beneath her.

“Please...” the girl cried, tears streaming from her one good eye. Her pathetic cries made him want to vomit; the idea that he had touched her made him want to die.

He had leapt the wall into the colony of Malik's Curse sufferers.

Loclon screamed again, and he kept on screaming until a big man with a huge fist and half his face eaten away by the Curse burst into the hut and knocked him out cold.

He had been in hiding ever since. He avoided the small settlement and its disgusting inhabitants, sneaking in at night to find whatever scraps of food he could scavenge. The others knew he was out there, and the grotesque girl from the hut sometimes left scraps for him, perhaps in an attempt to coax him back into her bed. She had been quite pretty once, he supposed, but now she was just a husk that was being slowly consumed by a disease that had no cure. A disease that ate at the extremities and left the body covered in ulcers, and ate through one's internal organs until there was nothing left and the victim died an agonisingly painful death.

He peeled off his ragged clothes and checked his body every day, looking for some sign that he had contracted the disease, but so far he showed no symptoms. All he could do was prowl the island looking for a way off.

There was none.

It was the reason the victims of Malik's Curse were confined here.

He made one attempt to get back into the Karien compound, but the wall, which had been so easy to clamber over from the inside, was much steeper on the leeward side. A deep, empty moat surrounded it that made it impossible to climb without a rope. There was no rope to be had. So he had returned to his prowling, scavenging existence and gone back to trying to find another way off the island.

Loclon tossed restlessly and then sat up, unsure what had wakened him. He looked around in the darkness but could see nothing, so he scrambled on his hands and knees to the entrance of the small cave where he sheltered and looked out over the rocky beach. He saw a figure standing in the moonlight on the beach and scuttled out to get a closer look. Whoever it was, it appeared to be a woman, but he could not make out her identity from this distance. A bubble of excitement began to build in him.

The figure saw him stumbling across the beach and began to walk towards him. He raised his hand in greeting, certain that he had been rescued. The woman was tall and walked with an easy grace that showed no hint of the wasting disease. She was not one of them.

“Hello, Loclon.”

He froze at the sound of her voice as she stepped closer.

“R'shiel!”

“You sound surprised, Captain. You should have known I'd come for you.”

He studied her warily. She must have been drawing on her power - her eyes burned black as the night surrounding them. Her hair had grown out and was almost on her shoulders, ruffled gently by the sea breeze. It took him a while to work out what else was different about her. It wasn't her quiet air of confidence, or the power that radiated from her.

It was her lack of fear.

Loclon cautiously took a step back from her. “You've come for me?”

“Did you doubt that I would?”

Hope flared in him as he realised rescue was at hand. She would take him from this place. He would probably be dragged back to the Citadel in chains, but that was better than being here. Better than a slow, lingering death while he was eaten alive by his own body. He could escape eventually. Either along the way or once they got to the Citadel. It didn't really matter.

He nodded and held out his hands to her. “I'll come quietly. I won't resist.”

R'shiel studied him for a moment and then smiled. It chilled him to the core.

“Death told me once that evil is its own reward, Loclon. I understand what he meant now.”

“What are you talking about? I'm surrendering to you. Take me!”

“I don't want your surrender.”

“Then what do you want?” he screamed desperately.

“Vengeance,” she said softly.

“Then take it! Take me away from here! Take me back to the Citadel! Put me on trial! I'll confess. I'll tell them everything I did to you. They'll hang me R'shiel, you know that. Rape is a capital offence. You can stand there and watch me swing! You can gloat over my corpse! Take me back! GET ME OUT OF HERE!” He was blubbering and didn't care.

“No, I don't think so, Loclon.”

She turned away from him and began to walk back along the shore. The waves shone with phosphorescence as they slapped at the pebbly beach. He fell to his knees, sobbing with despair.

“You can't leave me here! Have mercy!”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder, her black eyes reflecting the shimmering waves. “Mercy?”

“Please, R'shiel. Take me back with you. I'll do whatever you want. I'll suffer as much as you want. Just get me off this damned island before the disease gets me!”

R'shiel stood there watching him on his knees, begging her for mercy. She had done this to him before. She had made him grovel like this at the Grimfield and once they were gone from this place, he would make her pay for that insult, too. But for now...

She was wavering. He could tell. She walked back towards him. Hope burned bright in his eyes. She was part Harshini, wasn't she? They were supposed to be unable to kill. Deep down, she didn't have what it took to make the killing stroke. That he was alive at all was proof of that. She'd been raised by the Sisterhood. She believed all that stuff about law and honour. She would not be able to turn her back on him.

But when he saw her face, he realised how wrong he was. There was no mercy in those alien black eyes. No pity. No compassion.

Nothing but cold, unrelenting contempt.

“I came here to send you to hell,” she said. “But I don't have to, do I? You're already there.”

He wasn't sure how to answer her; he wasn't even sure what she meant. She just stood there, staring at him with those alien black eyes...

Then the itching started. It was barely noticeable at first. He was too consumed by his fear of her to pay attention to it. It began in his fingertips, a niggling, annoying sensation that barely even distracted him. He rubbed his hands against his tattered trousers to relieve it, but it simply made the itching worse.

R'shiel didn't move.

The itching spread up his left arm. He scratched at it with his right hand and discovered his arm covered in small hard lumps. He tore his eyes from R'shiel and glanced down. The lumps were growing larger. As he watched, one of the lumps on his forearm began to develop a puss-filled head. The itching progressed beyond annoying into true pain. The lumps were spreading. He could feel them forming on his back and across his belly. His trousers chaffed as the sores began to form in his groin. His face was swelling with them, too. He tore at his clothing as another sore erupted, the burning itching growing more and more relentless; his breath came in gasps as he realised what was happening to him. The sores kept spreading.

“No!” he panted, as he tore at his own flesh in a futile attempt to relieve the burning. “No! No!... Noooo!”

R'shiel stood there watching him.

“What have you done to me?” he wailed. “Make it stop! Don't do this to me! Not this! Kill me if you must, R'shiel, but not like this! Let me die like a man!”

That evoked a reaction from her. She laughed.

“Like a man, Loclon?”

“Stop it, R'shiel! Please. I beg you!”

“It takes years to die from Malik's Curse, did you know that?” she asked in a conversational tone. “Of course, a few years being slowly devoured by your own body doesn't seem sufficient to repay all you've done, but it will have to do, I suppose.”

“I'll... kill myself before... I let this thing... eat me alive,” he gasped, unable to stop scratching at the spreading sores.

“No, Loclon, you won't kill yourself. For one thing, you're too big a coward, and for another, I won't let you.”

“How are you... going to... stop me?”

“Magic.”

R'shiel turned and walked away, until eventually she was swallowed by the darkness. She didn't look back.

I'll kill myself, he decided silently. I won't die this way. He staggered to his feet and turned towards the ocean. That's all it will take. Just wade into the water and let the sea take me.

The salt water stung the sores on his legs as he splashed into the foam. He plunged into the sea until it was waist high, then suddenly found he could go no further. He wanted to live, he realised with despair. Even though he had consciously made the decision to die, there was another voice in his mind that wouldn't let him. He found himself unable to take another step.

Loclon staggered back to the beach and threw himself down on the sand, rubbing against the grains to ease the itching, but the sand merely aggravated his already inflamed skin. He was sobbing with frustration. He couldn't relieve the itching. He couldn't stop the pain. He couldn't even die...

A hand reached for him and hope flared bright for a fleeting moment! He knew she couldn't walk away from him! She had to come back! This was just a game, she was just tormenting him for revenge...

“Mister?” the voice said gently. “It's all right, Mister. The itching goes away after a few days...”

He looked up to find the girl from the settlement with her pathetic smile and her ruined face staring down at him, her eyes filled with pity.

Loclon's howl of despair echoed across the empty beach.

Then he forced himself up and looked around urgently, but it was as if R'shiel had never even been here. There was no sign of her.

Not even footprints in the sand.

_____