Treason Keep

Chapter 36

Mikel was separated from the princess and placed in the custody of the Defenders’ Master of Horse, a small, slender man with dark hair and an affection for the creatures in his charge which bordered on obsession. Captain Hadly had endless patience with his horses and none at all for defiant Karien boys. When one of Lord Wolfblade’s Raiders delivered him into Hadly’s care, he had glanced at the note Tarja had hastily scribbled then looked disdainfully at Mikel.

“Captain Tenragan says you are to be placed in my care. He says that if you try to escape, or give me any bother at all, I am to inform him immediately. He also says to remind you about your brother. Do you know what he means?”

Mikel nodded sullenly. He had hoped Tarja might forget about Jaymes.

“Good, because I’ve no time to waste on infants. I’ve damned near two thousand horses here, boy, and now there’s the Fardohnyan mounts to take care of. Go find Sergeant Monthay. He’ll find something useful for you to do.”

With little choice in the matter, he did as he was told.

Besides being sick with worry over the princess, Mikel was desperate to discover his brother’s fate, but there seemed little chance here among the horses. The Hythrun mounts were corralled away from the Medalonian horses – something to do with the purity of the Hythrun breed that Mikel didn’t really understand – so there was no chance to question anyone about the Karien boy they held prisoner. Sergeant Monthay set him to distributing hay, an endless task with so vast a herd. He spent all day lugging haybales from the cart into the corrals, then running to catch up as Monthay moved the wagon on to the next enclosure. It was backbreaking work, but it kept him from thinking too much, and at night he collapsed into the bedroll Monthay had found for him in the tack tent, asleep almost before his head hit the saddle he used for a pillow.

On the fourth day of his captivity, the rain cleared and the weather grew even colder. The sharp smell of snow lingered on the wind and Hadly fretted at the lack of protection for his horses. He had commandeered a large force of workers from the followers’ camp and had them erecting canvas covered shelters in the corrals in anticipation of the coming inclement weather.

Mikel shivered as he went about his chores. Monthay was anxious to finish for the day and get back to the warmth of his tent. It was almost midday when they reached the corral where the workers were tying canvas over another sapling framework. The cold sun did nothing to warm the day. There was a small fire burning just outside the corral, and several women were doling out hot soup as the workers took a break from their labour. Monthay glanced at Mikel, ordered him to keep working, and went to join them.

He lugged another bale from the cart and dragged it along the ground toward the corral, cursing Medalonians in general, and Monthay in particular. He muttered a prayer to the Overlord, asking his god to strike down the men enjoying the hot soup with dysentery. It seemed only fitting.

“Xaphista’s far too busy to answer, you know.”

Mikel looked up and discovered a boy of about fifteen sitting on the top rail of the corral. He was dressed in an odd collection of clothes that looked like cast-offs from some bygone era. Mikel was not aware that he had spoken aloud.

“You should not speak the name of Xaphista. You’re an unbeliever.”

“Not at all! I know Xaphista personally! Can’t say that I speak to him much myself, mind you, but he does exist.”

Mikel straightened and stared at the youth, a little surprised to hear such an admission from an atheist. He supposed the boy was one of the workers erecting the shelters.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“Then leave me alone.” He grabbed the twine holding the bale together and grunted with the effort of dragging it over the rough ground towards the corral.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

The fair-haired youth laughed. “That bale is near as big as you are!”

“Then why don’t you help me?”

“Ah, now that would mean work. I don’t do work.”

Mikel let go of the bale and glared at him. “What do you do, then?”

“I’m a thief.”

The news did not surprise Mikel. The lad looked dishonest. “Thievery is a sin.”

“Don’t be absurd! Who told you that? Ah! Xaphista did, I suppose. Cheeky sod.”

“You shouldn’t blaspheme! That’s a sin too!”

“There is no such thing as sin... what’s your name?”

“Mikel.”

“Well, Mikel, let me put your mind at ease. There is no such thing as sin. A thief is not doing something wrong, he is honouring Dacendaran, the God of Thieves.”

“There is only one true god!” Mikel insisted.

The boy frowned and jumped off the rail. “You really believe that, don’t you? Are all Kariens like you?”

“Yes! Now go away and leave me alone!” Mikel made to reach for the bale, but the youth sat himself down on it and looked at him closely.

“Mikel, the only reason Xaphista invented the concept of sin was to stop his believers honouring the other gods.”

“There are no other gods!”

“I can see I’m going to have to educate you, young man.” The youth sighed heavily, then suddenly brightened. “I know, I shall become your new best friend and lead you to the truth about the Primal gods!”

“I already know the truth. Xaphista is the Overlord.”

“Xaphista is a pompous old windbag, actually, and I shall delight in stealing you from him.”

“Come on, boy! We’ll still be here at midnight at this rate! Get a move on!”

Mikel started as Monthay yelled at him. He turned back to the boy sitting on the bale and was even more startled to discover he was gone.

“Don’t just stand there talking to yourself like a fool,” Monthay scolded as he drew near. “Go get some soup, but be quick about it.”

Mikel ran towards the fire and the enticing smell of the hot soup, wondering where the youth had gone so abruptly. Then he remembered his rash prayer and hoped that the Overlord had not heard his request about the dysentery.

Mid-afternoon, two Defenders appeared in the corrals and told Monthay that Captain Tenragan wanted to see the Karien boy. Monthay muttered a curse and surrendered him reluctantly, glancing at the hay still to be distributed. The two Defenders took Mikel into custody and walked him back toward the Keep. They said nothing, even to each other, leaving Mikel plenty of time to imagine the worst.

When they reached the old keep, they took him into the main hall where Tarja was waiting near the huge fireplace. Damin Wolfblade was sitting at the table, stabbing the tabletop with his dagger as if something vexed him. Captain Almodavar stood near Tarja and next to him, to Mikel’s astonishment, was his brother.

“Jaymes!”

Mikel ran the length of the hall, skidding to a halt a few steps from his brother, taking a quick inventory to check he had all his fingers. Jaymes grinned and crossed the small distance between them, hugging his younger brother warmly.

“They told me you were back, but I wanted to see for myself!”

“Oh Jaymes! I’ve been so worried about you! Are you well? Have they harmed you?”

“Of course not!” Jaymes laughed. “I’m the one who’s been worrying about you! What happened when you went back to Lord Laetho?”

Mikel glanced at the men and then back at Jaymes. His brother was taller, as if he had grown from a boy into a young man while in captivity. He looked well; much too well for a prisoner. “I’ll tell you later.”

“There won’t be a later, lad,” Almodavar warned. “Jaymes has work to do.”

“He’s right. I have to get back. My training keeps me pretty busy. But I’ll try to see you now and then, if I can get away.”

“Training?”

“I’m learning to be a soldier.”

Mikel took a step backwards. “With the Hythrun?”

“Of course, with the Hythrun.”

“You’re a traitor?”

“I warned you,” Damin muttered to no one in particular, stabbing the table to punctuate his words.

Jaymes sighed. “It’s not like that, Mikel...”

“Have you turned from the Overlord, too? Do you worship the Primal gods now? How could you?”

“The Overlord? What do I care about the Overlord! I want to be a soldier, Mikel! I can’t ever be a knight in Karien. I’m a commoner. Good for nothing but a pikeman. But the Hythrun don’t care about that. They judge men by their ability, not who their father is.”

“Our father is the Duke of Kirkland’s Third Steward!”

“Which is worth shit, and you know it!”

Tears of anger and betrayal clouded Mikel’s vision. He could not believe what he was hearing.

“What have you done to him?” he demanded of Tarja, although the Medalonian had not had charge of his brother. Tarja had, however, been responsible for most of his woes these past few months so it seemed reasonable to blame him for this, too.

“Your brother made his own choice, boy.”

“You’ve done something to him! Jaymes would never betray Karien! He would never renounce the Overlord!”

“Grow up, Mikel,” Jaymes sighed. “The Overlord doesn’t care about the likes of you and me. He’s the God of Lords and Princes. All he ever did for us was make us work for them. You believe in his generosity if you must, but I plan to follow those who can teach me what I want to learn.” Jaymes turned to the Warlord and bowed. “May I be excused, now, my Lord?”

“You can go.”

Jaymes glanced at Mikel and shook his head. “I’m sorry, little brother...”

Mikel refused to look at him. “I have no brother.”

“Maybe when you’re older, Mikel, you’ll understand.”

He turned his back as Jaymes and the Hythrun captain walked the length of the hall. When he heard the door shut, he wiped his eyes and looked up at Tarja.

“Can I go, too?”

“No, you may not. You’re going to tell us about the princess.”

Jaymes’ betrayal was suddenly forgotten. He glared at Tarja, drawing himself up to his full height. “If you have harmed one hair on her head...”

“Oh for the god’s sake, child, settle down!” Damin snapped. “Your precious princess is fine.”

“I shall not betray my Lady!”

“Nobody is asking you to,” Tarja pointed out reasonably. “We just want to know how you came to be in her company.”

“I was appointed her page. By Prince Cratyn himself!”

“I see. That’s quite a position of trust.”

“Prince Cratyn trusts me.”

“He must trust you a great deal, to ask you to escort her Highness through Medalon when your nation is at war with us.”

Mikel was still young enough that flattery, even from a man he despised, made his heart swell proudly. “Prince Cratyn knew that I would not betray him. No spy...”

“Spy?” Damin asked, glancing up from the tabletop. “What spy?”

Mikel took a step backwards, frowning warily. “I said nothing about a spy.”

Damin looked at Tarja and shrugged. “Send him back to the horses, Tarja. Adrina has already told us everything we want to know. She was trying to escape to Fardohnya to get away from Cratyn and stop her father joining in the war.”

“That’s a lie!” Mikel shouted, horrified that they would think such a thing of the noble princess. “You’re making that up!”

“Not at all,” Tarja told him. “Adrina told us everything.”

“You must have tortured her!”

“If you call mulled wine and a warm fire torture,” Damin said with a faint smile, “Quite the opportunist, your princess, Mikel. She changes sides more often than most people change their clothes.”

“Princess Adrina is the most noble, pious, beautiful woman in the whole world! She’s brave, too!”

“Brave?” Tarja scoffed. “She was running away.”

“She was not! She was going to see her father to get him to send the cannon! So that you would all die!”

Tarja and Damin glanced at each other as Mikel realised what he had blurted out. He wanted to cry. He wished the cold flagstones would open up and swallow him whole. First Jaymes had betrayed him.

Now he had betrayed Adrina.

Chapter 37

“Who do you believe? The boy or the princess?” Jenga paced the hearth, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Gray daylight flooded the hall but the air was crisp, even this close to the fire.

Damin shrugged. “She’s lying. She’s heading for Talabar to bring her father’s cannon into the war. She’s not running away.”

Tarja nodded his agreement. “I believe the boy is telling the truth, but it’s the truth your princess fed him. She could hardly announce her intention to run away.” He was sitting in front of the inadequate blaze, warming the soles of his boots, obviously pleased that the decision about what to do with Adrina was not his to make.

“Will you stop calling her my princess!”

Tarja grinned. “We’ll she’s your problem. And you’re always telling me how much better you understand the Fardohnyan nobility than us poor peasants here in Medalon...”

“Very funny.”

“I was merely trying to point out that —”

“Enough, Tarja,” Jenga cut in wearily. “Lord Wolfblade, would it be fair to say that you really have no idea what she is doing here?”

Damin nodded. “That would be fair.”

“And we’ve had no emissaries from the Kariens seeking her out.”

“I’d be surprised if we did,” Tarja said. “If she’s on the run, the last place Cratyn would look for her is Medalon.”

“And if she’s telling the truth, then he needs to pretend that nothing is amiss,” Jenga agreed.

“You know, we’d get a lot more out of Her Serene Highness if she thought we believed her.”

“The rack and a red hot poker would do me just as well,” Damin muttered. Jenga threw him an annoyed look before turning to Tarja.

“Explain.”

“Perhaps, if her status was one of honoured guest rather than prisoner, she might let something slip.”

“She won’t let anything slip. She’s too smart for that.” Damin glared at Tarja, not liking the direction this conversation was heading.

“Maybe,” Jenga mused. “What are you suggesting exactly?”

“Release her. Give her the freedom of the camp. We should ask for something to prove her story, of course. Some piece of intelligence we can easily verify, as a gesture of good will. And we’d have to put a guard on her – there’s no telling what she’d get up to on her own, but we can claim it’s for her protection. We can’t let her get her hands on her jewels, either, but there is no reason why she shouldn’t think we believe her.”

“If we believed her, we’d send her back to Fardohnya,” Damin pointed out. “She won’t fall for it.”

“Oh, yes, she will. Because you, my Lord, are going to start acting as if she’s an ally, not your sworn enemy.”

“The hell I will!”

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Tarja?” Jenga said. “How would that help?”

Tarja sighed patiently. “As Damin keeps reminding us, she’s a very smart girl. But she never got the message from her brother and she knows nothing of the Hythrun Raiders stationed in Bordertown. If we release her, at least conditionally, and our Warlord here can keep a civil tongue in his head, she’ll come to believe we need her help in holding back her father’s troops. I’m not saying she’ll believe us right away, but if we act as if we think she’s on our side, even if she’s lying, she has to play along with it.”

“So you think she may end up betraying herself, simply to maintain the illusion of cooperation?”

“Relax your vigilance for more than a heartbeat, and she’ll slip a knife between your ribs,” Damin warned.

“Ah, but she’s your princess, remember?” Tarja said with a grin. “I don’t plan on getting that close.”

Damin glared at Tarja. “Nice plan, my friend, but in case you hadn’t noticed there’s a war going on out there. I have too much to do to waste time playing games of intrigue with a Fardohnyan princess. The Kariens could attack again at any moment.”

Jenga shook his head confidently. “Not likely. They’ve still not recovered from the last battle and it will snow any day.”

“Besides, your troops seem to get along very nicely without you,” Tarja added, taking far too much pleasure in Damin’s misery. “Almodavar coped quite well while you were off consulting your god for nearly a month.”

Damin considered that an entirely unfair argument. “It’s not the same thing. My men knew I was gone to consult with the gods. They’re not likely to be nearly as understanding if they think I’m neglecting them for a woman.”

“I disagree,” Jenga remarked with a rare smile. “From what I’ve seen of your men, Damin, they’d give that just as much credence.”

Damin chose to ignore that one. “It won’t work.”

“Of course it’ll work,” Tarja assured him. “Just pray to one of your gods.”

Damin gave the captain a withering glare. “We don’t actually have a god of Bloody Stupid Ideas, Tarja.”

Damin did not bother knocking. He ordered the guards to open the door to Adrina’s chamber and marched in unannounced. He was a little disappointed to discover Adrina and her slave sitting on the pallet that served as a bed, apparently engaged in nothing more sinister than idle chatter, their legs covered by a blanket to ward off the cold. Adrina still wore the shirt he had given her in his tent, and someone had given the slave something warmer to wear as well. The women looked up as he entered.

“Out!” he ordered the slave. She responded to the authority in his voice without thinking and scurried from the room, leaving them alone. Adrina did not move. He was quite impressed with the way she managed to look down on him, even though she was sitting and he was standing.

“You have the manners of a barbarian.”

“You seem to bring out the worst in me, your Highness.”

Surprisingly, Adrina smiled. “I have a feeling I’ve not seen anything closely resembling your worst, Lord Wolfblade. What do you have there?”

She pointed at the sack he carried which he placed on the bed beside her.

“Jenga ordered your things returned to you. He thought you might be more comfortable in your own clothes.”

“That was considerate of him,” she remarked as she felt around inside the bag. “However, my jewellery seems to be missing.”

“The Lord Defender was concerned about such valuable property laying about unguarded. He will keep your jewels for now. For safe keeping, of course.”

“Of course,” she echoed sceptically. “Am I to assume this sudden desire to see to my welfare means you have come to a decision about me?”

“In a manner of speaking. Although I, for one, don’t believe a word of your unlikely tale.” It wouldn’t do to completely change his tune. She would see through that in an instant. “The Medalonians, unfortunately, are much more naive. Jenga believes your story and has ordered that you be treated as an honoured guest from now on.”

“Then I am to be released?” Damin could detect the glimmer of hope in her voice.

“I said they were naive, your Highness, not stupid. The Lord Defender wants proof. Once he is convinced, then he will endeavour to have you returned to Fardohnya. In return for an assurance from King Hablet that he won’t step foot outside his own borders, naturally.”

“And if my father refuses such an assurance?”

“Then you’d best learn to like Medalonian cooking, your Highness, because you won’t be going anywhere without it.”

Adrina thought for a moment, but Damin could not tell what was going on behind that lovely face. She was like some exotic piece of coral that grew on the reefs south of Greenharbour – glorious to look at, deadly to touch.

“What sort of proof does he require?” she asked eventually.

“Information. Something he can corroborate from another source.”

Adrina nodded. “I’m not certain I know anything of strategic value, my Lord, but I will try to think of something.”

“Just let the guards outside know, when you think of it. They’ll see the message gets to the Lord Defender.”

He gave her a short bow, out of politeness rather than respect, and turned to leave, a little surprised that he had managed to remain so calm.

“My Lord?”

He turned back. “Was there something else?”

“May I leave this chamber, now that I’m a guest, as opposed to a prisoner?”

“Only under escort, I’m afraid. You are in the middle of a war camp, your Highness. The Lord Defender would not wish any harm to come to you.”

“You wouldn’t mind a bit, though, would you?” She met his eye evenly, her gaze a blatant challenge. Damin almost let his desire to strangle this woman get the better of him, before he swallowed his annoyance and forced himself to smile.

“I am also a guest here, Adrina, and I’m compelled to abide by the wishes of my hosts. The Lord Defender wishes to see you treated well, and I will see that you are. But don’t mistake my cooperation for weakness. If I can prove you are lying, I will cheerfully slit your throat myself.”

If his declaration frightened her, she gave no sign. Her gaze never wavered; her expression did not change. “I find your honesty a refreshing change in a Wolfblade, my Lord. Perhaps there is hope for your family yet.”

“Unlike the Fardohnyan Royal Family, we Wolfblades strive for quality, not quantity.” Damin almost enjoyed her refusal to cower in the face of his unveiled threat.

Adrina’s eyes glittered; they were quite a remarkable shade of green. “Ah, quality. Is that what you call it? One can only hope your striving for quality has been more successful in your case than it has been in your uncle’s.”

Damin was far too aware of his uncle’s peculiarities for her barb to have much impact, but he admired her courage. You did not trade insults with a Hythrun Warlord, or impugn the character of the High Prince, unless you were very, very sure of yourself. Then she unconsciously touched her hand to the glittering wolf collar, reminding him sharply of her true nature. His momentary admiration withered and died in an instant.

“Perhaps, if you live long enough you’ll find out, your Highness.” He turned from her again, unsure how much longer he could keep his temper.

“I’d like to get out of here. Out of this keep. I want to go riding.”

Damin stopped with his hand on the latch. “I’ll see what I can arrange.”

“And I want this collar off.”

He shrugged. “It will take time, your Highness. I don’t make a habit of carrying court collars and their keys to war.”

“Not even for your own court’esa?”

“I don’t make a habit of bringing court’esa to war, either.”

She smiled maliciously. “I suppose you hardly need them, with all these big handsome soldiers around.”

He was across the room, his hands around her throat, before he realised what he was doing. The collar was warm to the touch, and ironically, was the only thing stopping him from squeezing the life out of her, there and then.

“Don’t push me too far, Adrina! I could kill you for even having possession of this collar!”

“Get... your... hands... off... me!” Her voice was fury coated in ice.

He let her go with a shove and strode from the room, shaking with anger, slamming the door behind him.

Tarja was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. “How did it go?”

“Wonderful!” he growled as he walked past without stopping.

“So you didn’t try to kill her, then?” Tarja called after him with a laugh.

“Only once.”

It took Tarja a few moments to realise he wasn’t joking.

Chapter 38

The next time Mikel met Dace, he had a little girl with him. She was a pretty little thing and looked to be about five or six. She had bare feet and wore nothing but a flimsy, sleeveless shift, despite the cold, although she hardly seemed to notice the weather. The child examined him with a slight frown then looked up at the older boy.

“He’s so sad!”

“What do you expect?”

Mikel glared at the pair, annoyed that they spoke as if he wasn’t there. “What are you doing here? Have you come to steal something?”

Dace grinned. “In a manner of speaking. This is Kali. She’s my sister.”

The little girl smiled up at him. “Do you love me?”

“I don’t even know you!” Mikel retorted, a little taken aback by the odd question.

She sighed. “Oh well, once you get to know me, you’ll love me then. Everybody does.”

Mikel frowned and wondered what sort of home this odd brother and sister came from, that Dace would proudly claim to be a thief and Kali would expect everyone to love her on sight. He glanced around, expecting Monthay to yell at him, but the sergeant was talking to another Defender and seemed oblivious to the fact that Mikel had stopped to talk to the children.

Dace noticed the direction of his gaze and grinned. “Don’t worry about him.”

“Easy enough for you to say,” Mikel grumbled.

“Did you want to come and play with us?” Kali asked.

“I can’t. I’m a prisoner.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything. I’m a prisoner of war.”

“But you’re just a little boy!” Kali sounded quite upset. She turned to Dace and tugged on his sleeve. “Go and make that man in the red coat let him go. For the afternoon at least. Then we can have some fun.”

Dace pulled a face at her. “I don’t do that sort of stuff.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Think of it as stealing him away, Dace.”

“Oh, well if you put it like that,” the older boy said with a grin. “That’s easy.”

Almost as soon as he spoke, Monthay suddenly turned to Mikel.

“Hey! Boy! Take the afternoon off. I don’t want to see you until dinner time!”

Startled, Mikel looked at the children with wide eyes. “How did you do that?”

“Magic,” Dace replied. “Come on!” The boy began to walk away, his sister at his side. “What shall we do, Kali?”

Mikel hesitated for a moment, then ran to catch up.

“I don’t know. Did you want to visit with your friends?”

“I have no friends here,” Mikel told her glumly as he fell into step beside them.

“What about your brother?” Dace asked. “Isn’t he with the Hythrun, or something?”

“How did you know...” he began, then he remembered what Jaymes had become and shook his head. “I have no brother.”

Kali looked up at him curiously. “Why are you lying?”

“I’m not lying.”

“Yes, you are!” she insisted. “We should have brought Jakerlon,” she added to her brother.

“Well, if I’d known he was a liar, I would have,” Dace replied.

“Who is Jakerlon?”

“The God of Liars,” Kali explained, giving him an odd look. “He doesn’t know much, does he?”

“That’s Xaphista for you,” Dace shrugged. “He pretends the rest of us don’t even exist.”

“What do you know about Xaphista?”

“We know lots about Xaphista,” Kali announced stiffly. “We know he’s a bully.”

“And arrogant.”

“And rude! You wouldn’t believe how rude he can be!”

“Stop it! You mustn’t say such things! The Overlord will strike you down!”

“Not likely,” Dace laughed. Then he glanced at Mikel and noticed his distress. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to get so upset, you know. He really isn’t listening to us. He’s got far too many problems to care what we’re saying about him.”

“Serves him right,” Kali said. “If he wasn’t so busy trying to rule the world he’d have time to listen to his believers instead of ignoring them.”

Mikel stopped walking, unable to tolerate their blasphemy any longer. “Stop it! You have no idea what you’re talking about! The Overlord loves us. He listens to every prayer!”

“Ah, but does he answer them?” Dace asked.

“Of course, He does!”

“Very well, prove it,” Kali said.

“How?”

The little girl thought for a moment. “I’ve a better idea. I’ll prove he doesn’t listen. Did you pray to the Overlord to watch over you during the war?”

“Yes.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Mikel couldn’t immediately think of an answer to that one.

Kali laughed at his hesitation. “There! What did I tell you?”

“The Overlord works in mysterious ways,” he retorted, falling back on a favourite saying of the priests. “He has a reason for everything He does!”

“Nonsense!” Dace scoffed. “You’re here because Xaphista hasn’t the time to spare for one insignificant little boy. Your brother has the right of it, although he shows a distinct lack of sense by choosing to follow Zegarnald. Still, Zeggie never was that discerning – any soul who wants to pick up a sword will usually do for him.”

“Jaymes is now a follower of Zegarnald?” Mikel asked in horror.

Kali looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I thought you didn’t have a brother?”

“Leave him alone, Kali. Come on, we were going to find something to do. Did you want to learn how to be a thief?”

“No!”

“Why don’t we pay Tarja a visit?” Kali suggested. “He’s your friend, Dace, and he owes me a big favour, although he doesn’t know it yet.”

“I hate Tarja,” Mikel muttered. Kali and Dace both turned to stare at him.

“But why?” Kali asked. “He’s really nice. Well, for a non-believer, at any rate, even though he knows the gods exist. I think he just hasn’t decided who he should worship yet.”

“Well, it won’t be you,” Dace said. “Not when he finds out what you did.”

“Oh? And I suppose you think he’ll follow you? Just because you met him first?”

Mikel looked from brother to sister in complete confusion. “What are you talking about?”

They abruptly stopped arguing and smiled at him guilelessly.

“Nothing,” Dace shrugged.

“I know, let’s go visit Adrina!” Kali suggested brightly. “You like her don’t you, Mikel?”

“Of course I like her! She’s the most noble princess in the whole world!” The prospect of seeing the princess raised Mikel’s spirits considerably, although he could not imagine how these two could arrange to get anywhere near the closely guarded keep. “And besides, she’s a true believer,” he added, just to remind these pagans who had the most worthy god.

“Adrina? Believe in the Overlord? What rubbish!” Kali laughed delightedly at the very idea. “She follows Kalianah, the Goddess of Love. She used to pray to the Goddess all the time.”

“Used to,” Mikel pointed out triumphantly. “Now she prays to Xaphista.”

“No,” Kali said with a sorrowful sigh. “I think she just gave up. It’s hard to find love when your father is so powerful. I always meant to find someone nice for her when she was old enough, but then she stopped asking. I wonder why?”

“What do you mean, you were going to find someone for her?” Mikel asked. “The princess is married! She’s in love with Prince Cratyn!”

“Don’t be silly! Of course she’s not in love with him.”

“How do you know?”

Kali pouted. “I just do, that’s all.”

“Why don’t you just ask her?” Dace said, pointing towards the corrals.

Their walk had taken them past the Medalonian corrals and closer to the enclosures where the beautiful Hythrun horses were mustered. Unlike the Medalonians, each Hythrun was responsible for his own mount and every morning the Raiders would come to the corrals to feed their mounts, groom them and talk to them as if the horses could understand every word. There were no ramshackle canvas-covered shelters here. The Hythrun had actually built stables, which were almost completed, on the other side of the field. Mikel had heard Hadly complaining about the waste of precious timber, while staring wistfully in the direction of the sturdy Hythrun stalls.

Mikel followed Dace’s pointing finger and spied Adrina, mounted on a Hythrun steed, in the company of the Warlord. Damin Wolfblade was talking to the foreman in charge of the construction team, and Adrina sat patiently beside him, waiting for him to finish. She was dressed in her dark blue riding habit, her long fur cloak draped over her shoulders. She sat astride her horse, rather than sidesaddle, as was proper for a lady. She looked remarkably well, and when the Warlord turned and spoke to her, she nodded and replied with a faint smile. The foreman bowed to the princess and returned to his duties. Adrina and Damin wheeled their mounts around and headed south at a canter.

“He’d better not hurt her,” Mikel muttered, to himself as much as his companions.

“He won’t,” Kali assured him. “Pity he’s one of Zeggie’s favourites...”

“Don’t even think about it Kali,” Dace warned. “He’d be so mad at you if you did anything.”

“I know. But they do make a nice couple.”

“Kali...”

“Oh, don’t worry Dace, I’m not that silly.” She turned to Mikel and smiled brightly. “Your princess seems to be enjoying herself. You’d think she’d be a prisoner too, if she believed in the Overlord.”

Mikel had been thinking the same thing. He watched the riders as they dwindled into the distance, saw them pick up the pace until they were galloping across the plain. The faint sound of Adrina’s laughter lingered on the breeze. His heart constricted as he watched her. She was his princess. She was married to Prince Cratyn. She shouldn’t be out riding alone with a man like Damin Wolfblade.

And she damned well shouldn’t act like she was enjoying it, either.

Chapter 39

Adrina gave the sorcerer-bred mount its head, relishing the feel of the cold wind in her face and the sure-footed beast beneath her, unable to stifle the laugh of sheer joy that escaped her as the horse thundered across the plain. She’d heard tales of the fabled breed, had seen them when she visited Greenharbour, but until Damin Wolfblade had first taken her riding a week ago, she had never been allowed close to one. She suspected Damin had provided her with a Hythrun mount, rather than her own Fardohnyan steed, to intimidate her. Adrina had taken to riding the notoriously difficult breed like a Hythrun born and bred.

Their first outing had been a strained affair. Damin was still angry with her and she was in no mood to put up with such an unpredictable brute. Three hours in the saddle had done much to ease the tension. Horses were a safe subject and Damin appeared genuinely impressed by her ability. They had finished the day not quite friends, but at least on speaking terms.

Since then Damin had taken her out every day, and for the most part he was tolerable company. He usually allowed her to accompany him as he did a round of the vast camp, taking care of the myriad problems that cropped up in the course of the day with remarkable patience. Twice Tarja had accompanied them for part of their ride. He treated Adrina with respect but kept glancing at Damin as if something amused him greatly. It was proving onerous to be civil to Damin Wolfblade on a continuing basis. Tarja was a much more likely prospect.

Mindful of her need to learn as much as possible about him, she decided to question Damin. Her tactful and entirely innocent question regarding Tarja’s marital status had Damin roaring with laughter.

“Don’t waste your time even thinking about it!”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she declared loftily.

“Oh yes you do! I know exactly what you’re thinking. He’s young and good looking, in a position of authority, and you think he’ll be no match for your court’esa trained powers of seduction.”

“I thought no such thing!”

“Trust me, Adrina, nothing you could offer Tarja Tenragan could compare with what he’s already got.”

“You think I couldn’t steal him away from some rustic Medalonian peasant girl?” Adrina was insulted at the mere thought.

“I think you couldn’t steal him away from the Harshini demon child, your Highness.”

Adrina stared at him. “The demon child?”

“In the flesh. And rather nice looking flesh it is too.”

“I don’t believe you! The Harshini are gone. The demon child is just a legend!”

“The demon child is very real, Adrina. Her name is R’shiel té Ortyn, and she left the camp the same day you arrived. She’ll be back in a few weeks. You should find it an enlightening experience, meeting someone who is not in awe of you.”

Adrina was tempted to comment that he didn’t seem to be particularly in awe of her, either. But she held her tongue and wondered why, if the Harshini really had returned, the demon child would be fighting on the side of atheist Medalon.

Her plans for Tarja having met an unexpected hitch, Adrina turned her attention, somewhat reluctantly, to Damin Wolfblade. The more she saw of him, the more she realised she had misjudged him badly, a fact she found worrying.

He was not a younger version of his uncle. Nor was he a spoilt, figurehead Warlord. He was intelligent, surprisingly well educated, far too astute for her liking, and obviously enjoyed the respect of his men and the Defenders in equal measure. Not a man to underestimate. She needed to learn as much as she could about the Hythrun prince. She needed to discover what he liked, what he loathed, whom he admired and whom he despised, and, more importantly, why he was angry with her.

That she had done something to enrage him was obvious. The day he came to her room to announce she was to be given the freedom of the camp, he had come close to killing her. Her snide remarks had not been enough to provoke such a reaction. She had seen enough of him since that day to know that he was generally even-tempered, at least around everybody else. But nothing she had done since her capture warranted the anger she felt simmering in him, even when he was making an effort to be civil. It puzzled her. Until she discovered its source, she had no hope of escaping this place.

They rode far south of the camp, toward a distant line of trees. She wondered what would happen if she turned her horse and tried to make a break for it, then glanced at Damin. He would run her down in a heartbeat and the fragile trust she had fostered among her captors would be destroyed. She sighed and let her mare follow Damin’s stallion.

They slowed to a walk as they entered the small copse of thin poplars. There were stumps littered about, the crude result of the Defenders’ need for shelter for their horses. The thick carpet of fallen leaves muffled their horses’ hooves and the sound of running water was the only thing that disturbed the silence. Adrina rode up beside Damin, assuming an air of nonchalance. It was time to start working out what made this man who he was, and she was never going to do that arguing with him. Be nice, she reminded herself.

“It must be hard for you, being Lernen’s Heir.”

He shrugged. “It can be a little trying.”

“You’re not much like him.”

He turned and looked at her. “Gods! Was that a compliment?”

She smiled. “Actually, I think it was. I must be slipping.”

Damin laughed. The first genuine laugh she had heard from him since their embarrassing conversation about Tarja. “Don’t worry Adrina, we’re alone. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

His laugh was infectious. She began to understand what others saw in him. He was very hard to dislike in this mood. It made him doubly dangerous.

“Do you miss your family? So far from home?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted, which surprised her a little. “Medalon can be... trying at times, too.”

“I miss my family.” Perhaps empathy would work where sarcasm had failed.

“From what I hear, there’s quite a lot of them to miss.”

“My father is prolific, if nothing else. Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“In abundance. Although not quite as many as you can claim. You met my half-sister in Greenharbour, I believe.”

“Did I?”

“She’s the High Arrion.”

“Kalan is your sister?” She wondered why that nosy little toad, Lecter Turon, had never mentioned that the leader of the powerful Hythrun Sorcerers’ Collective was the High Prince’s niece. “I didn’t know.”

“She’s a couple of years younger than me. My father was killed in a border raid when I was only a year old, and my mother remarried with something close to indecent haste. Even more indecent when you count the months from the wedding date until Kalan’s and Narvell’s arrival,” he added with a grin.

“Narvell?”

“Kalan and Narvell are twins.”

“You mean your mother had a lover while she was married to your father?” The idea did not shock her – many noblewomen took lovers – but she was a little surprised that Damin seemed so complacent.

“She probably had several. It was an arranged marriage – Lernen’s idea – and there was little affection between them.”

“My father made an offer for the Princess Marla once.”

“I know. I think that’s why he married her to my father, just to annoy Hablet.”

“My father still hasn’t forgiven Lernen for that,” Adrina remarked.

“And you wonder why I don’t trust you?”

She was sorry she ever brought the subject up. Now was not the time to remind Damin of the conflict between their monarchs. She ignored the remark and smiled brightly. “You were telling me about your sister.”

Damin looked at her oddly for a moment then continued his tale. “Kalan’s father was the Warlord of Elasapine’s son. He and mother returned to Elasapine after they married, leaving Kalan, Narvell and me in Krakandar. He died a couple of years later. But Marla kept finding husbands – and losing them. Every few years she would breeze in, introduce us to our latest stepbrother or stepsister, then vanish again for years at a time. I think Almodavar raised us more than Marla did.”

“That’s dreadful!”

“On the contrary, I had a wonderful childhood. We had a whole palace to play in, no parents to interfere and a staff that we chose ourselves for the most part.”

“You chose the staff? The children?”

“It was more a process of elimination,” he laughed. “If we didn’t like somebody we had ways of getting rid of them. Half a dozen children can be very inventive when the need arises.”

With a twinge of envy, Adrina recalled her own closely guarded childhood in the nursery of Hablet’s court in Talabar. Such freedom was almost beyond her ability to comprehend.

“Did your mother not fear for you? Alone like that?”

“We weren’t alone. Almodavar was my father’s closest friend and some of the people in Krakandar have been there since my grandfather’s time.”

“You’re lucky. At least you knew your mother. Hablet had my mother beheaded.”

It was Damin’s turn to look startled. “Why?”

“My mother was his first wife; a princess from Lanipoor, from a very ancient and noble line. He never loved her – he only married her for the prestige she brought him – and her very large dowry. He loved a court’esa, a Hythrun actually, named Welenara. She and my mother fell pregnant within days of each other. It was bad enough that my mother had to endure Welenara so blatantly carrying Hablet’s child, but then, to add insult to injury, it was Welenara who produced a son, while the best my mother could do was a daughter. She was rather put out, by all accounts. When Tristan was only a week old, she hired an assassin to poison him and his mother. The assassin failed, my father learnt of the attempt and had her beheaded.” Adrina shut her mouth abruptly, stunned that she had told him so much. She was supposed to be trying to draw him out, not regale him with her life story. She never discussed her mother with anyone. It was a forbidden subject around Hablet.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Pity is the last thing I need from you, my Lord.”

Her sudden change of mood had him shaking his head, but he said nothing. He rode on a little further and then dismounted beside a leaf-strewn pool. There was steam rising off the still water and the air tasted faintly of sulphur. Adrina dismounted beside him and looked around in surprise.

“The water’s hot!”

“Almost too hot to swim in,” he agreed. “It’s a thermal spring. The timber cutters discovered it. I hear Lord Jenga has already had an approach from some enterprising soul who wants to build a tavern here. For medicinal purposes, of course.”

“Of course,” Adrina agreed. She knelt down, peeled off her riding glove and dipped her hand into the pool, snatching it out quickly as the water seared her cold fingers.

“Your brother Tristan was killed in battle, wasn’t he?” Damin asked behind her.

Adrina stilled warily. How had he known that? “Yes.”

“And that’s the reason you ran away?”

She stood up and turned to face him. “One of them.”

“I see,” he said thoughtfully. He was standing by his horse, a good five paces from her, but she still felt as if he was crowding her. “So the Karien boy was lying. You weren’t trying to sneak through Medalon to ask your father for his cannon.”

Mikel was lucky he was nowhere in reach at that moment. Adrina could have cheerfully strangled the little brat. “He’s a child. I told him that to keep him quiet. He would have run straight to Cratyn if he thought I was leaving for any other reason.”

Damin gathered up his reins and swung into his saddle. “I’m curious. Why did you order your troops to surrender?”

“Cratyn would have executed them when he discovered I’d left. I couldn’t think of anything else.”

He nodded, as if she had confirmed something he already knew. “A noble gesture, your Highness. Not something I would have expected from someone like you.”

Adrina remounted, glaring at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

But he didn’t answer her. He nudged his horse forward leaving her to ponder his words. She had a feeling that if she could figure out what he meant, she would understand the reason he despised her so much.

Still, she had made progress. It was the first conversation of substance they had ever had that hadn’t ended with him threatening to send her back to Karien. Or to kill her.

Chapter 40

Adrina woke with a start, aware that something was different, although she could not pinpoint exactly what it was. She was sweating, her palms moist, her heart pounding. She had dreamt again, the same nightmare that had plagued her since she had left Karien – that Cratyn had found her, dragged her back across the border and forced her to dine with him on a meal that frequently turned out to be her dead dog. With a shudder, she pushed the memory away. It was a stupid dream. She refused to be cowed by an over-active imagination.

The chamber was filled with grey light – and silence. It reminded her of waking in the Karien camp the morning of the battle. The air had that same eerie quality, the same stillness, the same feeling of anticipation. Cautiously, she climbed out of bed. Shivering in the icy chamber, Adrina snatched up her cloak from the bed where it served as an extra blanket and threw it over her shoulders. She walked to the arrow-slit window and looked out, but as far as she could make out, the world had turned white. It took her a moment to realise what she was seeing.

When it hit her, she gasped, and hurriedly dressed in her riding habit, ignoring Tam’s sleepy question from the other pallet in the corner of the room. She pulled on her boots and was out the door, startling the guards with her sudden appearance. Running past them, down the stairs and through the deserted hall, she jerked open the heavy door to the Keep and stepped out into a wonderland.

There were a number of mounted Defenders in the yard and the men on the wall-walk stamped their feet against the cold, but Adrina took no notice of them. She hurried to the gate and looked out over the snow-covered camp in astonishment. The landscape had completely changed. Where there had been the panoply of war yesterday was now a silent, white vista as far as the eye could see. It was barely dawn and the soldiers were only just beginning to rouse. Thin smoke rose from the cookfires. The vast plain had been transformed from a war camp into a thing of beauty.

“You’ve not seen snow before, have you?”

Adrina turned at the voice to find Tarja riding up behind her with a sergeant and a number of troopers in tow. He dismounted, amused by the expression on her face.

“It’s... glorious!”

“Well, it is for now. Give it a few hours and most of this will have turned into slush,” he warned with a wave of his arm. “It’s too warm for it to last long and too early in the year for a decent fall.”

“Oh,” she said in disappointment.

Tarja seemed to take pity on her. “Would you like to take a good look while it’s still in all it’s pristine glory?”

“Don’t you have something better to do?”

“I’ve got plenty to do, but nothing that can’t wait. Besides, It’s Founder’s Day. It’s supposed to be a holiday.” The red-coated Defender hurried forward. “Sergeant! Her Highness would like to borrow your horse. Tell Hadly I’ve been delayed then go find some breakfast. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

The man saluted and retrieved his mount for Adrina, holding it for her while she mounted. Tarja swung into his saddle and walked his horse forward.

“Ready?”

“This is very noble of you, Captain.”

They moved off at a slow walk, letting the horses pick their own way through the camp.

“Being noble is vastly preferable to discussing the riveting topic of horse feed with Hadly, your Highness.”

She smiled at him, wondering if Damin had lied to her about Tarja. He seemed anxious for her company. Maybe he was feeling the loss of the absent demon child. A lonely man was a vulnerable one.

“Well, I still think you’re being noble, Captain. You have rare good manners.”

“For a Medalonian?” he teased.

“That wasn’t what I meant. I just meant that compared to some people around here...”

Tarja laughed. “Ah! You speak of our Warlord. I thought you two were starting to get along quite well.”

Adrina frowned and reminded herself that this man was Damin’s friend. It would be inadvisable to tell him what she really thought of the Hythrun.

“Lord Wolfblade can be tolerable, when he’s not trying to be abrasive.”

He looked at her oddly. “Well, you can’t really blame him, can you? Not after what you did.”

“What did I do?”

He refused to answer her question. Instead, he kicked his horse into a canter.

“Captain!” she called as she raced after him. “I believe that statement demands an explanation!”

“The sun will be fully up soon,” he remarked as she caught up with him, admiring the scenery with determination. “Most of the snow will be melted by midday.” They had ridden past the northern edge of the camp and crossed into the deserted training grounds.

“Don’t ignore my question! What did you mean by, ‘not after what I did’?”

He glanced at her and shrugged. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s none of my business. You and Damin should sort out things between yourselves.”

“I’d be happy to,” she snapped. “If I had any idea what you were talking about!”

“You really don’t know?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I did!”

Tarja reined in his mount and turned to face her. “He claims you tried to kill the High Prince of Hythria.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

Tarja shrugged. “I’m just telling you what he told me. He said you hired some boys to do the job, but they killed themselves rather than carry out your orders.”

Adrina felt her fury rising like a volcano. All her plans to be nice evaporated in the face of such a terrible accusation. “That arrogant, lying...”

“I take it you have a somewhat different opinion?”

“How dare that... that... degenerate... even think such a thing! Let me tell you about your pet Warlord, Captain! He’s a savage, unfeeling monster who doesn’t deserve to breathe! I never tried to kill his damned uncle, although I wish I had! I gave those boys my knife to spare them from the twisted lust of a depraved old man.”

Tarja was taken aback by her fury, but seemed determined to believe his friend’s version rather than hers. “Yet you kept the collars as a souvenir. Why?”

“To remind myself why his whole damned family should be destroyed!”

He frowned, then suddenly wheeled his horse around. “Come on, there’s something I want to show you.”

He led her north toward the battlefield. Adrina urged her horse to follow, wishing for a sorcerer-bred mount, rather than this sturdy, but uninspiring beast. She no longer felt the cold. Her anger warmed her better than any cloak, better than any fire. As they neared the snow-covered mangonels, he veered right, away from the field. The soldiers manning the front paid them little attention as they rode by, their attention focused on what lay north of the border. This was the closest she had come to the border since escaping from Karien and she allowed herself a moment to wonder what Cratyn was doing. He and that damned Hythrun would have made quite a pair.

Tarja led her east, away from the field until they reached a low stone wall that encircled a large snow covered mound. Adrina looked about in puzzlement.

“You brought me here to show me this?”

“It’s a grave.”

“Whose grave?”

“Your Fardohnyans. The men who died on the battlefield.”

Adrina swallowed an uncomfortable lump in her throat. It was so big. Had there been so many? She wiped away bitter tears that suddenly stung her eyes.

“I thought Medalonians cremated their dead?”

“We do. Burial is illegal in Medalon but Damin refused to allow the Fardohnyans to be cremated. He had his own men dig the grave. He buried them with their weapons, to honour your War God. Your captain was buried separately because he was of royal blood.”

“Tristan! Where? Where did they bury him?”

Tarja pointed to a small rock cairn on the southern side of the mound. Adrina flew from the saddle and ran to it, no longer caring if Tarja saw her crying.

Tristan! Oh, Tristan!

Tarja dismounted and followed her slowly, leading her mount with his. He waited patiently as she knelt by the cairn, not caring that her knees were being soaked by the snow, her face in her hands, as she let go of the grief she had so tightly controlled until now. She sobbed until her throat was raw. She sobbed until she had no more tears to shed.

Finally, she had no idea how long, she sat back on her heels and wiped her eyes, the scabbed over wound of her grief lanced and washed clean by her tears. It was then that she noticed the position of the cairn in relation to the mound. It was facing southwest. Toward Fardohnya.

“They buried him facing home.”

“That’s your savage, unfeeling monster for you.”

She turned and looked at him sharply. “Don’t try to tell me this proves anything! Cratyn is the most devout man that ever lived, but it doesn’t stop him from being a bastard!” She sniffed inelegantly and climbed to her feet. “I’ll grant you I’m surprised, but it hardly makes Wolfblade a saint.”

“Perhaps not,” he conceded. “But I think you do him an injustice.”

“I’m the one falsely accused of attempted murder.”

“Then take it up with Damin, your Highness,” Tarja said wearily. “We should be getting back. Hadly’s waiting for me.”

He handed her the reins of her borrowed horse before swinging into his own saddle. Adrina stared at the mound for a moment, marking the place in her memory, before mounting the dun gelding.

“How did my brother die?”

Tarja hesitated for a moment before he answered. “He died in battle, your Highness. Isn’t that all you need to know?”

“I want to know who killed him.”

“To what purpose?”

Tarja’s reluctance to give her a straight answer made her suspicious. “It was Wolfblade, wasn’t it? That’s why you’re looking so uncomfortable. Damin Wolfblade killed my brother then buried him here as some sort of barbaric boast, so he could come and gloat over his grave.”

“No,” Tarja replied, looking even more discomforted. “Damin didn’t kill your brother.”

“How can you be certain?” she demanded. “You said yourself, he died in battle. How do you know this burial mound isn’t some sick Hythrun ritual to mock the dead? How do you —”

“He died by my hand, Adrina.”

His admission stunned her into silence. He met her accusing eyes with genuine regret.

“I’m sorry, Adrina. But this is war and he was trying to kill me at the time. If it’s any comfort, his last thoughts were of you.”

Tarja gathered up his reins and turned his mount toward the camp. She stared at his retreating back wishing she could somehow take vengeance on this man who had robbed her of her beloved brother. But she had not expected this. Not his confession, nor the pain it had cost him to make it. Confused and troubled, Adrina followed Tarja back to the camp in silence, not even seeing the glorious snow-covered plain.

When they reached Treason Keep Tarja helped her dismount without a word and turned to lead her horse away.

“Tarja?”

He looked at her over his shoulder.

“Why did you tell me? Why not let me think someone else had killed him?”

“A Defender is honour-bound to speak the truth, your Highness.”

“You could have said nothing.”

“I could have,” he agreed. “But you are determined to think the worst of Lord Wolfblade. We could have sued for peace weeks ago. Were it up to me or the Lord Defender, you would have been ransomed back to your husband the day we found you. Damin is the only thing standing between you and the husband you seem so determined to desert. It didn’t seem right to let you blame him for that too.”

Tarja led the horses away and left her standing there. She wondered for a moment why she felt no burning urge to avenge Tristan. The man who killed him was right here, within reach.

Then the reason came to her. It was not Tarja who was responsible for Tristan’s death. He may have wielded the blade, but it was Cratyn who had killed him. Cratyn and his sick priests.

Cratyn was the one who would pay.

Chapter 41

The news that the First Sister was on her way home caused a flurry of activity in the Citadel. Everyone seemed intent on sprucing up their own little patch of the city and even the Defenders were not immune. Loclon found himself facing an empty arena day after day, as the cadets were called away to other duties. Learning swordcraft was all very well, but the First Sister was due and she was bound to insist on an inspection. One had to get one’s priorities right.

Left to his own devices, Loclon sought amusement in the Blue Bull, but even that worthy establishment was suffering the effects of the First Sister’s impending return. There was nobody drinking in the tavern and the benches were stacked on the tabletops as fresh rushes were laid out. Loclon slammed the door in annoyance and headed back to his rooms.

When he arrived back at Mistress Longreaves’ Boarding House he discovered a note pinned to his door. He looked around before opening it, but at this time of day, the hall was deserted. I want to see you, the note said. It was unsigned, but he needed no name to know who had sent it. He went into his room, threw the note on the fire, and exchanged his red jacket for a nondescript brown one. It would not do to be seen entering Mistress Heaner’s in broad daylight in his uniform.

Lork opened the door for him and stood back to let him enter. He pointed wordlessly to the hall. Loclon frowned. He did not like meeting Mistress Heaner in the basement; did not like to be reminded that he was serving the Overlord.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he discovered Mistress Heaner was not alone. The narrow altar was ablaze, the symbol of Xaphista glittering malignantly in the candlelight. The old woman was on her knees, chanting softly. Beside her was a man wearing a brown cassock, his tonsured head so polished it reflected the candles. How in the name of the Founders had a Karien priest managed to get into the city? He waited as they finished their prayers and the priest helped the old woman to her feet before retrieving his jewelled staff from the altar. Mistress Heaner studied him with predatory eyes and turned to her companion.

“This is the man I spoke of. Captain Loclon, this is Garanus.”

Loclon nodded warily in the direction of the priest, then looked at Mistress Heaner. “You said you wanted to see me. I can come back later when you’re not busy.”

“It was I who sent for you,” the priest said. His voice was accented and oddly rasping, as if his throat had been burned. He laid the staff gently on Loclon’s shoulder, waiting for a moment before withdrawing it with a faint nod of satisfaction. “Mistress Heaner tells me you have something of a history with the demon child.”

At the mention of R’shiel, Loclon’s doubts vanished. “Do you know where she is?”

The priest nodded. “She will be here within a day. She accompanies the First Sister.”

Loclon burned with the heat of his need. “Then I will kill her as soon as she arrives.” Kill her, yes, but slowly and oh-so-painfully – and only after she begs for mercy.

“You will do no such thing!” the priest snapped.

“Isn’t she destined to destroy your god? I’d have thought killing her would be the first thing you’d want.”

“She was created to destroy him, Captain. That’s not the same thing as destiny. The demon child lacks commitment. She has not accepted the task, or she would be heading for Karien, not the Citadel.”

“So... what... you think you can turn her to your cause?”

“Xaphista is the one true god,” Mistress Heaner reminded him. “The demon child will become his ally and destroy the Primal gods. He has decreed that it will be so.”

Loclon thought it unwise to point out the flaw in her argument. If Xaphista really was the only god, then who had created the demon child? And if the Primal gods did not exist, as the Overlord claimed, what need for someone to destroy them?

“Your task will be to bring her to us,” Garanus explained. Then he added with a slight frown, “Whole and unharmed, Captain.”

“I was promised vengeance.”

“And vengeance you shall have,” the priest assured him. “Once the demon child has embraced the Overlord, she will turn on our enemies, and yours, and destroy them.”

That wasn’t quite what Loclon had in mind. “What did you want me to do?”

“You will be taking part in the Founder’s Day Parade, yes?”

He nodded. Nobody got out of that duty.

“The First Sister will arrive towards the end of the parade. She has no doubt timed the event to maximise the impact of her return.”

“The First Sister is fond of making an entrance,” Mistress Heaner added scornfully.

“You will assign yourself to her party and stay close to her.”

“Assign myself? You don’t know much about the Defenders, Priest. One doesn’t assign oneself to anything.”

“If you are nearby when she arrives, and volunteer for the duty, I am sure you can manage something.”

“And what about R’shiel?”

“It is likely you will not recognise her. She may be using a glamour to conceal her identity. But that is not your concern. There is a man with her. A Harshini half-breed named Brakandaran. You must kill him.”

He shrugged. “And then what?”

“Once you have brought proof that Brakandaran is dead, we will discuss the best way to handle R’shiel.”

Loclon was not very happy with the arrangement. “Are you sure you know who you’re dealing with? There is no best way to handle R’shiel. She’s a murderous bitch.”

“The demon child can be controlled, Captain. Her strength is also her weakness.” He reached inside his cassock and withdrew a thin silver choker with a jewelled clasp in the shape of the star and lightning bolt of the Overlord. “This will ensure her cooperation.”

“You think she’s going to change sides for that little trinket?” he scoffed.

“With this ‘little trinket’, as you call it,” the priest informed him with a malicious smile, “the demon child will do anything you want of her. The more she tries to use her power to fight it, the worse it will be for her.”

Loclon took the choker and examined it thoughtfully.

“She’ll do anything, you say?”

The priest nodded. “Anything.”

Founder’s Day dawned overcast and dull, with low clouds threatening rain and a cold, blustery wind that groped through any gap in clothing with chill fingers. The crowd was thick around Francil’s Hall as the citizens gathered for a glimpse of the returning First Sister, but their mood was subdued. It was too cold to stand around waiting and as the parade passed by; many thoughts were turned to the bonfires and the warm food waiting in the Amphitheatre. If she did not arrive soon, hunger was likely to win out over curiosity.

Loclon had volunteered for crowd duty, rather than riding in the parade. He had managed to get himself placed in command of the guards around the Hall and was well positioned on the steps, just below Sister Harith and the remainder of the Quorum. Thunder rumbled overhead and the clouds seemed low enough to touch. Loclon fretted at the time it was taking the noisy floats to move down the street. There was no sign of the First Sister.

The last float was rounding the corner of the Administration Hall when the skies opened. The Quorum hurriedly moved back under the shelter of the entrance to the Hall while the crowd dived for whatever cover they could find. Many simply turned and fled, running with cloaks held over their heads to escape the downpour. Loclon stayed at his post, drenched by the icy rain, barely even noticing it in his impatience. Where is she?

There was a moment of anticipation as the crowd waited, but the rain was a significant deterrent. If the First Sister’s carriage did not arrive soon, there would be nobody left to greet her. Loclon watched the crowd thin with dismay. He had hoped to get to the half-breed in the crush, but soon there would be nobody left but him. He glanced at his men who looked desperate to find shelter, warning them with a look, of the consequences should anybody presume to break ranks. Sister Harith and the Quorum were conferring under the meagre eaves of the Hall. With another glance down the street in the direction of the Main Gate, they vanished inside.

The departure of the Quorum signalled the end of the festivities as far as the rest of the citizens were concerned. Within minutes the street was all but deserted and Loclon no longer had an excuse to keep his men standing in the rain. He muttered a curse and turned to dismiss them as the First Sister’s retinue arrived.

His men hastily stood to attention as the outriders appeared, followed by a closed carriage with the shutters pulled tight against the downpour. Loclon could feel his heart beating faster as the carriage drew to a halt, waiting to catch sight of her. His hand caressed the hilt of his knife, ready to draw it in an instant to kill the half-breed. He had no fear of the consequences. Once a dead Harshini lay at the First Sister’s feet, he would be a hero.

“Loclon! What in the name of the Founders are you doing out in this! Get those men out of here!”

He started at the anger in Garet Warner’s voice.

“We were waiting for the First Sister, sir! To see if we could be of any assistance!”

The commandant was as sodden as Loclon as he dismounted, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. “Don’t be absurd! The First Sister has her own men. Dismiss your men, Captain.”

“But sir...”

“I said, dismiss your men!”

Loclon did as he was ordered and watched helplessly as Joyhinia’s guard gathered around the carriage to help the First Sister down. One of them held a cloak over her head, to shield her from the rain as another sister disembarked. Although the deluge obscured his vision, Loclon could have sworn it was Mahina Cortanen. He waited for a moment longer, but a dark-haired woman and Lord Draco seemed to be the only other passengers.

He looked about desperately, but there was no sign of R’shiel, or the half-breed he was supposed to kill. The First Sister was hurried inside and the remainder of the Defenders headed gratefully for the stables with the carriage and the horses.

Loclon stood in the rain, cursing softly.

Where is she?

Chapter 42

Brak and R’shiel waited in the shelter of the gatehouse for the better part of an hour before following the First Sister into the Citadel. Brak had drawn a glamour over them and their horses, so that the guards sheltering from the rain did not notice their presence. It did not make them invisible, but the guards’attention slid off them like water off an oiled cape. R’shiel braided and unbraided her reins nervously as the rain hammered down and they waited on Bhren, the God of Storms, to finish the task R’shiel had asked of him.

Brak had never had much luck communicating with the Storm God. Bhren was a solitary spirit with cares on a global scale. The insignificant problems of humans seldom touched him. But he had come when Lorandranek had called him and had responded just as promptly when his daughter had asked his help. Brak glanced at the water sheeting down from the low clouds, then looked at R’shiel with concern.

“You did tell him we just wanted a storm, didn’t you, not a global catastrophe?”

“It’ll stop soon,” she assured him, although she did not sound convinced.

The rain had been Lord Draco’s idea, conceived five nights ago in Cauthside while they waited on the ferry to take them across the Glass River. Their method of gaining entrance into the Citadel, without Joyhinia being immediately overwhelmed by the long list of people who required an audience with her, had been a matter for hot debate.

Garet Warner insisted that if Joyhinia was thought to be sneaking back into the Citadel, suspicions would be immediately aroused. She had to enter in a manner befitting her station. It was expected. But they could not risk someone speaking to Joyhinia. Her response was likely to be a childish giggle. And they certainly could not risk her in front of a crowd.

R’shiel had wanted to use the demon meld, but even Dranymire had baulked at that suggestion. The demons had been practising their meld, but it took a lot out of them and the Gathering was still to be faced. Brak had suggested a glamour, but that did not solve the problem of Joyhinia being seen publicly. A glamour would conceal her and that brought them back to the problem of sneaking into the Citadel.

It was Draco who had remarked that it was a pity they couldn’t arrange for it to be raining. No matter how important the personage, nobody would hang about, cold and wet, for a glimpse of the First Sister – and neither would they expect the First Sister to stand about waving to them. R’shiel had glanced at Brak with that dangerous light her in eyes that he was coming to associate with the demon child having an idea he knew he wouldn’t like.

“You could ask Bhren.”

“The Storm God is not like Dacendaran, R’shiel. He spends little time worrying about the Harshini, and even less time thinking about humans. The only Harshini I knew who could get any sense out of him was Lorandranek.” He regretted saying it the moment he uttered the words.

“Maybe I could ask him?”

“Ask who, what?” Garet demanded.

“Ask the God of Storms to make it rain the day we arrive at the Citadel.”

Garet stared at her for a moment then shook his head. “I don’t want to know about this.” He rose from the table in the Heart and Hearth tavern and took the stairs to his room two at a time.

Draco watched him go and then turned back to Brak and R’shiel. “He is uncomfortable with your gods.”

“And you’re not?” R’shiel shot back. She did not like Draco. Tarja’s father had been Joyhinia’s creature for thirty years. He had ordered the murder of R’shiel’s family and the village where she was born, and he had been quite prepared to put his own son, R’shiel, and three hundred rebels to the sword at Joyhinia’s command. But the man reeked of regret. In many ways he was like Lord Jenga – honourable to the point of foolishness. One mistake had set him on a path so far from his original destination that he was almost completely lost. The man was trying to claw his way back, to somehow make amends, but neither Tarja nor R’shiel was ready to forgive him. Brak trusted him more than Garet Warner. Garet had his own agenda. All Draco wanted was redemption.

“I’ve seen enough to believe your gods exist, R’shiel, although I do not worship them.”

“You’re more adept at turning on your own kind, you mean,” R’shiel snarled. Brak laid a restraining hand on her arm.

“Stop trying to pick a fight, R’shiel.”

Surprisingly, she did as he asked. Deliberately excluding Draco she turned to him questioningly. “How do I speak to Bhren?”

“Very carefully,” Brak had replied, only half jokingly.

“See, I told you it would stop!”

Brak forced his attention back to the present to discover the rain had eased to a light drizzle. “Thank you, Divine One,” he said under his breath, although it was unlikely that Bhren was listening.

“We should get moving,” R’shiel advised, glancing warily at the guards. Brak nodded and followed her into the street, still holding the glamour tightly around them.

It was nearly two hundred years since Brak had been in the Citadel, and the changes wrought in that time depressed him. Once this had been his home, before the Sisterhood had snatched it from the Harshini. As a child, he had played with demons among the vast gardens that were now replaced by cluttered housing. He had gone exploring in the ancient woods surrounding the Citadel that had long been cleared to meet the voracious human appetite for firewood and lumber. Humans had obliterated all the beauty of the Citadel, all the elegant hallmarks of Harshini architecture. Only the temples and the Halls of Residence remained of the original city, but they too had been corrupted, their artwork painted over, their graceful lines distorted by later additions to their structures. Brak was glad the Harshini could not see the Citadel now. It would bruise their souls to see what had been done to their home.

“I can feel it,” R’shiel breathed in wonder. “I can feel the Citadel.”

“He’s reacting to your presence.”

She frowned, trying to reach out with senses not yet mature enough to identify what she was experiencing. The Citadel was welcoming her home, just as it had watched over her for most of her life. Until now, she had not been aware of the power that enabled her to feel his presence.

“I thought only gods could tell what I am?”

“The spirit of the Citadel is a god,” Brak explained. “An Incidental god, not a Primal god, but a god nonetheless.”

“You mean he’s like Xaphista? He’s a demon that grew powerful enough to call himself a god?”

“No, the Citadel is unique. He came into being as the complex was built. He is the essence of the place. Its soul if you like.”

R’shiel digested the information silently as they approached the Temple of the Gods. Brak did not know what the humans called it now, but once it had been the centre of Harshini life – the place where any god, no matter how powerful or insignificant, could be called into being. He had played with gods and demons in that Temple, back in a time when life held a great deal of promise. Back in the days before he understood what it was to be half-human. Back in the days before he had killed Lorandranek.

“What did Dranymire mean about the Harshini needing access to the Citadel to protect themselves?”

“You can’t kill a Harshini here, R’shiel. The Citadel won’t permit it.”

She looked at him, her violet eyes wide with astonishment. “You’re kidding?”

“No. But don’t get too exited. That protection doesn’t extend to half-bloods. You and I are just as mortal as anybody else, here.”

“So if the Harshini could come back to the Citadel, they would be safe from the Kariens? Even if they cross the border?”

“It’s the only protection they have, other than remaining hidden. Their inability to kill is painfully real, R’shiel. There’s a story I heard once about the First Purge. A mob of humans attacked a Harshini family trying to flee the carnage. They raped the women, butchered the children and then handed the last Harshini standing a sword. They knelt in front of him and offered him their exposed throats, taunting him to kill them. He dropped the sword and threw himself on the ground, hoping they would take his life too. He couldn’t ask them to do it, the prohibition against violence includes suicide.” He did not realise how cold his voice had become until R’shiel looked at him with genuine concern.

“It’s not just a story, is it, Brak?” she asked softly.

“No.”

“What happened?”

“We arrived too late to save him. But the humans who attacked them never lived long enough to gloat about their deeds.”

“You killed them? How, if the Harshini can’t kill?”

“There were a lot more half-bloods in those days. Before the Sisterhood, mixed marriages were not that uncommon. We were young and hot-headed and didn’t take the Purge lying down.”

R’shiel thought about that for a moment. “Where are the other half-bloods now?”

“One half-blood was more dangerous to the Sisterhood than a dozen pure Harshini. They made a special effort to eradicate us.” They had ridden past the Hall of the Gods without stopping. Brak was very sorry he had ever mentioned the First Purge. Although centuries old, the memories still burned like acid.

“You’re the only one left.”

“Until you came along.”

R’shiel did not ask anything further on the subject, for which Brak was grateful. He glanced at the low, grey sky and realised that R’shiel had been correct in her assertion that rain would force the Gathering indoors and that the Hall was the only other possible venue.

She was still insisting they coerce the Gathering into accepting Joyhinia, but Brak had held off showing her how to do it, until the last possible moment, hoping she would change her mind. He lacked the power himself, to coerce a large group of people, but he knew the technique, although working it left him sick to his stomach. Since her stay at Sanctuary, under the careful guidance of Korandellan and her Harshini tutors, R’shiel had learnt much about her ability. But she was still a babe-in-arms by Harshini standards. A babe who was acquiring knowledge she lacked the judgment to use wisely, at a frightening rate. So frightening that Brak found himself being very careful about what he did in her presence.

She had come a long way since Shananara had tried to teach her simply how to touch her power. That day by the Glass River, more than a year ago, seemed to be part of a much more distant past.

If the Citadel’s desecration had cut him to the core, then Tavern Street was like rubbing salt into the wound. The whole cluttered street, which had once been a wide, tree-lined avenue, wore an aura of shoddy greed. With the rain, the feast in the Amphitheatre had been washed out and the tables laden with food had been moved to the verandahs outside the taverns. The street was packed with people venturing out into the fading drizzle to avail themselves of the Sisterhood’s generosity. Red coats mingled with grey-robed Probates, green-robed Novices and the more varied colours worn by ordinary people. There were only a few blue Sisters in sight. Most of them had chosen to stay indoors, rather than fight the crush in the rain. Of the white-robed Sisters of the Quorum, there was no sign at all.

“Isn’t there somewhere else we can go?” Brak asked, eyeing the crowd uneasily. They had planned to take rooms in a tavern close to the Hall of the Gods and stay out of sight until the Gathering at sundown.

“But we were supposed to meet Affiana here.”

“She’ll wait for us.”

R’shiel thought for a moment then nodded. “The Amphitheatre will be deserted with the food moved down here. The caverns should be quiet enough.”

R’shiel turned her horse and led the way, although Brak could have found his way blindfolded. The caverns had been stables once, built to house the ancestors of the Hythrun sorcerer-bred horses. They rode into the torch-lit tunnel and dismounted, leading their horses deep into the caverns where they were unlikely to be disturbed. Brak looked around the empty, hollow rooms with a sharp sense of loss.

He shook off the feeling and turned to R’shiel. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“There’s no other way, Brak.” The darkness hid her expression, but it could not hide her excitement. Since returning to the world of humans, the differences between the demon child and mere mortals were more evident each day. Those differences were beginning to make her feel a little too superior for Brak’s comfort. He could remember feeling the same way, when he was her age, and he discovered how much his power set him apart. But that kind of arrogance was dangerous to R’shiel and everyone around her. She needed to be brought down a peg or two, as he had been, and soon.

“What you want to do is wrong, you understand that, don’t you?”

“It is necessary.”

“Are you prepared for the consequences?”

“What consequences?” For the first time, she didn’t sound quite so certain.

“Coercing humans is easy, R’shiel,” he explained. “People do it to each other all the time. They don’t use the same sort of power as we do, but they have other methods which work just as well.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“You remember when you were fighting with the rebellion? I saw you coerce those young hot-heads any number of times and you didn’t know anything about the Harshini power you had access to. Tarja convinced three hundred rebels to attack a full Company of Defenders in Testra with nothing more than rhetoric. Every mother who cajoles her child into eating stewed turnips is using coercion.”

“What’s your point, Brak?”

“The point is that you could bully the heathens into fighting because, deep down, they wanted to. Every rebel who attacked Testra at Tarja’s behest secretly dreamt of victory. Even the child who eventually succumbs to the stewed turnips has hunger giving him a push. Coercing people to act against their will, is an entirely different matter. You have to get past their natural inclinations and then force them to move in a different direction. You are robbing them of any vestige of free will, and free will is something that runs so deep in the human soul it’s like trying to get the Glass River to flow backwards.”

“You think I don’t have the power to do it?” she asked, sounding rather alarmed. “The Karien priests can do it.”

“R’shiel, you could level a mountain if the mood took you. Your power is not the issue. As for the Kariens priests, their ability is an abomination. Remember that Xaphista was a demon once. During their initiation ceremony they drink his blood. And it’s not some slaughtered animal’s blood they’re drinking either, it really is Xaphista’s. The blood links them to their god in the same way we’re linked to our demons. Through that link they can call on his strength to weave the coercion.”

“But the link must be pretty tenuous,” she said. “Where did they get the power to coerce a whole army?”

“Individually they’re weak, but as a group they can be devastating.”

“You’re not worried I’ll start worshipping the Overlord, are you?” she asked with a grin.

Brak could have slapped her for being so flippant. She wasn’t listening at all. “It’s what will happen to these people afterwards, that worries me. If you coerce them into believing Joyhinia wishes to retire in favour of Mahina, then that’s exactly what they’ll do. But tomorrow, or the week after, or a year from now, when you’re not around to suppress their natural feelings, they will begin to wonder why. They’ll know they’ve been tricked. Mahina’s reign is likely to be even shorter than the last time. One dissenting voice will turn into two, which will turn into ten which will turn into an avalanche.”

“I’ve already told you, we’ll send the most likely dissenters away...”

He shook his head in exasperation. “It won’t matter. You have no way of knowing who is susceptible and who isn’t. The ones you think most likely to object may take to the coercion like it was mother’s milk. But there will be others, people you don’t even suspect, for whom the coercion will last less than a day. There will be nearly a thousand Sisters in that Hall, R’shiel. You can’t watch them all.”

“Then we’ll do something to keep them quiet. It only has to last long enough for Mahina to issue the orders sending the rest of the Defenders to the front. She can resign after that and they can hold another election —”

“Do what?” Brak cut in.

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Maybe if they all got sick, or something...”

“You mean you’d create an epidemic just to keep the Sisters occupied?”

“I suppose. Nothing serious, just something that keeps them close to the garderobes for a few days.”

“I see. And when this epidemic spreads to the general population, as it will, what of the young, too weak to fight it? The old, too frail to withstand it? Are you ready to kill innocent people to keep your coercion from falling apart?”

“Then what do you suggest we do? We have to get the rest of the Defenders to the border!”

“Fine. Have Joyhinia issue the order. Have her resign, too, if you must, but the more complex the coercion, the more chance there is of it blowing up in your face.”

“But we need Mahina in charge.”

“Then put her in charge, but let her take control herself. If you impose an artificial control, the results could be catastrophic. Trust her to know what she’s doing. She got caught out once. I don’t think she’ll be so foolish this time.”

“What are you suggesting? That we get through the Gathering and then walk away?”

“Actually, I was thinking of running, not walking. One of the hallmarks of maturity for a Harshini is knowing when not to use your power, R’shiel.”

“I’m not Harshini. Not completely.”

“You’re not completely human, either, but that’s no excuse for acting like an idiot. Consequences, R’shiel. I ask you again. Are you prepared for the consequences?”

She was silent for a moment, considering her answer carefully.

“The consequences of not acting are liable to be worse,” she said finally.

“You don’t know that for certain.”

“No,” she agreed, then she sighed. “Alright, I’ll grant you that letting Mahina establish control in her own right is probably safer than imposing it artificially. But I will have to coerce them into accepting her appointment at the Gathering.”

“And then we leave?”

“I suppose.”

“Good. I’ll be waiting outside the Hall with our horses. It’s too damned dangerous for you here R’shiel.”

“Dangerous? Compared to what? The border, where there’s a war going on?” She smiled wearily at him. “Show me how it’s done, Brak. We’re running out of time.”

Brak silently admitted defeat. He had done all he could to deter her, short of refusing her the knowledge outright. But she had felt it once before, the night before the battle. If he did not instruct her properly, he knew that she would simply try to copy what the Kariens priests had done, and the result might be disastrous.

The irony was, using simple human tactics, she was coercing him into showing her something he thought far too dangerous for her to learn. At least she had agreed to leave, once the deed was done. Brak couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had a feeling of impending danger and it had been growing steadily stronger ever since he had entered the Citadel.

He wished the Citadel was easier to read, easier to understand. He could feel its anxiety and it was making him very nervous.

Chapter 43

Loclon waited until almost sundown before finally accepting that R’shiel and her half-breed companion were not going to appear. Cold, wet and thoroughly disgusted, he made his way to the Blue Bull tavern to meet with Garanus and report his lack of success.

Loclon had thought the tavern an odd choice for a meeting place. It was far too public for his liking, and a Karien priest would stand out like a red-coated Defender in a snowstorm. Garanus had shrugged off his concerns. He had private rooms available, he said, and had paid the tavern keeper well to ensure her silence. Besides, it was Founder’s Day and the Citadel was full of strangers. A few more would barely rate a mention.

The rain had dwindled to a light drizzle about an hour after the First Sister arrived and had completely stopped an hour or so after that. Not wishing to be seen defying Garet Warner’s orders, he had paid an urchin to watch Francil’s Hall, and another to keep an eye on the Main Gate. It had proved a waste of good coin. Nobody even remotely fitting R’shiel’s description had entered the Citadel since the parade. She had either arrived early, or the priest was wrong.

Tavern Street was still crowded when he arrived, the revellers determined to get full value from the public holiday, particularly now the rain had stopped, although the air was bitterly cold and many of the party-goers stood hugging the small fires that lined the street. He pushed through them impatiently into the crowded taproom of the Blue Bull, where he spied Lork standing guard outside the door to one of the private dining rooms. The big man wore an expression that turned away the curious, simply by its ferocity. When he reached the door, Lork barred his way with a low snarl.

“I’m expected,” he said. Lork glared at him for a moment before dropping his thick arm. Loclon opened the door and pushed past him.

He froze in shock as the door snicked shut behind him. He was expecting Mistress Heaner and Garanus to be waiting for him, not five more Karien priests and a tall man with hooded eyes, who by his bearing just had to be a Karien nobleman, despite his unremarkable clothing.

“Ah, Captain,” Garanus said, looking up at the sound of the door closing. “You bring us good news, I trust?”

For a fleeting moment, Loclon wanted to run. This was getting out of hand. His desire to see R’shiel suffer had not included treason. He had been able to convince himself for months that his association with Mistress Heaner was simply a ploy. He had made himself believe that information he passed on was not critical, that he was using them rather than the other way around. Confronted with incontrovertible proof of Karien involvement at the highest level, what was left of his conscience gave a dying cry of protest. He ignored it.

“Your information was wrong. R’shiel was not with the First Sister.”

The Karien Lord glanced at Garanus, frowning. “You claimed you could feel her.”

“I could,” Garanus assured him. He glanced at the other priests, who nodded in agreement. Their tonsured heads and pale skin made it hard to tell one from the other. “We all could. Our captain here may have missed them, but the glamour the demon child and her lackey wove to conceal themselves is like a beacon to those of us who are close to the Overlord. Trust me, Lord Terbolt, she is here.”

Loclon studied Terbolt guardedly. The name meant nothing to him, he had little interest in Karien politics, but he was bound to be a personage of some note. A man whose good will he needed to foster if he was to continue on this path.

“They must have arrived earlier, before the parade.”

Garanus shrugged. “When they arrived is not important. The fact that they are here is all that counts.”

“So what now? I can hardly kill this half-breed if I can’t find him.”

Lord Terbolt nodded in agreement. “Nor can we expose this ungodly Harshini alliance with the Sisterhood, with either of them on the loose. Can’t you use your... powers, or whatever it is that you do, Garanus, to track them down?”

“What Harshini alliance?” Loclon asked, before the priest had a chance to answer.

Lord Terbolt turned to him. “The Sisterhood has been secretly allied with the Harshini for years, Captain. The demon child was raised under their protection. Now they have openly allied with the Hythrun, and the Harshini, whom the Sisterhood claims have been extinct for more than a century, begin to reveal themselves once more. We already have reports of Harshini appearing again in Greenharbour. Before long, they will overrun the entire continent with their insidious heathen gods. We are here to put a stop to it.”

Loclon wasn’t sure that he believed the Karien, but it made sense. Until she had run away with Tarja, R’shiel had been training for the Sisterhood. Her mother was the First Sister. The thought that his career had been destroyed by a Harshini bitch who was secretly working to destroy Medalon burned like acid in his gullet.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I think we should pay a visit to the First Sister,” Terbolt said.

The Sister’s Hall was all but deserted. Every Blue Sister in the Citadel was heading for the Gathering. Getting past the guards was easy. Loclon knew the effect a barked order had on men conditioned to follow their officers without question. He and Gawn had led Lord Terbolt, his priests, and the silent Lork to the main residential wing of the Sister’s Hall quite openly. With their heads covered by hooded cloaks, and their staffs hidden in their folds, the Kariens looked as ordinary as any other visitors to the Citadel.

Gawn’s inclusion was not part of Loclon’s original plan. The captain had appeared on the verandah of the Blue Bull as they were leaving, looking for some entertainment with a willing Probate. Now that he was a widower, he spent a great deal of his off duty hours entertaining willing Probates. They were safer than tavern-keepers’ daughters. As a rule, if you impregnated one, you were not required to marry her.

Gawn’s eyes had widened at the sight of Loclon’s companions, but he was even further along the road of treason than Loclon, these days. He acted as if he really did believe all that nonsense about the Overlord. A thing made easier, no doubt, by the fact that the Overlord had answered his prayers and his slut of a wife lay buried these past few weeks, dead from a fatal dose of heckleweed that she unfortunately mistook for seasoning. Loclon had grabbed his arm and dragged him along, explaining the situation in a low voice as they made their way towards the Sister’s Hall. Gawn had fallen in with them willingly.

The guards at the entrance were easily dealt with. One did not question a captain without very good cause. The men on the upper levels were just as efficiently disposed of. Loclon ordered them downstairs, accusing them of hiding inside the building to escape the cold. The men saluted sharply and hurried outside.

The guards in the hall outside the First Sister’s apartments were a different matter. These were Garet Warner’s men. Loclon could order them about until he turned green without any noticeable effect. He stopped just out of sight on the landing of the broad, carpeted staircase and motioned the Kariens to silence.

“What do you think, Gawn?”

“I think we’re going to have to fight,” the captain replied softly.

“There is no need to fight,” Terbolt informed them in a low voice. “Lork, take care of it.”

Before Loclon could protest, the big man stepped into the hall and walked towards the two Defenders standing either side of the First Sister’s door. The men looked up at his approach, hands on the hilts of their swords as they challenged him. Lork did not answer them. He just kept walking. As soon as he was in reach of the Defenders, who, by this time, had begun to draw their weapons, he grabbed a man with each of his plate-sized hands and smashed their heads together so hard Loclon could hear their skulls cracking. He hurried forward as the men collapsed at Lork’s feet.

“You fool! You’ve killed them!” he hissed.

“They were agents of evil,” Garanus announced as he came up behind them with Lord Terbolt and the other priests. “Their deaths will please the Overlord.”

“Well, they won’t please anyone around here! We have to get the bodies out of sight!”

“We can move them inside,” Terbolt said, turning to face the bronze-sheathed door. “Should we knock?”

Gawn muttered something as the Karien pounded on the door. It was opened a few moments later by Lord Draco, who took in the fallen guards and the tonsured priests with a glance, reaching for his sword with a speed that belied his age. Lord Setenton was prepared, however. He plunged his dagger into Draco’s breast while the older man’s blade was still in its scabbard. The Duke of Setenton shoved him backward into the room. Draco slid off the blade and collapsed on the expensive patterned rug, his red jacket darkening with blood. He cried out an unintelligible warning but there was nobody around to heed it.

Loclon stood frozen in shock, as Lork dragged the bodies of the guards into the room and locked the door behind him. They had killed two Defenders. They had killed the Spear of the First Sister.

He was damned whichever way he looked at it.

“Find the First Sister,” Terbolt ordered. The priests spread out, checking the numerous doors that led off the main hall of the First Sister’s apartments. Loclon stared at Draco who lay groaning softly, hand clutched uselessly over his punctured chest.

“Finish him, Captain,” Terbolt ordered brusquely. “His moaning offends me.”

“But he’s...” Loclon began uncertainly.

“I’ll do it,” Gawn offered, drawing his sword. He walked to where Draco lay dying and barely even hesitated as he plunged the blade into him, over and over again. Draco was long dead before he stopped.

Loclon watched Gawn mutilating Lord Draco and discovered, somewhat to his embarrassment, that rather than repulse him, the smell of the blood was arousing him. He turned away to hide the evidence of his excitement.

“Can’t bear to watch, eh?”

Loclon composed himself before turning back, trying to sound nonchalant. “A bit excessive, don’t you think?”

Gawn shrugged. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Pleased? To watch you hack an old man to death?”

“He’s not just an old man, Loclon. I thought you knew. Lord Draco is Tarja Tenragan’s father.”

Before that startling news had time to register, one of the priests cried out from a room up the hall. They hurried to the door and pushed their way through.

Across the threshold lay the body of a statuesque middle-aged woman, blood pooling beneath the knife wound in her chest. Her dark hair partially covered her face, but could not hide the startled look in her dead eyes. Loclon stepped over the body and stared, open-mouthed at the sight before him.

They had found the First Sister.

She was sitting on the floor, dressed in a simple grey tunic, her long, grey streaked hair undone and hanging limply over her shoulders. In her hands was a tattered rag doll with one eye missing. She was rocking back and forth, humming tunelessly.

Joyhinia Tenragan, the most ruthless First Sister in living memory, the woman who had ordered a Purge that had killed thousands of Medalonians, looked up as they crowded in her room and smiled at them.

“Do you want to play with dolly?” she said.

Chapter 44

Since befriending Dace, Mikel rarely spent a full day among the horses. Whenever Dace appeared, Sergeant Monthay would suddenly turn to Mikel and dismiss him, along with the warning that he did not expect to see him again until dinnertime. Mikel had no idea why Dace had that effect on the Medalonian and finally decided to stop questioning his good fortune. Perhaps it was the Overlord’s way of sparing him a life of forced labour.

Sometimes, Kali would join her brother on their daily jaunts. Every time he saw the barefooted little girl, she would stare at him closely and demand, “Do you love me?”

Mikel thought it the strangest question, and it seemed to annoy Dace too, but he had begun answering yes, simply because Kali would sulk if he answered any other way. An answer in the affirmative left her beaming for the rest of the day. She would hold his hand, and smile at him a lot, and not say blasphemous things about the Overlord, which Mikel found something of a relief.

Dace pouted a lot when Kali was with them, and he argued with her all the time. But he seemed incapable of refusing her anything. If Kali had been his sister, Mikel thought, he would have ordered her to stay at home and expected her to comply. These Medalonians really did lack the proper understanding of the place of a female.

When Dace and Mikel were alone, they spent hours exploring the Medalonian camp. They were never challenged by the Defenders, never asked what they were doing, never in trouble. The followers’ camp was even more interesting. Dace had a knack for smiling at people so charmingly that they never thought to question his right to be there. Mikel had no success trying to emulate his companion’s winning smile. The one time he had tried it on a Defender, hoping to sneak into the Keep to find out how the princess was faring, the Defenders on guard had sent him packing with a blistering reprimand.

Of course, one had to be on their guard around Dace. He was always trying to coax Mikel into stealing things. He did not seem to care what Mikel stole, just that he stole something. Its value was irrelevant, it was the act that mattered. But Mikel had been true to his faith and had not fallen to the dangerous charms of his new friend. If anything, he felt he was a positive influence on the young thief and was certain that he had saved the youth from sinning on more than one occasion.

Today however, Dace had finally suggested they steal something that even Mikel could not resist.

There was, according to Dace, a blue swallow’s nest in the tower of the old keep. The mother swallow must have gotten her seasons mixed up because it was almost winter, and the chicks would die if they hatched at this time of year. Dace’s noble plan was to steal the eggs from the nest and take them somewhere warmer, where they could incubate safely. Once hatched, they could dig up worms for the chicks and nurse them through the bitter weather. By spring, they would be ready to make it on their own and the boys could release them.

Try as he might, Mikel could find no fault with Dace’s plan. Saving the chicks from a freezing death was a good deed, and brave too, when one considered where the nest was located. Although Dace insisted on calling their rescue mission “stealing” he joined in the escapade willingly. His enthusiasm pleased the young thief enormously. He acted almost as happy as his sister Kali, the first time that he had agreed he really did love her.

Strange people, these Medalonians.

“How are we going to get into the Keep?” Mikel demanded as he hurried alongside Dace toward the old fort. Dace had been disturbingly vague on that point. The ground was slushy underfoot from a light snowfall the night before which had turned to mud almost as soon as the sun touched it. Mikel hated this Medalonian weather. He fervently wished it would snow properly, like it did in Yarnarrow or Kirkland, not this half-hearted mucky stuff that fell from the skies every few days with no other purpose than to make everything muddy and damp.

“They change the guard just before sundown,” Dace explained. “We’ll sneak in then.”

Mikel had not been inside Treason Keep since the day he had been interrogated by Tarja and Lord Wolfblade. He tried hard not to think of that day. The memories still hurt too much for him to be able to recall them willingly. Even the Keep’s unofficial name seemed to taunt him.

“But aren’t there guards on the tower?”

“Lord Jenga says it’s too dangerous up there and not worth repairing. The guards stay on the wall-walk. Once we get inside, we’ll be fine.” Mikel could hardly question such a confident assurance, so he trudged alongside the thief and prayed to the Overlord that Dace was right. “Besides,” Dace added cheerily, “It’s Founder’s Day. Lord Jenga declared a holiday. There won’t be many guards on duty.”

“What’s Founder’s Day?”

“It’s when the Medalonians celebrate the day they stole Medalon from the Harshini.” Dace suddenly stopped walking and grinned at Mikel. “Now that was an interesting time, let me tell you! The others were steaming mad. Of course, a theft on that scale made me stronger than Zegarnald for a time, but then the Sisterhood launched their purge and the fighting started and I went back to being just plain old me. It was fun for a while, though.”

“Dace, what are you talking about?”

The thief shrugged. “Nothing. Come on, we’d better hurry. It’s almost sundown and we won’t be able see the nest in the dark.”

Shaking his head, Mikel hurried after Dace. The boy had a habit of wandering off like that. It was very disconcerting.

As Dace predicted, they were not challenged as they passed through the gate into the Keep. The Defenders barely even glanced at them. Mikel followed as he walked boldly across the muddy yard to the dangerously crumbling steps that led to the tower. As they carefully climbed the broken stairs, Mikel understood why Lord Jenga had condemned the tower. The masonry wobbled under even his slight weight.

The sun appeared to be resting on the steep peaks of the Sanctuary Mountains as they reached the top of the tower. It was a blocky, square structure but the merlons had crumbled and in one corner there was nothing but a pile of fallen rubble, almost as tall as Mikel. It was to the pile that Dace led him, squeezing in through the narrow opening between the rubble and the wall. It smelled musty in the tiny cave formed by the ruined masonry, but the mother swallow had picked her location well. The nest was protected from the wind and from the eye of any roving hawk looking for an easy meal.

“See! Five eggs!” Dace declared.

“I can’t see a thing!” he complained. It was so dark inside the little cavern he could only make out Dace from his glittering eyes.

“Look, it’s over...”

“Sshhh!” Mikel froze as the sound of footsteps reached him. He turned slightly, so he could see outside.

It was Princess Adrina. He bit back a cry of surprise as a man joined her on the tower. The Hythrun Warlord’s profile was sharp against the setting sun.

“I trust you have a reason for this perilous expedition?” the princess demanded as she turned to stare out over the plain.

“I thought you might enjoy the view, your Highness.”

Damin Wolfblade really should learn to speak to the princess with more respect.

“It’s lovely. Can we go now?”

“Tell me what you see.”

“I see nothing, and I’m freezing. Is this really necessary?”

“You see nothing,” Damin repeated thoughtfully. “Interesting, don’t you think?”

“You find nothing interesting? Well, that’s hardly surprising for a man of your limited intellect.”

Mikel grinned in the darkness of his hidey-hole. That’s telling him!

“Adrina, a few leagues from here, your husband’s army sits and waits. They do nothing. They don’t attack. They don’t train. They don’t even run away. They just sit there, waiting for something. I want to know what they’re waiting for.”

Adrina turned north, her expression puzzled. Rather than the biting retort Mikel was expecting, she shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Were they planning something, before you left? Something that would account for their willingness to hold an army of that size immobile for so long?”

“I’d tell you if I knew. Their war council did little more than argue, and you’ve already seen their idea of battle. The Dukes of Karien are not renowned for their tactical genius. When you have countless troops to throw into battle it isn’t really necessary.”

Mikel wasn’t sure he believed what he was hearing. They sounded so... friendly.

“Could one of the Dukes have advised him to wait?”

“Lord Roache may have,” Adrina shrugged.

“What did the Duke of Setenton advise?”

“Lord Terbolt? He’s not there. He sent his brother Ciril in his place.”

The warlord frowned. “Terbolt isn’t there? He’s Jasnoff’s most trusted commander. Where is he?”

“I don’t know. Cratyn didn’t seem surprised by his absence, though. Perhaps Jasnoff had other plans for him.”

“What other plans?” Damin asked, the concern in his voice obvious even to Mikel.

“I was permitted to join their war council rather begrudgingly, my Lord. They weren’t in the habit of discussing anything of import while I was present.”

Damin laughed softly. “Not an unwise precaution, in light of recent events.”

Adrina turned on the Warlord. “That remark was uncalled for, my Lord.”

Damin sighed. “That’s right, I forgot. You aren’t committing treason, you just want to be free.”

“Free! Get this damned collar off my neck, then I might remember what the word means!”

As Damin moved closer to her, Mikel wanted to leap to the defence of his princess, but Dace held him back.

“No!” the thief whispered.

Burning with frustration and not at all certain why he remained hidden, Mikel turned back to watch, thinking the Warlord was much too close to the princess to be proper.

Damin was fingering the golden collar Adrina wore with surprisingly gentle fingers. It reflected the setting sun, making the wolf’s ruby eyes glitter malignantly. Adrina’s rigid posture betrayed more than she imagined.

“What would you give to be free, Adrina?” he asked softly.

“Unhand me, sir!”

Damin dropped his hand. “I can see why your marriage was never consummated, your Highness.”

Mikel swallowed a horrified gasp. He knew what “consummated” meant.

Adrina laughed. She sounded genuinely amused. “You don’t like me much, do you? Is that why you take so much pleasure from tormenting me?”

“Ah, now there’s the tragedy, your Highness. If you weren’t such a treacherous, conniving little bitch, I’d probably be quite taken with you.”

Adrina turned away from him, to study the red streaked clouds. The sun was almost completely set. “You presume to know an awful lot about me, considering the short time of our acquaintance, Damin Wolfblade. How much is your own opinion, and how much is hearsay, I wonder?”

“I make my own judgments. I’ve no need to listen to hearsay.”

“I beg to differ, my Lord,” she retorted, turning to face him. “You told Captain Tenragan I tried to kill the High Prince. You weren’t there. How could you possibly know what happened, unless you listened to hearsay?”

“He told you that, did he?”

“Yes, and it’s a damned lie! I did no such thing! Your uncle is a perverted monster, and if those boys would rather die than let him touch them, I don’t blame them!”

“So you did give them the knife?”

“Yes!”

Damin was silent for a moment. “Why did you take the collars?”

“I didn’t take them. Lernen gave them to me. I kept them as a remembrance of two children destroyed by a debauched old man. Somebody owed them that much.”

He took a step back from her. “It’s cold, your Highness, and I know how anxious you are to return indoors. Shall we go?”

Adrina planted her hands on her hips angrily. “That’s it? No apology? No admission that you were wrong? How dare you, sir!”

The Warlord shrugged. “For all I know, you’re lying about that, just as you lie about everything else.”

“I am not lying!”

Damin closed the gap between them with frightening speed. “Then prove it, Adrina. Tell me the truth! Why did you leave Karien?” Although he was looming over her, Adrina held her ground. Mikel watched helplessly, wanting to kill Damin Wolfblade almost as much as he wanted to stay hidden and watch this strange scene unfold.

“I’ve told you a thousand times! I left because Cratyn is a miserable, cowardly, little cretin! The day we were married he hit me and called me a Fardohnyan whore and told me all he wanted was a Karien heir to my father’s throne. It went downhill from there.”

Tears misted Mikel’s eyes to hear such words coming from his princess. She is lying to protect herself, he reasoned anxiously.

She walked to the other side of the small tower and leaned against the crumbling merlons, turning her back to the Warlord. The darkness was settling rapidly, making her features hard to distinguish.

“Was it that bad?” Damin asked, in a surprisingly sympathetic voice.

“Worse than you could possibly imagine. The bastards even killed my dog.”

She’s making it up, Mikel told himself, over and over. She’s making it up.

“Does your father know what it was like?”

“Even if he did, he wouldn’t care. Hablet has his own plans.”

“To invade Hythria, no doubt.” Adrina looked around sharply, but Damin smiled. “Don’t worry, Adrina. I won’t overtax your ability to admit the truth any further, this night. Your father’s worst fault is his predicability. His plans are easy enough to fathom. It’s the Kariens who have me worried at the moment.”

“I told you, I don’t know what they have planned.”

“And oddly enough, I believe you. Come on. The sun has set. If we stay up here much longer they’ll be able to decorate their damned Founder’s Day banquet with a couple of ice statues.”

He held out his hand to help her down and, to Mikel’s disgust, she accepted it. But she halted at the top of the steps and leaned toward him in a most unladylike manner. “Tarja showed me the graves, Damin. That was a noble thing to do for an enemy.”

“Careful, your Highness, you might actually get me believing there’s a heart hidden beneath that rather impressive bosom.”

She snatched her hand from his angrily. “You are an intolerable bastard! I was trying to be gracious!”

“Gracious?” he laughed softly. “That wide-eyed look? Those slightly parted lips? That eloquent sigh? What’s next? ‘Oh Damin, won’t you please let me go’? Gods Adrina! I’ve been around court’esa-trained noblewomen all my life. You’ll have to do better than that.”

“You flatter yourself, my Lord,” Adrina said, her voice colder than the rapidly darkening night. “In the unlikely event I ever turn my skills on you, you won’t even know what hit you, until you lay whimpering at my feet, begging for more!”

“Don’t try playing that game with me, Adrina. You might find the rules a little different this far from Fardohnya.”

“Rules?” she laughed softly, savagely. “In this game, my Lord, there are no rules.”

Adrina vanished from Mikel’s sight as she descended the stairs, followed closely by Damin. Mikel’s breath came out in a rush and he discovered he was trembling. He wished he could make sense of even half of what he had seen and heard. The princess must be very upset to lie about Prince Cratyn like that. What were they doing to her?

“Psst!”

Mikel glanced in the direction of the thief who sat squashed in the dark cavern.

“What?”

“You have to steal the eggs!”

Annoyed, Mikel reached in and snatched the fragile speckled eggs from the nest.

“There! Satisfied?”

Dace nodded, grinning broadly. “You have honoured the God of Thieves.”

“If you say so,” he agreed distractedly. It was a measure of his distress that he did not bother to correct the youth. Normally such a statement received a sharp denial of the existence of any other god.

“Your soul belongs to me now, Mikel,” Dace said, sounding enormously satisfied with himself.

“My soul belongs to the Overlord,” he replied mechanically.

“That’s what you think,” the God of Thieves smirked.

Chapter 45

The Medalonians celebrated Founder’s Day with a degree of abandonment that Adrina considered rather inappropriate for men in the middle of a war. Admittedly, there wasn’t much of a war going on at present, so they might as well take this opportunity to enjoy themselves. Even the Hythrun Raiders joined in as if it were a festival of the gods. They didn’t care much for Founder’s Day, she suspected, but they weren’t going to ignore an excuse for a party. There was precious little else to do. One senseless battle and now Cratyn was sitting on the other side of the border with his vast army doing precisely nothing.

The hall was filled with people, as Jenga had declared an open house and many of the officers whose wives and lovers were in the followers’ camp had brought their women to the party. Someone had managed to find a quantity of blue linen and had made a hopeful attempt to decorate the crumbling walls, but there had not been enough to go around. The decorations had a forlorn, unfinished look. The only source of heat was the abundant torches and the huge fireplace near the far end, but the heat of so many bodies pressed together seemed to take the chill off the air.

There were quite a few court’esa present as well, although Adrina thought the term a rather misguided one, when applied to these ill-bred, uneducated whores, whose only feature in common with real court’esa was their willingness to trade sexual favours for coin. A small band of musicians was playing in the corner, enlisted men mostly, whose skill with an instrument had got them invited to the officers’ party. They weren’t bad either, considering their first calling was killing people and musicianship was merely a secondary talent.

With his hand on her elbow, Damin guided Adrina through the crush towards Lord Jenga, who stood by the stairs that led up to her quarters, talking to Tarja Tenragan.

Adrina studied him curiously. She had never been able to crack that calm certitude, even when he admitted to killing her brother. And it was not for lack of trying. The captain showed no interest in her – or any other woman present, she noted, slightly mollified. Perhaps Damin was right. Perhaps there was nothing any woman here could offer him that compared with what he already had.

“I’m so glad you could join us, your Highness,” Lord Jenga said as they approached.

“I wasn’t aware that I was given a choice in the matter, my Lord. Good evening, Captain.”

“Your Highness. Damin.”

“I thought you’d be taking part in the festivities, Captain. I’m sure there are any number of young ladies here who would be delighted to keep you company.”

Tarja shook his head with a faint smile. “I’m sure there are, your Highness, if I was willing to spend the coin and didn’t mind what diseases I caught. May I get you some wine?”

“Thank you,” Adrina replied, a little startled by his blunt answer.

Damin caught her look and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “You deserved that.”

She glared at him for a moment then turned to Lord Jenga. “So what is this party in honour of, my Lord?”

“Founder’s Day, your Highness. It’s the day we celebrate the foundation of the Sisterhood’s rule over Medalon.”

“And you find that worthy of celebration?”

“It’s tradition, your Highness,” Jenga replied. “I’m sure you have many such traditions in Fardohnya.”

“Of course, my Lord. I apologise if you took offence.”

“Don’t listen to her, Jenga,” Damin warned. “She’s not in the least bit sorry.” He ignored the look Adrina gave him, and gave her no chance to defend herself. “Her Serene Highness did tell me something though, that she’s conveniently neglected to mention until now. The Duke of Setenton isn’t with Cratyn.”

Jenga’s weathered brow furrowed. “That would explain their tactical stupidity. Is he out of favour with Jasnoff?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Adrina told him.

“Why did you wait until now to tell us?”

“I didn’t realise you would consider it so important, my Lord.”

“Tell us what?” Tarja asked, returning with a cup of wine for both Damin and Adrina. She took the tankard and swallowed the wine with a gulp. How was she supposed to know Lord Terbolt’s absence was such a big issue?

“The Duke of Setenton isn’t in the Karien war camp.”

“Then where is he?”

“That’s a question I’d like answered,” Damin replied, looking pointedly at Adrina.

“I told you! I don’t where he is.”

“You’ve told us a great deal, your Highness, half of which is probably outright lies, and the rest of which is doubtful.”

“If we were in Fardohnya, sir, you would be put to death for insulting me so.”

“If we were in Hythria, your Highness, you’d have been flogged for being —”

“Damin!” Tarja warned.

Fortunately, the Warlord didn’t finish the threat. Adrina smiled at Tarja gratefully, but it was time to escape the company of such an intolerable man.

“Do you dance, Captain?”

“Only when I can’t avoid it,” Tarja replied with a grimace.

“Consider this one of those times. I feel the need for some entertainment and I find the company in this part of the hall quite dull.”

Much to her annoyance, Damin laughed aloud at her comment. She thrust her wine cup at Lord Jenga and all but dragged Tarja to the centre of the Hall where a lively jig was in progress. She had no idea of the steps involved, and did not particularly care. She took her place in the line and followed the steps of the girl beside her, a young thing of about sixteen with a pretty face that was ruined by a missing tooth she displayed when she smiled. The dance was fairly simple and repetitive so it didn’t take long before she got the hang of it. She glanced across the hall and saw Damin watching her. She quite deliberately turned her head away and smiled winningly at Tarja.

“You don’t have to keep looking at him,” Tarja told her when the dance brought them together for a turn.

“Looking at whom?” she asked, feigning innocence.

“You know who I mean. Are you trying to make him jealous?”

“Don’t be absurd! That would imply I care what he thinks.”

“And you don’t, of course.”

“Of course not.”

They parted then and broke into two lines, men on the right, women on the left. The steps changed and Adrina found herself having to follow the toothless peasant girl for a time. When she looked up, she couldn’t see the Warlord, but she could feel his eyes on her. The dance took her back to her partner and she found herself confronting Tarja’s infuriatingly calm expression.

Was he really immune to her charms, she wondered? Is R’shiel so enticing that even when she is hundreds of leagues away, he can resist what is right under his nose?

The lines of dancers moved together. When Tarja took her in his arms for the next part she leaned into him and smiled, meeting his eyes with an open invitation. There weren’t many men who could deny her when she chose to be irresistible. Cratyn and Damin Wolfblade being rather notable exceptions, she recalled sourly.

Tarja’s reaction was not at all what she expected. His expression grew serious. “Damin wasn’t kidding when he said you were dangerous, was he?”

“Do you think I’m dangerous?” she teased.

“I think you’re a spoilt brat, actually,” he replied pleasantly. “I think that’s why you really left your husband. You’re so used to getting your own way that you ran away, rather than be denied.”

“And what would you know about it?”

“I’m something of an expert on spoilt brats, your Highness. R’shiel is fairly famous for it in some circles.”

Adrina’s anger evaporated in the face of such a startling admission. She had never heard Tarja speak of R’shiel before. She was more curious about the demon child than she cared to admit.

“Is she very beautiful?”

“Very.”

“More beautiful than me?”

Tarja laughed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to say yes, but I’m hardly what you’d call objective. Damin could probably give you a more accurate answer.”

“Thank you, but I’d rather not ask him anything. Tell me more about R’shiel. Is she truly the demon child?”

“So the Harshini claim.”

“Don’t you believe them?”

“I’m an atheist. I’m supposed to devote my life to eradicating the Harshini.”

“Yet you have a Harshini lover? A curious way of carrying out your orders, Captain.”

“I have a talent for complicating my life far more than is necessary, your Highness. And you are a complication I don’t want or need, so quit rubbing up against me like that, or I’ll end up doing something we’ll both regret, and when R’shiel gets back she’ll turn you into a toad and me into something that looks like a smudge on the road.”

Adrina smiled. “I like you, Captain. I’ve even forgiven you. Is the demon child really so fearsome?”

“No, just very certain about her territorial boundaries.”

“And I’m crossing them?”

“You’re getting close.”

Adrina stepped back a little, her ego somewhat appeased. She had been beginning to wonder if she was losing her touch. The dance ended with a round of applause and Tarja led her back to the stairs. The Lord Defender had moved on and was talking to the officer who had charge of the horses. The musicians struck up another tune and the hall echoed to the stamping feet of the dancers. Damin was sitting on the stairs sipping his wine. He did not bother to rise as she approached. His manners were appalling.

“I see her Highness dances with the same flair she spins fanciful stories,” Damin remarked. “You survived, Tarja. I’m proud of you.”

“Only just,” Tarja admitted with a smile. “Your Highness, it’s been a pleasure, but I have duties to attend to. I’m sure Lord Wolfblade would be delighted to keep you entertained.” He bowed and walked away, leaving her standing there. His abrupt departure left her speechless.

“Don’t worry Adrina, you didn’t drive him off. He’s waiting for a bird from the Citadel. Tonight is more important to the Medalonians than you know.”

She turned to Damin curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Tonight is their annual Gathering at the Citadel. R’shiel is planning to make some changes in the Sisterhood and Tarja’s very nervous about it. Here, have a seat and drink up. I’m sure you’ll find me much more agreeable company if you’re drunk.”

Adrina accepted the cup and sat beside him on the stairs, drinking her wine thoughtfully. It was a surprisingly strong blend. “He told me about R’shiel.”

“I’m not surprised. You weren’t being very subtle, you know. I was half expecting you to start tearing his jacket off, right there on the dance floor.”

“Do you always have to be so crude?”

“I’m being suitable to the occasion, your Highness. If you act like a whore, you shouldn’t be surprised when you get treated like one.”

Adrina had taken just about all she intended to from this barbarian. He had done nothing but taunt her and torment her. It was time to put him in his place. Time to wipe that superior smirk off his face.

“You’re jealous.”

“Of you? Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Of course, you are,” she laughed. “I’ve misjudged you badly, my Lord. All this time I thought you were a degenerate pervert like your uncle, when in fact, you fancy yourself Kalianah’s gift to women. You don’t even like me, yet you can’t bear the thought that I might find Tarja attractive. How pathetic!”

“Your attempts to sleep your way to freedom are far more pathetic than anything I can come up with, Adrina.”

“If I’d been trying to ‘sleep my way to freedom’, as you so crudely put it, I would have been out of here weeks ago,” she assured him confidently.

“You’re that good, are you?”

She finished the wine in a swallow, surprised at how potent it was. She had heard that the drier the climate the stronger the wine, but she hadn’t realised until now the difference between the sweet blends of Fardohnya and the hardy Medalonian vintages.

“Well, that’s something you’re never likely to find out, is it?”

Damin refilled her cup from a jug he had on the step by his feet. “Ah, now that would imply that I would want to find out, Adrina. Thank you, but I prefer to sleep with women who aren’t likely to try slipping a knife between my ribs.”

“I imagine that’s all you can do, Damin. Sleep with women.” She downed the wine recklessly. She was enjoying this. To the Seven Hells with being nice.

“This from the woman who couldn’t even coax a virgin boy into her bed,” he said. “I wonder what Cratyn’s doing at the moment? Praying to the Overlord for the return of his beloved wife, or thanking him for getting rid of her?”

“You’re a pig, Damin Wolfblade!” She stood up – far too quickly, she discovered with alarm – and gripped the rough stone wall. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to your drunken insults any longer.”

“Giving in so easily, your Highness? You disappoint me. I thought you’d be good for another hour at least.”

“You’re drunk!” she accused, turning to climb the stairs to her room. She misjudged them and stumbled, but Damin caught her before she fell.

“Actually, I’m disappointingly sober,” he corrected. “You, on the other hand, are well and truly under the weather. How much did you have?”

“Let me go!” she demanded, shaking free of him. “I am not drunk. I had two cups, that’s all.”

“They weren’t cups, they were tankards, and the wine you’re used to is like mother’s milk compared to this Medalonian stuff. Come on, let’s get you upstairs before you really do something to embarrass yourself.”

“Take your hands off me!” she hissed. Gripping the wall, Adrina took the steps carefully, grateful, but not willing to admit it, that Damin was behind her. Her head was starting to spin alarmingly.

By the time they reached the door to her room, Adrina felt a little better. She took a deep breath and turned to Damin, feeling almost gracious enough to thank him for his assistance. Until she saw the smirk on his face.

“You’re insufferable! How dare you laugh at me!”

“You really should learn not to take yourself so seriously. You’d be much more bearable, if you did.”

“I’ve no interest in making myself bearable to suit you.”

“I doubt you could even if you tried, Adrina.”

A small part of Adrina – that part that was still reasonably sober – warned her to let the comment go. But for some reason, she felt compelled to rise to the challenge. She was sick to death of this man.

“I’ve told you before. In the unlikely event I ever decide to entertain myself with you, Damin Wolfblade, you won’t know what’s hit you.”

“So you keep telling me. You’re not quite game to put it to the test, though, are you?”

“You think I couldn’t?”

“I think you’re afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of anyone, least of all you!”

“Brave words from a cheap drunk. Go to bed, Adrina.”

She laughed softly. “You’re afraid of me, that’s the truth of it. You even warned Tarja that I’m dangerous.”

“He told you that?”

“Yes.”

“He really does have a bad habit of repeating the most inconvenient things, doesn’t he?” He reached across and opened the door to her chamber. “Goodnight, Adrina.”

“I’m right, aren’t I? You’re afraid of me.” Adrina wasn’t sure why she was being so insistent. It just seemed that the world would be a much better place if Damin Wolfblade admitted that he feared her. Even a little bit.

“Terrified,” he agreed, as if he were speaking to a small child. “Now go to bed.”

“You’re just saying that to get rid of me.”

“You noticed? Maybe you’re not as drunk as I thought.”

“I know why you’re afraid.”

“Why?”

“Because of this,” she said, and then she kissed him.

Adrina had intended to bestow one blazing, breathtaking kiss on him and leave him gasping for more. He would never get any more, of course, but that was the whole point. Let him have a taste of the forbidden fruit and then deny him the sweetness forever more.

But she didn’t count on Damin’s reaction. She didn’t count on him kissing her back. Didn’t count on finding herself pushed against the wall with strong arms holding hers pinned against her body while her pulse pounded in her ears, blocking out all other sensations. Adrina had kissed plenty of men before, but no court’esa in her service would have dared such unbridled lust. Her grand plan evaporated in a heartbeat. For a fleeting, dangerous moment, she gave herself up to the sheer, unexpected pleasure of it.

“Your Highness?”

Tamylan’s startled greeting brought her back to her senses and she pushed Damin away with a shove, gasping for air. Her slave stood in the open doorway to her chamber, her expression a mixture of astonishment and horror.

“Are you alright, my Lady?” she asked with concern, glaring at Damin.

“I’m fine Tam. Go back to bed. I’ll be in shortly.”

The slave nodded warily and moved away from the door. Only then did Adrina feel composed enough to meet Damin’s eye.

“I think I’ve proved my point, don’t you?”

Damin’s expression was far too smug. “You think so?”

“I hope you enjoyed it, my Lord. You’ll never receive another. From now on, you’ll just have to dream about what you’re missing.”

Adrina still had enough of her wits about her not to wait for his answer. She turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her with a resounding, and most satisfactory, thump.

“What are you playing at, Adrina?” Tamylan demanded as soon as the door banged shut. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

“You forget your place, Tamylan.”

“So have you, your Highness,” the slave retorted. “Have you forgotten where we are? Who he is? What he is?”

“Be silent!”

Tamylan shook her head in disgust and left the rest of it unsaid.

Chapter 46

For the second time in her life, R’shiel entered the Great Hall to attend the annual Gathering of the Sisters of the Blade, although on this occasion she did not have to scale the outside of the building in the rain.

This time she walked through the main doors quite brazenly, concealed by a glamour that made her unnoticeable. She broke from the crowd at the entrance and made her way to the narrow stairs leading to the gallery. Once she had climbed the stairs, she walked along the gallery to almost the exact spot from which she had watched the Gathering two years ago with Davydd Tailorson. It was odd, and a little disconcerting that she could barely remember his face. Davydd had died trying to help her and Tarja escape the Citadel. He deserved to be remembered more clearly.

R’shiel watched the Hall filling with blue-robed sisters, fidgeting nervously. She wanted to call Dranymire, to ensure the demon knew what was expected of him and his brethren, but she could not risk them being noticed before she took control of the Gathering. She wanted to know where Mahina was. She wanted to get a message to Affiana, concerned that the woman had not been at the pre-arranged meeting place. It could simply be that she had not waited around. R’shiel and Brak had been late arriving at the tavern. R’shiel was worried. Affiana had not even left a message for them.

She leaned on the balustrade, watching the growing crowd. Garet Warner, the ranking officer in the Citadel, stood off to the left of the dais with two other officers, where Lord Jenga and Tarja had stood the night Joyhinia had been appointed First Sister. She wished she could tell what he was thinking. Wished she knew how far he could be trusted.

R’shiel also wished Brak had come with her, but he had insisted he wait outside with the horses, ready for a quick departure. He wanted her away from this place with a determination that bordered on obsession. Brak was a hard man to read. The only thing R’shiel was certain of was that he would stay by her, regardless of how he felt about what she was doing. She wasn’t even sure that Brak liked her very much, but he took his responsibilities seriously. He had killed the Harshini King to ensure her survival. To desert her now would make that act meaningless.

The doors closing with a hollow boom signalled the start of the meeting and every eye turned forward as the white-robed members of the Quorum filed on to the dais from the door at the back of the Hall. Traditionally, the First Sister entered last, a custom R’shiel was extremely grateful for. She sent out a mental call for Dranymire. The demon responded instantly, popping into existence beside her, his too-large eyes glittering in the gloom.

Are you ready?

May the gods be with us, Dranymire responded before he disappeared again.

“Be careful,” she whispered to the vanished demon.

She turned her attention to the dais, as Francil began reciting the ritual thanksgiving to the Founding Sisters. On the edge of her awareness, she could feel the demons forming the meld that would be Joyhinia. She pushed aside the distraction and reached inside herself, feeling the glow of the Harshini magic that nestled in her mind. She drew on the power carefully, as Brak had shown her, and formed the thoughts she wanted to impose on the Gathering although she held back releasing them. Her eyes darkened until they turned completely black, the whites of her eyes consumed by the power she gathered to her. As Francil’s dry voice finished the litany, the door leading from the small anteroom opened and the demon meld stepped onto the dais.

Dranymire and his brethren had done an impressive job. The Joyhinia they had formed was a little too tall perhaps, and her eyes had never been quite that shade of blue, but one would be hard pressed to tell her from the genuine article. Joyhinia stepped up to take her place with a commanding air, nodding in acknowledgment to the Quorum before turning to face the Gathering. It was against protocol, R’shiel knew, but she did not want to risk the meld for a moment longer than she had to. Joyhinia would stand up, make her announcement and then leave. R’shiel could not pick out Mahina among the sea of blue-robed sisters, but she trusted the old woman to be in place.

She held back the coercion with difficulty. The power, once tapped, did not like to be restrained. Sweat beaded her forehead and her eyes burned as she gripped the balustrade. Unconsciously, R’shiel mouthed the words of Joyhinia’s rehearsed speech, as the demon meld addressed the crowd.

“Sisters! It is good to be back among you, in these trying times.” The voice was too low, almost masculine, but it was so long since any of the sisters had heard Joyhinia speak, R’shiel doubted anybody would notice. “I have been on our northern border, supervising our efforts to repel the insolent Karien invasion of our sovereign nation.” The Gathering was silent as they listened to the First Sister, more curious than concerned. “Medalon will be safe in the hands of the Defenders and we must press all our efforts in that direction.”

“From what I hear, it was a Defender who got us into this mess!” a voice called from the back of the Hall.

R’shiel grimaced. She had not coached Dranymire to trade taunts with hecklers. The coercion laboured to be released. Her knuckles were white with the effort of holding it in. Dranymire ignored the comment and carried on, oddly enough, making the meld seem more like Joyhinia than ever.

“The single most important issue facing Medalon is our survival. Everything else is insignificant in comparison to this. Personal ambition, feelings and prejudices must be put aside.” That actually drew a spattering of applause. There were many Sisters who were more concerned with their duties than their careers. Having grown up in Joyhinia’s shadow, R’shiel had to occasionally remind herself of that.

Joyhinia waited a moment before she continued. R’shiel fervently hoped it was Dranymire pausing for dramatic effect, not fighting for control over the meld.

“To this end, I plan to step down from the position of First Sister and nominate the woman who I believe is the only one among us strong enough to see us through this: Mahina Cortanen.”

Pandemonium erupted in the Hall at Joyhinia’s announcement. R’shiel let go of the coercion, almost gagging as it descended on the Hall, forcing down the opposition like a wet blanket thrown on a fire.

R’shiel had known it would be uncomfortable, she remembered the feeling on the border when the Karien priests had coerced their troops, but she was not prepared for the wave of debilitating nausea that washed over her. Her knees buckled as she forced the women below to accept what they could not accept, to believe the unbelievable. She gritted her teeth, waiting for Mahina to step forward to accept the mantle of First Sister. The crowd settled as their thoughts were turned from rebellion to compliance, but there was no sign of the old woman. Joyhinia looked up toward the gallery uncertainly.

“I call forth Mahina Cortanen!”

Where is she? R’shiel forcibly held back the suspicions of the crowd, fighting the sickening feeling with all her strength. A movement at the back of the crowd caught her attention and she spied Mahina moving towards the dais with relief. It would be over soon. It was almost done.

Mahina finally stepped up to the platform and turned to face the Gathering. R’shiel could not imagine what she was thinking. As First Sister she was sworn to destroy all vestiges of Harshini magic, yet her appointment this night could not happen without it. She faced the Gathering with an unreadable expression as R’shiel forced the thousand or more Sisters present to accept her reinstatement.

“Do you accept my nomination?” Joyhinia asked.

“Yes!” came the unanimous, if somewhat muted reply. R’shiel needed them to agree. She did not have the skill to inspire them with enthusiasm.

“Then I declare Mahina Cortanen First Sister!”

There was no accompanying cheer, barely a murmur, in fact. Mahina did not wait for the customary accolades, in any case. The demon meld wobbled for an instant and R’shiel knew they could not hold it together much longer.

“Commandant, as the ranking officer of the Defenders in the Citadel, will you take the oath on behalf of the Lord Defender?”

“I will, your Grace,” Garet replied, stepping forward into the small clearing at the foot of the dais.

R’shiel fought off the crippling nausea as Garet drew his sword and laid it at the feet of the new First Sister. Not much longer, she told herself, understanding now why Brak had insisted she work the coercion and then leave immediately. She wanted to vomit and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could stay on her feet.

Garet knelt on one knee and began the oath in a voice that rang clearly through the Hall. A commotion at the edge of the crowd distracted R’shiel for a moment, but she ignored it. It was almost over. The demon meld shimmered but Dranymire managed to hold his brethren together. As soon as the Defenders were sworn to Mahina, Joyhinia could leave. It didn’t matter if the meld disintegrated the moment they were out of sight. The important thing was to prevent it falling into a puddle of little grey demons in full sight of the Gathering. R’shiel was coercing the Sisters into accepting Mahina’s appointment. If she were forced to cover for the demons, she would have to let that thought go. Even if she had the skill to perform such a task, she doubted she had the strength left.

R’shiel’s black eyes watered with the effort of forcing down the natural opposition of the Sisters in the Hall to this blatant breach of protocol. It was like trying to hold a surging ocean back with nothing more than a fishing net. As Brak had warned, for some the coercion settled on them with barely a flicker of protest, while other minds rebelled against the thoughts she imposed on them. That opposition surged up like a stormy sea. No sooner had she quieted one mind than another screamed in protest. The mental strength it took surprised her. Physically, she was on the point of exhaustion.

It seemed to take Garet forever to complete the oath. Time slowed as her vision narrowed to a pinpoint, fixed on the dais. It was all she could see, all she cared about. As the power consumed her, every sense not immediately involved in holding the coercion together seemed to shut down. She could no longer feel her fingers gripping the balustrade. She could no longer hear anything. The odour of damp wool cloaks that had permeated the Hall faded into nothing. She was isolated in a bubble of total concentration that allowed no room for any distraction.

“Stop this abomination! You are being deceived!”

The voice rang out from the back of the Hall, a male voice that startled the Sisters with its harsh Karien accent. R’shiel felt the Sisters’resistance to the coercion surge in response to the sudden cry and it slipped from her grasp. At almost the same instant, Dranymire lost control of the meld.

Screams filled the Hall as Joyhinia fell apart, leaving nothing but a writhing mass of wrinkled grey gnomes who blinked out of existence as soon as they realised they were exposed. All except one. The little demon who had attached herself to R’shiel in Sanctuary who sought warmth in her bed cowered behind the lectern on the podium, unseen by the humans surrounding her, trembling with fear.

R’shiel did not see the demon. She had no idea what was happening. She collapsed against the balustrade and brought up everything she had eaten for the past week. Her eyes watered so hard she could not see, could not find the source of the pounding feet on the narrow stairs that led to the gallery. She wiped her mouth and glanced up, barely had time to notice the tonsured man standing over her as a jewelled staff landed on her shoulder, tearing a scream of unbearable agony from her.

She quivered on the gallery floor as rough hands held her down and something cold and hard was snapped around her neck. As soon as the clasp snicked shut, R’shiel felt the last remnants of the Harshini power vanish, as if a door had been slammed shut on it.

Dazed and barely able to walk, she was dragged to her feet, pushed down the winding stairs, then half pulled, half carried to the front of the Hall. The men holding her threw her to the floor. Simply letting her go would have had the same effect. Her head cracked against the bottom step, but she barely noticed the pain or the blood that spurted from her forehead. She pushed herself up onto her elbows and wiped her eyes.

More screams filled the hall as the little demon spied R’shiel and flew at her, chitterring in terror. She wrapped her arms around R’shiel’s neck. As soon as the demon came in contact with the collar, she squealed with pain and fell to the floor, quivering, temporarily robbed of every vestige of power, too stunned to disappear and save herself. R’shiel tried to catch the creature but she was pushed away roughly. One of the priests pinned the demon to the floor with his staff.

R’shiel cried out in protest as the little demon squealed in agony. Someone knocked her down. By the time she had pushed herself up again, the demon was being hurried from the hall by two of the Karien priests. She looked up then and caught sight of the First Sister.

Joyhinia looked down at her. The real Joyhinia. Savage intelligence burned in eyes that should have been filled with childish innocence. She smiled with malicious glee, then held her arms wide to address the Gathering.

“What has happened here is sorcery, my Sisters! Only with the help of Lord Terbolt and the Karien priests have I been able to expose this treachery. I have not resigned. I do not surrender my position to any woman.” She spared Mahina a glance, then turned to Garet Warner. “Arrest the usurper!”

Garet did not even hesitate. Mahina was being led away before she could protest – before anyone could protest. The Commandant had changed sides without a whimper. Angrily, R’shiel forced herself to concentrate and reach for her power, but all she got in return for her trouble was a vicious burning sensation around her neck that wrenched an agonised cry from her lips.

Joyhinia glanced down at R’shiel. She was gloating. Her eyes were filled with vengeance waiting to be sated. The aura that surrounded her was black streaked and tantalisingly familiar. She held her arms wide again and addressed the Gathering.

“Behold, Sisters! Let me present the author of this treasonous plot. I give you the reason for the Purge. I give you the result of relaxing our vigilance. I give you a Harshini sorcerer! I give you the fabled demon child!”

Chapter 47

Consciousness returned slowly. It crept up on her like a thief in the night, so slowly that it took time for her to realise she was awake. It took even longer for her to realise where she was.

R’shiel lay on the floor, her head throbbing from the shallow cut she received when she had hit the marble steps leading to the dais. Cold morning light from the highset windows chequered the expensive rug where she lay. Her neck ached as if it had been burned; the icy collar that circled her throat a grim reminder of the foolishness of trying to reach for her power. Her mouth tasted like the floor of a pigsty. Her hands were tied behind her back, the ropes so tight that her fingers were numb. She was in a bedchamber, rather than a cell, but she could not recall how she got there. Her last clear memory was Joyhinia staring at her with savage, lucid eyes as she destroyed everything R’shiel had been working toward.

“You’re awake, I see.”

R’shiel turned her head in the direction of the voice. The man who spoke was a Karien.

“Can I have some water?” she croaked.

The Karien nodded and R’shiel felt other hands pulling her up into a sitting position. A cool tankard touched her lips and she swallowed the water gratefully. The man who held her head was Karien too, with the tonsured head and fanatical expression of a priest. Fear stabbed at her like a knife. She had been the victim of a Karien priest before. It was not an experience she wished to repeat.

“You failed in your attempt to subvert the Sisterhood. You realise that, don’t you?”

“Who are you?”

“I am Lord Terbolt, the Duke of Setenton, Personal Envoy of King Jasnoff III and the anointed representative of Xaphista the Overlord.”

“Is that supposed to impress me?” she said, pushing away the tankard. Too late now to wonder if it had been drugged.

The Karien frowned. “You would do well to show some respect, demon child. I can have you put to death with a word.”

R’shiel stared at him, trying to gather her wits. She ignored the pain with an effort. Now was not the time to give into something so distracting. “I’d be dead already if you were planning to kill me.”

Lord Setenton nodded slowly, as if reluctant to admit the truth of her statement. “You live because the Overlord wishes it, demon child. He is liable to change his mind quite rapidly, should you fail to do as you are told.”

“Then kill me now,” she suggested. “I’d rather die than do anything Xaphista demanded of me.”

The Karien frowned at her blasphemy. The priest actually gasped.

“No, Garanus!” Terbolt ordered. He was standing behind her, so R’shiel could not see what the priest intended.

“She blasphemes, my Lord!”

“She doesn’t know any better.”

“But, my Lord...”

“No Garanus, his Majesty was quite specific. She is not to be harmed. The Overlord has plans for the demon child.”

R’shiel struggled to sit up and glared at the Karien. “Look, I don’t know where you got the idea that I’m the demon child, but you’re gloating over the wrong catch. The Harshini are extinct. I am human.”

“You are a liar,” Garanus countered.

“Let her be, Garanus. Her denials are meaningless. Go find Gawn and see if there is any word on the half-breed.”

So they hadn’t caught Brak. The news gave her hope. The priest followed the Duke’s orders with some reluctance, closing the door behind him. As soon as he was gone, Lord Terbolt rose from his chair and crossed the room. He untied the ropes holding her then helped her to her feet. R’shiel winced as the blood returned to her numb fingers.

“Thank you.”

“I am not a vicious man, R’shiel. I have no wish to see you harmed. I have orders to deliver you to King Jasnoff in one piece. I would appreciate it if you gave Garanus and his ilk no reason to harm you.”

“You mean, if I cooperate, I’ll be safe until you hand me over to Xaphista so he can kill me himself? What a tempting offer.”

“As I understand it, the Overlord wants your cooperation, not your death, demon child. I believe he seeks an alliance, not your destruction.”

“An alliance? With me? Now I really have heard everything.”

Before Terbolt could answer, the door opened and R’shiel felt the room sway momentarily as Joyhinia stepped into the room. It was impossible, she knew, for Joyhinia to have regained her wits. Dacendaran had stolen them and Tarja had destroyed them. How could she be standing there? So sure of herself? So obviously aware?

“Did you want something, Captain?” the Duke asked, addressing the First Sister with ill-disguised impatience.

R’shiel stared at him in confusion. Captain?

“Garanus wishes to speak with you, my Lord. In private.” Joyhinia turned her frighteningly lucid eyes on R’shiel and smiled unpleasantly. “I’ll watch the prisoner for you.”

“She is not to be harmed,” the Duke warned.

“As you wish.”

Joyhinia closed the door behind the Duke then leaned against it, studying R’shiel with contempt.

“Your sorcerer’s tricks didn’t help you much this time, did they?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yes you do! You may have fooled everyone else, but these Kariens know what you are. And I’ve seen your evil first hand. Only this time Tarja’s not around to save you, is he?”

It slowly dawned on R’shiel that this was not Joyhinia. The body was hers, certainly, but the words were not. She knew the aura surrounding Joyhinia, and this did not belong to her foster-mother. Neither did the memories. Joyhinia had never seen her use anything remotely resembling magic. Nobody in Medalon had, with the exception of her friends still on the northern border and the Fardohnyan crew of the Maera’s Daughter. The only other person was...

“Loclon!”

The name evoked a flood of memories she had thought long forgotten. Nightmares she hoped she would never revisit suddenly threatened to overwhelm her. R’shiel’s mouth went dry and she took an involuntary step backwards, wishing Korandellan had never removed the block on her emotions. For a brief, sickening moment the pain, the humiliation she had suffered in this man’s hands tried to swamp her. She fought a wave of nausea as bad as the one that had almost crippled her when she tried to coerce the Gathering.

“In the flesh,” Joyhinia agreed. “Well, in the First Sister’s flesh actually. Ironic, don’t you think?”

“How?” she managed to ask, her head reeling from the implications of such a dreadful combination.

Joyhinia shrugged. “I’m not sure how. The priests did it. They called on their Overlord, or something. I wasn’t too thrilled to begin with, until it occurred to me what I could do as First Sister. By the look on your face, I’d say it’s occurred to you, too.”

Actually, R’shiel was still struggling to come to grips with the dreadful spectre of the man she loathed and feared most in this world controlling the body of the woman she hated almost as much. Her mind had not had time to deal with the wider implications of all that sadistic megalomania trapped inside the woman who ruled Medalon.

“You won’t get away with this, Loclon. You can’t make people believe you’re the First Sister.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, demon child. I am the First Sister.”

“Where’s Mahina?”

“The usurper? Safely under lock and key. She’ll be tried and hanged for treason, along with the Lord Defender and Tarja, when I get my hands on them. I may even keep you alive long enough to watch them swing.”

“You’ve no say over what happens to me, you deluded fool. You’re a Karien puppet. You’re dancing to their tune.”

“Only while it suits me.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” she warned. “They’ll only keep you alive long enough to do what they want. And you won’t be able to deny them. Where’s your own body, Loclon? Somewhere safe? Being tended by Karien priests? Did they promise to watch over you while your mind inhabits Joyhinia’s body? How long do you think you’ll last if they slit your unresisting throat?” R’shiel had no idea if her prediction was accurate, but Loclon didn’t know that.

Joyhinia’s face paled a little, small satisfaction though it was. It was obvious the Kariens had not explained much about the mechanics of transferring his mind into Joyhinia’s body. That could work in her favour. Loclon was many things, but first and foremost, he was a coward.

“You console yourself anyway you want, R’shiel,” the First Sister retorted. “Just remember, I’m the one in control now.”

R’shiel had to keep reminding herself that this was Loclon, not Joyhinia, and that she needed to deal with him, not her. “You’re not in control of anything, Loclon, least of all me. I don’t care whose face you wear, you’re still nothing but a craven, petty, insignificant, little man. The only difference is that now you’re wearing a skirt.”

Loclon took a step toward her, reacting as he always did to her taunts. R’shiel tentatively reached inside herself and tried to touch her power, but even that delicate probe caused the collar to burn. She understood why the Duke had untied her, why Loclon did not fear her. They had cut her off from the source of the Harshini magic.

“I intend to make you suffer until you beg for mercy!” Joyhinia’s voice hissed, but it was Loclon’s vengeful mind that supplied the words.

“You’ll be doing nothing of the sort,” the Duke of Setenton corrected.

Joyhinia spun around in annoyance to find the Karien standing by the open door wearing a look of intense displeasure.

“R’shiel is a wanted criminal, my Lord. She belongs to Medalon.”

“She belongs to the Overlord, Captain, and if I see any evidence that you intend to interfere with the Overlord’s wishes, you may find the penalty life-threatening. Your usefulness is limited. There are other, more cooperative minds who could serve our needs just as easily.”

Loclon’s eyes burned with anger in Joyhinia’s face. She strode from the room, pushing past Setenton. The duke watched her leave and then turned to R’shiel.

“You will be confined here until we leave. There are a number of things that need to be taken care of first. But we should be able to leave in a few days. If all goes well, we should be in Karien by the end of the month.”

“Then you plan to travel overland? A bit risky, don’t you think, in the middle of a war?”

Lord Setenton smiled coldly. “War? What war? Of course, you left the Gathering early, didn’t you? Your nation is no longer at war with Karien, my dear. The First Sister has already dispatched the order to your forces on the border. Medalon has surrendered.”

Chapter 48

“Surrender?” Damin leapt forward and snatched the note from Tarja’s hand. “The hell we will! This is a trick!”

Tarja looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept for days. “The note carries the correct authentication seal from the Citadel. It’s genuine.”

“Who sent it?”

“The First Sister,” Jenga told him grimly.

“But which First Sister?”

“Mahina would not betray us,” the Lord Defender objected.

“Well, somebody did! Probably your precious Garet Warner. I told you he wasn’t to be trusted.”

Tarja sagged against the edge of the long table near the hearth. “You’re both missing the point here. This message means that R’shiel failed. Their demon meld didn’t work.”

Damin glanced at the Medalonian captain sympathetically. “I’m sure she’s fine, Tarja. Perhaps they didn’t arrive in time.”

“If they hadn’t arrived in time, then things would have simply gone on as they have for months. Something went wrong.” He stood up and squared his shoulders determinedly. “I’m going to the Citadel.”

“No you’re not, Captain. I need you here.”

“R’shiel needs me.”

“There is nothing you can do for her, Tarja,” Jenga reminded him with cold practicality. “It would take you weeks to reach the Citadel and for all you know she’s already dead.”

Tarja’s eyes blazed defiantly, but he could not deny Jenga’s logic. “That’s it then? We just roll over and die? Shall we send an emissary to the Kariens with our surrender, or were you planning to do the honours yourself, my Lord?”

“I don’t think we should do anything just yet,” Damin advised. “Who else knows about this?”

“Just the three of us at present.”

“Then let’s keep it that way for a little bit longer. I want to have a word with Her Serene Highness, first.”

“What can she tell you that we don’t already know?” Jenga asked. He did not baulk at holding off carrying out his orders, Damin noticed with relief.

“I’m not sure. I just have a funny feeling about this. I’ll tell you after I’ve spoken with her. Can you have her brought to my tent?”

“She’s right up those stairs, Damin,” Tarja pointed out. “Why not just go up and ask her now?”

“I want this discussion to take place on my territory, not hers.”

It was a measure of his distress that Tarja didn’t even smile.

An hour or so later, two Defenders arrived in the Hythrun camp escorting Adrina. Damin had spent the intervening time mentally rehearsing what he was going to say.

He had not quite recovered from their last encounter. Adrina had caught him unawares, and that irked him no end. What really annoyed him was that he had been expecting her to try something like that ever since he first laid eyes on her and had steeled himself against it. He knew her background too well. Knew that if she couldn’t get her own way by demanding it, she would eventually resort to using her body. But she took him by surprise and he’d reacted exactly as she’d wanted him to. His only comfort was that she seemed to have been as unnerved by the incident as he was.

When she arrived, Adrina was dressed for warmth, rather than effect, wrapped in the woollen shirt he had given her and a warm Defender’s cloak. Her skin was flushed from the walk, her dark hair piled loosely on top of her head. Gods, she was stunning. He wondered why he’d never noticed how green her eyes were. Dark lashes almost too long to be real framed eyes the colour of cut emeralds. Damin mentally berated himself for a fool as she shook off the cloak and stepped up to the brazier to warm her outstretched hands.

“You wanted to see me, my Lord?”

“I thought we might continue our discussion from the other night.”

“Which one?” she asked calmly. “The one about Cratyn’s intentions, or the one about us?”

“There is no us, your Highness, so I guess that leaves Cratyn.”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Then tell me again.”

“I don’t see the point.”

“You don’t have to.”

Adrina’s eyes narrowed cannily. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, I’m being very remiss as a host. Can I offer you some wine?” He turned his back, reaching for the jug on his writing desk.

“Don’t avoid the question, Damin. What’s happened?”

He poured the wine and turned back to her. “The Medalonians have been ordered to surrender.”

Now why had he told her that?

Her face was a portrait of shock. He doubted even Adrina could fake such a genuine reaction. “In the name of Zegarnald, why? They’re winning!”

“I don’t know if I’d go so far as to call this stalemate winning,” he said as he handed her the wine. “But they certainly aren’t in danger of imminent defeat.”

“I don’t understand it.”

“Neither do I. That’s what I wanted to see you about. Could this have anything to do with Setenton’s absence from the front?”

“It might,” she nodded thoughtfully. “I thought it a little odd that Jasnoff sent Cratyn to the border without Terbolt. But the Kariens are very big on honour and distinguishing themselves in battle. I always supposed he wanted to give Cratyn a chance to prove himself to the Dukes.”

“If he’s behind this sudden turnabout, that would explain it. What about the treaty with your father?”

Adrina hesitated for a moment, then sighed. “What I told you before was the truth, or most of it. Father agreed to invade Medalon from the south come summer, and to supply the Kariens with cannon.”

“Cannon? Are they really as devastating as they claim?”

She nodded grimly. “The truth? They’re proving more trouble than they’re worth. They blow up when you least expect it, only work sometimes and we still haven’t found the right sort of alloy that won’t split after a few shots and kill the men manning the guns. My father’s cannon are as much the result of clever rumours as they are fact.”

“I see. And what does Hablet get in return for all this?”

“Gold and timber. Lots and lots of it.”

“I know your father’s greedy, Adrina, but there has to be more to it than that.”

“The prize is Hythria, Damin,” she said softly. “I thought you’d already worked that out for yourself.”

He stared at her for a moment, wondering why she had chosen this moment to reveal Hablet’s plans. “Hablet doesn’t need the Kariens to invade Hythria.”

“No, but he needs the Defenders occupied. You know as well as I do how futile it’s been, trying to attack Hythria over the Sunrise Mountains. There are only a few navigable passes and they can be defended by a handful of men against the entire Fardohnyan army. A naval invasion would be just as futile. Your ports are too well defended. Hythria’s only vulnerable point is the border with Medalon. If the Medalonians had territorial ambitions, you’d have been overrun a century ago.”

“So Hablet plans to turn south, once he reaches Medalon.”

“And you’ve made the job even easier for him. Your province borders Medalon. You’re supposed to be Hythria’s first line of defence.”

Damin really didn’t need Adrina pointing out his tactical error at that point. He was more than capable of punishing himself for being so arrogant.

“Did your father know anything about the Karien plans for Medalon?”

“If you mean, was he expecting them to surrender, of course not. His entire strategy is based on the Kariens keeping the Defenders off his back. Hablet doubts the Defenders would care if he invaded Hythria, one way or the other, but they’re likely to take a very dim view of him marching through Medalon to do it, particularly since they allied themselves with you, Damin.”

That was the second time today she had called him by name. He wondered if she realised that she was doing it.

“And if Medalon surrenders?”

“Jasnoff will have time to wonder what my father is up to. The Kariens are religious fanatics. It’s bad enough the entire southern half of the continent is devoted to pagan worship. They certainly don’t want it united under one crown. Hablet will invade Hythria and Karien will follow to stop him. Either way, Hythria will lose. Your only hope is to keep me safe from the Kariens.”

Damin smiled. It was amazing the way she could twist any situation to her advantage. “Exactly how would that make a difference?”

“Any child of mine by Cratyn would have a claim on Hablet’s throne. With Medalon defeated, if Hablet ruled Fardohnya and Hythria, the Kariens would own the entire continent on his death.”

“A death that would be sooner, rather than later, knowing the Kariens.” Damin shook his head at the vast scope of the Karien plans for world dominance. Or perhaps they were Xaphista’s plans.

And the demon child, the only one who could stop him, was probably dead.

“An heir and a spare – and I too become surplus to requirements,” she reminded him grimly.

He studied her for a moment, wondering if he was seeing the real Adrina for the first time. The woman whose life depended on staying one step ahead of the men who controlled her. Her father. Her husband. Even him. Every one of them was trying to use her to further their own ambitions.

“Is there anything else you haven’t told me, Adrina?”

She sipped her wine, looking at him over the rim of her cup. “Haven’t I told you enough?”

“That depends on what critical piece of information you’re holding back.”

She lowered the cup and smiled. “You’re the most suspicious man I’ve ever met.”

“With just cause, around you.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, Damin, but you know just about everything I do.”

“It’s the ‘just about’ that concerns me.”

“I’ve nothing to gain by lying to you. If Medalon surrenders, I will be returned to Karien. I would rather die.”

Oddly, he believed her. If what she had told him was true, the Kariens would allow her to live long enough to produce the requisite heir – and not a moment longer. She had already betrayed them once. They wouldn’t be so lax in their vigilance a second time.

Then something else occurred to him, which changed his opinion of her rather radically.

“Cratyn’s impotence was all your fault, wasn’t it? You didn’t want to give him an heir to your father’s throne.”

The question startled her at first, then she smiled smugly. “As you pointed out the first time we spoke, my Lord, an inexperienced Karien princeling is no match for a court’esa-trained Fardohnyan princess.”

“It seems I’ve misjudged you, your Highness.”

“Something else I warned you about.”

He refused to acknowledge her reprimand. “More wine?”

“Thank you, no. I’ve learnt the folly of consuming too much Medalonian wine on an empty stomach.” She held out her empty cup. “I should be going. Was there anything else you wanted?”

He took the cup from her outstretched hand. “Untie your shirt.”

“What?”

Damin smiled. “Untie your shirt.”

“You have got to kidding.”

“I’ve never been more serious. Untie your shirt, or I’ll do it for you.”

She glared at him, but to her credit, she didn’t back away. “You lay one finger on me and I’ll —”

“What? Scream?” he finished with a laugh. “You’re in the middle of my camp, Adrina. Who’s going to come to your rescue?”

“I’ll gouge your eyes out if you touch me.”

He shrugged and turned his back on her, replacing the empty cups on the desk. “As you wish. I was under the impression you wanted that slave collar off. I must have been mistaken.”

He waited with his back to her. She was silent for a very long time.

“You could have said that’s what you were planning.”

“And miss seeing you squirm like that?” he asked with a grin as he turned back to her. “I don’t think so. So, shall we start again? Untie your shirt. I can’t get to the thing with you bundled up like that.”

“Just give me the keys and I’ll do it myself.”

“No. And for being so uncooperative now you’re going to have to say please.”

“You are the most unbelievable bastard.”

“I know.”

She stepped around the brazier and the cushions, unlacing the shirt as she went. By the time she reached him the shirt was open far enough to expose the collar and a tantalising glimpse of pale throat – and not a thing more.

“There! Just take the damned thing off!”

“Say please.”

“Please!” Her eyes burned with fury.

Getting that much out of her was something of an achievement, so Damin decided not to push his luck. She might still try to gouge his eyes out, just on principal.

He took her hand and pulled her closer, then slid his fingers under the collar. Lernen had only shown him once how the catch worked, and he wasn’t at all certain he could find it. The jeweller who had designed the collars was a craftsman and they were manufactured to prevent a clever slave finding the means for their emancipation. Adrina closed her eyes rather than meet his. It was very distracting, holding her so close. He could feel her hot breath on his face, smell the faint perfume of the soap she used to wash her hair.

He found the catch and heard it open with a faint snick. Adrina heard it too. She opened her eyes, a little surprised to find herself so close to him. She looked up, met his eyes.

Later, Damin couldn’t say who moved first. One moment she was staring at him with those impressive green eyes. The next he was kissing her and she was kissing him back. The collar tumbled forgotten to the floor. It was almost as if she wanted to devour him. He cursed the layers of winter clothing they both wore as she tore at the lacing on his shirt. There was no logic to this, no rational thought.

“This is insane,” Adrina gasped between kisses, as she fumbled with the buckle on his sword belt. “I hate you.”

The sword belt dropped to the floor with a clatter. “I hate you too.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she added as she pulled the shirt over his head.

“We’ll talk about it later,” he promised as her shirt fell away, exposing her glorious pale breasts. They fell onto the scattered cushions beside the brazier. Adrina landed astride him. Her hair had come loose and it fell about them in an ebony wave that cut off the rest of the tent so that it was only Adrina that he could see. It was only Adrina that he wanted to see, in any case.

“Damin?”

He pulled her down and kissed her, but she pulled back impatiently.

“Damin!”

“You’re not going to ask me to be gentle, are you?”

She smiled wickedly. “No. I only want one thing from you, my Lord.”

“Name it, your Highness.”

Her smile faded, replaced with a look of unexpected savagery. “Make me forget Cratyn.”

The request did not surprise him nearly as much as her vehemence. But he understood it. “Say please.”

“Go to hell.”

He laughed softly and drew her down again. Before long it was doubtful if either of them could recall their own names, let alone the name of Adrina’s husband.

Chapter 49

“You did what?”

Tarja wondered if he’d mis-heard the warlord. He glanced across at Damin and feared he hadn’t.

They were supposed to be riding out to inspect the border troops, but Tarja realised now that Damin’s suggestion had merely been a ruse. He wanted to break the news to Tarja out of the hearing of the rest of the camp. The Hythrun was looking rather shamefaced with all of the things that had gone wrong in the past few days, this was one complication they could have done without.

“You heard me.”

“Founders, Damin, she’s the wife of the Karien Crown Prince!”

“I’m aware of that.”

“I thought you couldn’t stand her?”

“I can’t. Look, it’s... complicated. It’s hard to explain.”

“Well you’d better think of something,” Tarja warned. “I imagine Jenga’s going to want a fairly detailed explanation when she complains that you raped her.”

“I never raped her!” Damin declared, offended by the very suggestion. “Her Serene Highness was a very willing participant, I can assure you.”

Tarja shook his head doubtfully. “Even so, when she’s had time to think about it, she might change her mind. Just because you didn’t throw her on the ground and tear her clothes off, doesn’t mean she won’t claim you did.”

“Perhaps I should get in first,” Damin suggested with a grin. “She was the one tearing at my clothes, after all.”

“Be serious!”

The Warlord sighed and reined his stallion in. He studied the snow dotted plain for a moment before turning to Tarja. Their breath frosted in the early morning light. The sun had risen over the rim of the Jagged Mountains, but the day was overcast, threatening more snow.

“Is Jenga planning to surrender?”

Tarja shrugged. “I wish I knew. He’s torn between duty and reason at present.”

“I have to leave, Tarja.”

“I expected as much,” he agreed without rancour. “It’s the Defenders who are being ordered to surrender, not the Hythrun.”

“I’d have to go in any case,” Damin told him. “Hablet’s planning to invade Hythria. I need to be in Krakandar.”

“Adrina told you that?”

He nodded. “She confirmed it, but I’ve suspected that was his ultimate goal ever since I first heard of the Karien-Fardohnyan Treaty. If the Defenders surrender to Karien, there’ll be nothing stopping him.”

“Did Adrina tell you this before or after she tore your clothes off?”

Damin looked at him and smiled sourly. “I deserved that, I suppose. But I’m the Hythrun Heir, Tarja. I can’t sit here minding your border while the Fardohnyans pour over mine.”

“I understand, and so will Jenga.”

“I didn’t doubt that, Tarja, but are you going to be so understanding when I tell you Adrina is coming with me?”

In light of the Warlord’s recent admission, the news did not surprise him. However, that didn’t make it any more palatable.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Damin. If we surrender to Karien, the first thing they’ll do is demand her return. And if we don’t surrender, she’ll make a very useful hostage.”

“I won’t allow you to return her to Karien, Tarja.”

“You slept with her once, Damin. I hardly think that warrants throwing her over your saddle and riding off into the sunset with her.”

Damin grinned. “Poetic as it may seem, Tarja, my reasons are far more pragmatic. Should Adrina and Cratyn have a child, it would have a claim on both the Karien and Fardohnyan thrones. I don’t intend to let that happen.”

“As opposed to a child with a claim on both the Fardohnyan and Hythrun thrones,” he pointed out. “Or had that minor detail escaped you?”

Damin looked so surprised that Tarja realised that he probably hadn’t considered that possibility.

“It’s not the same thing.”

“It’s exactly the same thing, Damin. A child who can unite Karien and Fardohnya is a threat, I’ll grant you that, but a child who could bring Hythria and Fardohnya together is even worse. The Kariens will hunt you down like a criminal. I can’t even begin to guess what the other Hythrun Warlords will do when they discover you’ve run off with Hablet’s daughter.”

“I’m not running off with her,” he objected. “I’m averting a potential catastrophe.”

“You’re creating a potential catastrophe. Founders, man, think about this! How do you think the Kariens are going to react when they find out? Taking a lover might not be cause for concern in Hythria or Medalon, or even Fardohnya, for that matter, but it’s a sin in Karien and they take their sin very seriously.”

“I’m not her lover!”

“If you didn’t take her by force, then what else do you call it? I’m sure the Kariens will see it that way. They tend to be very black and white in their thinking.”

“All the more reason not to send her back to Karien. She’d be stoned if they found out.”

“A few weeks ago, that prospect wouldn’t have bothered you one whit.”

Damin didn’t look pleased at the reminder. “All right, I’ll concede that my opinion of her has... softened... somewhat.”

“Softened? That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.”

“I won’t send her back, Tarja. Even if what you say is true, the fact is we know the Overlord wants a Karien heir to the Fardohnyan throne. The rest of it is just speculation. I’ll deal with the known threat and face the rest of it if and when it happens.”

“Jenga’s not going to like this.”

“I wasn’t planning to ask his permission. I’m an ally, not a subordinate.”

“Have you told Adrina?”

“Not yet.”

“What if she objects? She might prefer to go back.”

“She’d kill herself before she agreed to return to Karien.”

“She doesn’t strike me as the suicidal type.”

“Ask her about Cratyn sometime.”

Tarja reached forward to pat Shadow’s neck. The mare was restless, no doubt picking up his apprehension. “When are you planning to leave?”

“The sooner the better. Jenga will have to act on that order soon, one way or the other. If he surrenders, this plain will be crawling with Kariens any day, and if he refuses the order you’ll be fighting Karien on one side and your own people on the other. I don’t want to get caught in the middle of it. Besides,” he added with a frown, “when we crossed into Medalon we had Brak’s help. We’re going to have to make our way home by more ordinary means. If I don’t leave now, Hablet will be in Krakandar before me.”

At the mention of Brak, Tarja’s brow furrowed with concern. Brak was supposed to be looking after R’shiel. But the Sisterhood had betrayed them. R’shiel would never have let that happen willingly.

“If you’re so damned worried about R’shiel, do something about it,” Damin said, guessing the direction of his thoughts.

“That would mean deserting my post.”

“Well, you’ve done that before,” the Warlord pointed out rather tactlessly, “so it should be easier the next time round. Anyway, if Jenga surrenders, how long do you think your head is going to stay attached to your neck, my friend? You’re responsible for the death of the Karien Envoy, remember? I’ll bet you any sum you care to name that your head on a platter was a condition of the surrender.”

“That doesn’t give me the right to abandon Jenga at the first sign of trouble.”

“Think of it as saving the world, Tarja. The demon child is the only one who can destroy Xaphista. There’s something of a moral imperative involved in going to her rescue.”

“She might already be dead.”

It pained him to admit it. With Brak watching over her and with the power she commanded, she could achieve anything. R’shiel had been so determined that Tarja was certain nothing short of death could have stood in her way.

“Somehow, I doubt it. The gods have gone to a lot of trouble to get her this far. I don’t think they’d stand by and let her be destroyed out of hand. She hasn’t done what she was destined for yet.”

The reminder did little to ease Tarja’s worry. Being assured that R’shiel lived so that she could eventually confront a god was hardly a comforting thought.

“I wish there was some way of being certain.”

“Ask Dace, he should know.”

“I recall having this discussion with you once before. You said he wouldn’t come if I called him.”

“And he probably wouldn’t,” Damin agreed. “But you don’t need to call him, he’s here. I saw him hanging around with that Karien boy the other day.”

“What’s he doing here?” Tarja asked suspiciously. He mistrusted these creatures that the pagans called gods.

“The God of Thieves, by his very nature, is bound to be up to no good, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s doing your cause any harm.” Damin laughed suddenly. “I wonder how that fanatical child of the Overlord is coping with the idea that his new friend is a pagan god?”

Tarja smiled in spite of himself.

“Tell you what, Tarja, let’s go back to the camp. You round up your little Karien friend and ask him where Dace is, and I’ll speak to Adrina. I promise I’ll only take her with me if she wants to come. I haven’t the time to waste dragging her to Hythria by force, at any rate. After that we’ll talk to Jenga. Who knows, if you can prove R’shiel still lives, he may even sanction your heroic dash to her rescue. I’m sure he’d like to know what really happened at the Gathering and it may stay his hand on the surrender for a time.”

“Make sure that’s all you do when you see Adrina. Speak to her.”

“You show a disturbing lack of trust in me, Captain,” Damin turned his stallion toward the camp and managed to look quite offended.

Tarja shook his head and followed him. “I thought we were going to check on the border troops?”

“They’ll keep. Besides, if Jenga surrenders, it doesn’t really make much difference how they’re placed, does it?”

Tarja could not deny the Hythrun’s logic and in truth, he would much rather find Dace and learn of R’shiel’s fate than conduct an inspection. He stared at the border thoughtfully, then kicked his horse into a canter and headed back to the camp with the Hythrun Warlord.

Chapter 50

Brak watched the scene between Joyhinia and R’shiel unfold with growing frustration.

R’shiel’s recovery from her suffering at the hands of Joyhinia and Loclon was too fragile to be tested so soon. He could almost taste her fear. To face Loclon in the body of her foster mother was testing her to the limit. One she feared; the other she loathed. It was like a nightmare come to life. It could push her over the edge. His futile efforts to reach out to her, to contact her, to somehow let her know that he was with her, brought a frown to the War God’s stern face.

“I have already explained to you, Brakandaran. She cannot see you. She cannot hear you.”

“I have to go to her.”

“And you shall,” Zegarnald promised. “In time.”

Brak turned on the god impatiently. “Why are you doing this? They’ll kill her!”

Zegarnald did not answer for a moment. He waited as the First Sister left the room and Lord Terbolt explained his plans to R’shiel, then nodded slowly.

“The Karien human speaks the truth, Brakandaran. Xaphista wants the demon child for himself. Her ability to destroy a god is quite indiscriminate. She could destroy me just as easily as Xaphista.”

“Oh, I see,” Brak retorted, his voice laden with sarcasm. “That’s a good plan. Hand over the only person who can destroy you to your enemy. Now why didn’t I think of that?”

“Your disrespect wears on my nerves, Brakandaran.”

“Not half as much as your scheming is wearing on mine, Zegarnald.”

“I agreed to humour you, Brakandaran, by allowing you to assure yourself that the demon child lives. I did not agree to listen to your whining.”

Brak watched helplessly as the Karien duke left the bedchamber where R’shiel was being held. As soon as she was alone, R’shiel threw herself on the bed and stared at the ceiling, cursing softly. After a while, she gave up that futile pastime and began pacing the room. She checked the door first, but it was firmly locked. Then she went to the window and threw it open, looking down with despair at the six-storey drop to the courtyard below. Finding no joy in that escape route she sat on the edge of the bed and tentatively reached for her power, drawing back hastily as the silver collar she wore began to burn.

“Let me out of here, Zegarnald. I have to help her.”

Here was a hard place to define. The War God had him trapped between the world R’shiel inhabited and the world the gods called home. He was powerless here – at Zegarnald’s mercy. He could move around freely, but he could not be seen, nor could he affect anything that happened in the ordinary world of humans.

He could have kicked himself for walking into Zegarnald’s trap so blindly. He should have known the War God’s sudden appearance in the alley beside the Temple of the Gods meant trouble. Zegarnald probably hadn’t walked the halls of the Citadel for two centuries. Brak knew the gods well enough. He should have suspected something. And he should never have accepted Zegarnald’s uncharacteristic offer of a handshake. Touching the god had been his undoing. Once Zegarnald had a hold of him, he was powerless to resist being drawn into this grey limbo.

“She must help herself.”

“How? She can’t even touch her power. That collar is as bad as those damned staffs Xaphista’s priests lug around.”

“She can touch it. But the pain will be intolerable. If she wants to escape badly enough, she will find a way to bear it.”

“This is another of your tests, I suppose? Another part of the ‘tempering’ you’re so fond of? What happens if she doesn’t want to play your game, Zegarnald? Suppose she throws her lot in with Xaphista?”

“Then I will release you and you will destroy her.”

Brak glanced at the god warily. “You trust me to do that?”

“If the demon child joins with Xaphista, what is left of the Harshini will be destroyed. I have no need to trust you. I trust your determination to remove a threat to your people.”

The worst of it was that the War God was right. Should R’shiel give in to Xaphista he would not hesitate to kill her. He turned back to watching her, feeling like a voyeur.

“You’re taking a big risk, Zegarnald.”

“Perhaps. If the demon child is too weak to face down Xaphista, if she is willing to become his disciple, I would rather find out now than wait until she has matured.”

“The finding out could kill her.”

“Xaphista will try to win her over. He’ll not resort to force unless he has to. He wants the demon child to believe in him, Brakandaran. She is no good to him if she despises him.”

“I can’t imagine she’ll be too thrilled by your efforts,” he pointed out. “If you ask me you’re playing right into his hands.”

“I do not recall asking you.”

Angrily, Brak drew on his power and tore uselessly at the restraints that bound him to this place. Zegarnald didn’t budge. His efforts were trivial in the face of the god’s implacable will.

“Control yourself, Brakandaran. Such undisciplined behaviour ill becomes a member of your race.”

“I’m half human, Zegarnald. I’m doing my human ancestors proud.”

“Stop fighting me. You will harm no one but yourself.”

“Then let me out of here.”

“In time.”

Brak cursed and let go of the power. Fighting a god was a fruitless effort. Fighting Zegarnald was a complete waste of time. He thrived on it. Brak’s efforts were only making him stronger. The realisation brought another thought to mind and he decided to change his tactics. If he couldn’t force Zegarnald into releasing him, then he had to make him want to do it.

“Medalon has surrendered.”

“So it would seem,” the god agreed, a little wary at Brak’s sudden change of heart.

“You’re taking it pretty well.”

“What do you mean?”

“The war is over. That’s going to seriously affect your standing among the other gods, isn’t it? I mean, now that the Kariens and the Medalonians aren’t fighting any more, things are going to get very cosy. Before long they’ll be shaking hands, then they’ll start making friends. Before long they’ll be falling in love... Kalianah’s going to be very happy. And considerably stronger, unless I’m mistaken.”

Zegarnald frowned. “The Defenders will not surrender.”

“You think so? You haven’t been keeping up to date, Divine One. The Defenders are the most disciplined army in the world. If they were ordered to dress up like chickens and run around clucking, they’d do it without blinking. They won’t ignore an order to surrender.”

“Then I will have to content myself with the Fardohnyan invasion of Hythria,” the War God told him smugly.

Brak bit back another curse. He hadn’t known about that. Zegarnald needed wars to keep him strong, but he didn’t really care where they happened. A conflict between those who worshipped him would serve him just as well as one between those who didn’t.

“I suppose you’re right. Of course, you’re assuming that Kalianah won’t interfere.”

“There is nothing she can do to prevent a war.”

“Don’t be so sure. All she has to do is make the right people fall in love and your war is done for.” Brak wondered if Zegarnald knew how desperate he was. He was certain he sounded desperate.

“If you know something of her plans, then you should tell me, Brakandaran.”

He shrugged. “I merely speculate, Divine One. If Kalianah’s got something up her sleeve, you’ll have to ask her about it.”

Zegarnald’s dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. Trust was not a commodity the gods owned in any great quantity and they tended to take things rather literally. They were jealous creatures and were more conscious of rank than the most snobbish Karien nobleman. It dawned on Brak then that Zegarnald was afraid of R’shiel. He was afraid of what they had created. That’s why he was determined to prove that she could be trusted, before her ability developed beyond the point where the gods could take action.

Brak looked at R’shiel with new respect. It took a lot to frighten a god.

The knowledge did little to help him out of his current predicament, however. Perhaps divine jealousy would work where reason had failed. Brak had no idea if Kalianah even cared that there was a war going on. For all he knew, she was off making a hive of bees happy, somewhere. But he was certain she would not approve of Zegarnald’s plans to test the demon child’s fortitude by throwing her to Xaphista’s priests. If he could taunt Zegarnald into seeking her out, he might be able to prevail upon the Goddess of Love to release him. Kalianah was a happy-ever-after sort of god. She didn’t like her plans being disrupted and she had gone to a fair bit of trouble to keep R’shiel and Tarja together. He was clutching at straws, but at this point anything was worth a try.

“Of course, if Kalianah was up to something while you’re at the Citadel making certain the demon child has a spine, you’re not going to know about it until she’s standing over you, smiling that annoying little smile, asking you if you love her.”

“Kalianah would not dare interfere. She knows what is at stake.”

“She made R’shiel and Tarja fall in love. That’s interference where I come from. If Kalianah gets the better of you, R’shiel won’t be tempered, she’ll be mooning about like a lovesick cow.”

One of the advantages of trying to manipulate a god was their total inability to comprehend anything other than their own natures. Zegarnald knew what love was in a theoretical sort of way, he even tolerated it, but he didn’t understand it. Brak’s prediction sounded quite plausible to him.

“I will put a stop to her interference at once!”

“You do that, Divine One. In the meantime, let me out of here and I’ll make certain R’shiel doesn’t fall for Xaphista’s devious —”

“Don’t push me, Brakandaran. You will stay here until I have dealt with Kalianah. And don’t bother to call any of my brothers or sisters. They will not hear you unless I will it.”

The War God vanished, leaving Brak alone in the half-world between reality and dreams. He looked down on R’shiel and found her sitting on the bed, her knees drawn up and her head resting on them, her whole posture radiating abject misery. He tried reaching out to her again, but he knew it was useless. Until Zegarnald released him there was nothing he could do to help her.

The demon child was on her own.

Chapter 51

Loclon stood before the full-length mirror in the First Sister’s apartments and studied Joyhinia’s naked body curiously. It was a pity she was so old, he mused, although he supposed the body was quite well preserved for a woman approaching late middle age. The once full breasts sagged disappointingly. The hips and thighs were thickened by age, and her skin was showing signs of decay.

There was little joy to be had from this body in any case. Pleasures that normally had him stiff with anticipation seemed like far-away memories. He recalled the desire but did not really feel it. The woman’s body he inhabited seemed to dampen his maleness. It was as if such thoughts could not thrive in this female form.

But if sexual pleasure was denied him, there were other compensations. The power he wielded as First Sister left him breathless. Of course, there was a limit to what he could achieve at the moment. Lord Terbolt and his priests hovered around him like vultures over a fresh corpse, but that would end soon. He would toe the line for now, but once the Kariens left the Citadel, he would be in control. Loclon smiled coldly. If they thought the old Joyhinia had been a tyrant, the citizens of Medalon would lack the words to describe the new one.

He had a long list of victims who would suffer at the First Sister’s hands once he had a free rein. Men who had slighted him; women who had scorned him; all of them would pay.

He would start with Tarja Tenragan.

Fortunately, this coincided with the Kariens’plans and the order would be issued today, under the First Sister’s seal. A courier would take it to Lord Jenga in the north as soon as the ink was dry. It would demand that Tarja Tenragan be arrested immediately and handed over to the Kariens to stand trial for the murders of Lord Pieter and the priest Elfron. Loclon would have preferred to take a more personal hand in Tarja’s demise, but the Kariens were planning to burn him alive. It was a very satisfying thought; his pleasure diminished only slightly by being unable to witness the event.

There were others too, who would feel his wrath, but they could wait. With Tarja accounted for, he must take care of R’shiel. Unfortunately, his chance at her had a deadline.

When Terbolt left the Citadel, R’shiel would go with him, willingly or not. He felt betrayed by the Kariens’plans for R’shiel. They had promised him revenge and then denied him. R’shiel was a prisoner, granted, but she was hardly suffering. She was fed regularly and well, and treated with cautious respect by Terbolt and his priests. The collar that circled her neck caused her pain only if she tried to touch her Harshini power, and she appeared to have learnt that lesson very quickly. All in all, her incarceration was remarkably comfortable and not at all what Loclon had in mind. If he was going to do something about the bitch, he would have to do it soon.

Conveniently, the Kariens were creatures of habit. Xaphista was a demanding god, and every day at sunset, when the mysterious Dimming began in the Citadel, they would gather in the apartments Lord Terbolt had seconded and pray for at least an hour. For that hour, R’shiel was guarded by only two Defenders and as First Sister, he could order them about with impunity. He sighed contentedly. It was almost sundown. By the time he was dressed Terbolt, Garanus and their companions would be on their knees at their devotions. He knew the folly of killing R’shiel, but for an hour at least, he could take the revenge he felt he so richly deserved.

She was standing by the window when he arrived, her exquisite profile limned by the sunset. Her glorious dark red hair was loose. It hung past her waist and had obviously been brushed until it shone – she had little else to fill her days. She wore dark, supple leathers that hugged her lithe body. Had he still been a man, the very sight of her would have aroused him. That had always been his mistake in the past. He had let his lust for this woman rule his head. But not this time. This time he inhabited a woman’s body and the desire that had betrayed him in the past was nothing more than a shallow echo.

R’shiel turned at the sound of the door and stiffened at the sight of him.

“What do you want?” She sounded annoyed rather than fearful. That would have to change.

“I’ve come to ask you some questions,” he said, placing the large covered birdcage he carried on the floor beside him.

“Ask them from there,” she said, crossing her arms defensively.

“You’re hardly in a position to be giving me orders, R’shiel.”

“And you’re hardly in a position to defy your Karien masters. Does Terbolt know that you’re here? No, of course he doesn’t. He’s at prayer, isn’t he? You’re too craven to dare anything if you thought he might catch you at it.”

Loclon bit back his fury at her scorn. “I’ve no care for what Terbolt thinks.”

“You should have. Have you been to check on your body Loclon? Are you sure it’s well? Are they feeding it? Turning it frequently so you don’t get bedsores? Do you really trust them that much?”

“Stop it!”

She smiled, which was a big mistake. Loclon did not take well to being laughed at. But he would have his fun. Instead of responding to her taunts he pulled the cover from the cage.

R’shiel gasped in horror. The little demon cowered in the centre of the cage, crouched into a tangle of arms and legs, her large black eyes filled with terror.

Loclon saw R’shiel’s expression and knew he had found the perfect way to torment her.

“Funny little creature, isn’t it?”

“Let her go.”

“You know I can’t do that. Aren’t you going to ask how we caught it?”

“I know how you caught it. How are you keeping her there?”

Loclon shrugged. “I’ve no idea. The priests tied the top of one of those staffs to the top of the cage, here... you see... and it does something to the bars. Did you want to see?”

“No.”

“Oh, but you must,” he insisted with a malicious smile.

He poked the creature and it jerked away from him instinctively, but the cage was too small and the movement pushed it back against the metal bars. The creature cried out with pain and jerked back from the bars, only to come up against the bars on the other side, where the agony was waiting for it. The high-pitched screams were most gratifying. It took the creature two or three attempts to curl back up into the ball that kept it away from the bars. When it finally settled down, it was trembling uncontrollably with tears spilling silently from its liquid black eyes.

“Want to see it again?” he asked.

“Stop it!” She crossed the room in a few paces and grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to his knees. Loclon did not cry out, or even struggle against her.

He simply reached out with his foot and kicked the cage, which set the demon off again.

R’shiel let him go and ran to the cage, but she could no more touch the enchanted bars than the demon could. The priests’ magic worked best on those who could channel the power of the gods. R’shiel had no hope of freeing the terrified creature. All she could do was kneel on the floor and watch it suffer.

Loclon climbed to his feet, laughing. Her attempts to open the cage were useless, even touching the latch was agony. She heard him move and turned to look up at him. The pain in her eyes was all he could have hoped for.

“Go ahead, let it go. If you can.”

R’shiel glanced back at the cage which had fallen on its side. The demon was screaming in agony. There was nothing she could do to help it. She couldn’t even right the cage to save the demon from the pain of contacting the bars.

As if she had realised the same thing, she climbed slowly to her feet.

“Giving up so soon?” he taunted.

Without warning, she turned and kicked the cage with all the force she could muster, lifting it clear off the floor. The cage clattered against the wall and landed with a thud. As it did, the base of the cage popped open and the demon gratefully scrambled clear of the trap.

“Be gone!” she cried urgently, as Loclon grabbed her.

The demon winked out of existence with a startled squeal.

Loclon punched her then pushed her onto the floor and held her there with his knee while he looked around the room for something to hurt her with. There was nothing handy. Terbolt had stripped the room of anything remotely resembling a potential weapon. He wished for his male body. R’shiel was physically stronger than Joyhinia. Fighting her with his bare hands was not an option. Lacking anything more substantial than his fists, he wrapped his hand tighter through her hair and slammed her forehead into the floor, over and over, until she was almost senseless.

He stopped himself just in time. He would be in enough trouble for letting the creature escape. Killing R’shiel could easily cost him his life.

“Get up!”

She did not respond.

“I said, get up!” He kicked her in the stomach and she grunted involuntarily, confirming his suspicion that she was faking unconsciousness. “Get up, you inhuman slut!”

R’shiel rolled over slowly and stared at him with defiant eyes, a little dazed.

“Get up, I said!”

She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. The wound on her forehead had opened and the blood flowed freely, obscuring her vision. Impatient with her slow response, he kicked her again, throwing her backwards against the wall. He laughed. This was what he wanted. What he needed.

R’shiel collapsed against the wall and for a moment she lay still, but when she looked up there was no submission in her eyes. Instead there was an expression of such hatred that he took a step back from her. Her eyes began to darken ominously. As she drew on her power the collar around her neck began to glow in response. She pushed herself up as her eyes turned black. The collar grew so bright it was almost painful to look on it.

Truly fearful of what he might have provoked, Loclon backed away from her. The sickening stench of burning flesh reached him as R’shiel gathered her power to her and the collar punished her for her efforts. She grabbed the windowsill and pulled herself to her feet, her eyes as black as night, the collar like a thousand candles burning under her chin.

With a visible effort she steadied herself and prepared to hurl her fury at him. The stench of burning flesh grew stronger. Loclon marvelled at her tolerance for the pain she must be in, but his own fear prevented him from taking any pleasure in it. If she broke through the constraint of the collar, he would not leave this room alive.

“Die!” she hissed.

Loclon expected his life to end at that moment, but the collar flared as she tried to unleash her power. She screamed and dropped to the floor, tearing uselessly at the burning necklet. Loclon let her drop, shaking with relief as she collapsed.

The screams stopped only when she finally passed out. He waited for a long, long time to be certain she really was unconscious this time.

When Loclon finally stopped shaking he was appalled to discover his bladder had let go and for the first time was grateful for Joyhinia’s long skirts. R’shiel lay under the window, her breathing shallow. He approached her cautiously, half expecting her to be faking again. As he neared her, he realised it was unlikely. Her magnificent long hair tumbled over her face, obscuring the worst of the damage, but blood streamed from her forehead and he could see savage blisters marring her neck above and below the now quiescent collar.

He prodded her experimentally with the toe of Joyhinia’s boot, but received no response. A harder kick got the same reaction. He kicked her again, this time for sheer pleasure rather than any attempt to determine her state of consciousness. The kick following that one was just for the hell of it.

He tired of that game soon enough. Bruises and broken ribs would heal in time. Even her scars would probably fade – she was Harshini, not human. He wanted to leave her with a reminder. He stood back and studied her for a while, wondering. Then it came to him. He crossed the room to the door and opened it a fraction.

“Bring me scissors,” he ordered.

The guard looked a little startled by the order but hurried to comply. Joyhinia taped her foot impatiently as she waited for him to return. When he hurried back to his post clutching the scissors, she snatched them from his hand and locked the door again.

Loclon dragged R’shiel to the bed, annoyed by Joyhinia’s weakness. If he had his own body, it would have been nothing to scoop her up and throw her onto the bed. As it was, he grunted and struggled to get his hands under her arms and move her across the room. Lifting her was almost beyond him, but he managed it somehow. When he finally got her on the bed, he laid R’shiel out with almost tender care, crossing her hands demurely across her breast. He combed out her glorious mane with his fingers until it spread like a fiery halo around her head then stepped back to admire his handiwork.

If one was prepared to ignore the blood and the burns, she looked quite stunning. He smiled, thinking he had never seen her quite this way – so peaceful, so... vulnerable.

Loclon sighed and picked up the scissors. He moved to the bed and planted a lingering kiss on her slightly parted lips.

Then he took the scissors and cut her hair as close to the skull as he could get. He hummed tunelessly as he worked, stopping only once to stare suspiciously over his shoulder.

He could not avoid the feeling that someone was watching him.

Chapter 52

When Tarja questioned first Hadly, then Sergeant Monthay regarding the whereabouts of the Karien boy, neither of them could provide a satisfactory answer. Hadly was too busy, and Monthay sounded genuinely perturbed. He could recall giving the boy the afternoon off, but not why.

Tarja thanked him for his assistance and went looking for the child himself. He didn’t blame the sergeant. If the God of Thieves had taken it into his head to lead Mikel astray, there was little Monthay could have done about it.

He leaned forward and patted Shadow, wondering where a small Karien boy and a mischief-making god could be hiding in the vast camp. Nowhere there was work to be done, that was certain. They were unlikely to have gone north toward the border. Not only was it dangerous, there was no entertainment in that direction. The Keep was just as unlikely, as was the Hythrun camp, where Mikel’s brother was, or the neat Defender’s camp, where surely somebody would question their right to be there. He glanced south at the follower’s camp thinking there was plenty of trouble to be found there. He turned Shadow and let her pick her own pace, hoping he was heading in the right direction.

There would be a town here soon if the war dragged on much longer, he thought as he rode through the vast camp. Already some enterprising merchants had set up rickety wooden frames to house their commercial endeavours between tents that ranged from the ramshackle to the truly spectacular. The larger tents belonged to the Court’esa’s Guild. They had moved in within days of the Defenders. All these lonely men out here in the middle of nowhere was an opportunity too good to be missed. Half the court’esa here could probably retire in luxury by now and those that couldn’t would not have long to wait.

Tarja debated stopping by the largest tent to speak to Mistress Miffany. If Jenga surrendered, the court’esa were in real danger. Miffany was a generous, rotund little woman who had worked in the Citadel as a court’esa when Tarja was a cadet. She had inherited the business from Mistress Lyndah, when the sour old bitch had finally died – making everyone in the Citadel who knew her breathe a sigh of relief – and had set about making life pleasant for as many Defenders as possible since then – at a reasonable price, of course. Tarja liked her and had no desire to see her, or her girls, stoned by the invading Kariens.

On impulse, he turned toward her gaily-striped tent. If he could do nothing to stop the surrender, he could at least save a few lives. That Jenga would surrender was a very real possibility. The Lord Defender had stretched his loyalty about as far as it was likely to go. From the moment he had defied Joyhinia in Testra, he had been fighting a losing battle with his conscience. The order to surrender, while unpalatable, was probably easier to live with than treason.

A grubby child ran forward to hold his mount when he arrived. He dismounted and threw the child a copper rivet, before pushing back the flap, bending over to enter the tent. Inside, a number of women looked up hopefully at his captain’s insignia, smiling at him with open invitation. Tarja smiled back, but otherwise ignored them. Miffany hurried forward as soon as she recognised him, obviously happy to see him.

“Tarja!”

“Hello Miff,” he said, kissing her cheek. “You’ve lost weight.”

Miffany laughed delightedly. She was almost as wide as she was tall.

“You tease! I look like a pudding, and you know it, but it was nice of you to say so. Did you want a girl?” Miffany was never one to beat around the bush.

“No, I wanted a word with you. In private.”

Curious, but unconcerned, she turned to her girls. “I’m going to take a turn of the camp with the captain, here. Becca, you’re in charge until I get back.”

Miffany slipped her arm though his and led him outside.

They headed south between the tents down what could only very loosely be described as a street. The tents had been placed with little thought to the traffic in the camp and they were forced to step over tent pegs and dodge muddy puddles as they walked. Miffany clung to his arm with a smug grin that broadened to an outright smirk as they passed by the tent of one of her competitors.

“There’ll be tongues a-wagging in there, soon enough,” she predicted.

Tarja smiled. “We could stop outside on the way back while I declare I’ve never had better.”

“You are such a sweetheart,” she laughed, squeezing his arm.

“Have you done well since you’ve been here, Miff?”

“I’ll say! I’m rich enough to buy myself one of those posh little villas on the riverfront in Brodenvale. War is good for a business like mine.”

“Then perhaps you should think about retiring.”

She looked up at him suspiciously. “You’re taking a sudden interest in my welfare.”

“I care about you.”

“You’re sweet Tarja, I’ve always thought that, but you’re a captain. One of Jenga’s closest officers. You didn’t come all this way to suggest I retire without a damn good reason.”

“Isn’t caring for you enough?” he asked with a hopeful smile.

“Much as I’d like to kid myself that is the case, Tarja, I’m not a fool. What’s really going on?”

“I can’t say, Miff. All I can do is suggest that you quit while you’re ahead.”

The chubby court’esa thought for a moment and then nodded. “How long do we have?”

He could have hugged her for being so astute. “A few days. A week at most. Your profession won’t be looked upon kindly after that.”

“I owe you for this, Tarja.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Miff. Consider it a debt repaid.”

“What debt?”

“I was fourteen the first time I came to Mistress Lyndah’s. You didn’t laugh at me.”

She chuckled at the memory. “I was a lot thinner in those days. You were a sweet boy then, Tarja, and you still are, in my book. Tell me, do you plan to act on your own advice, or stay here and let them kill you?”

Her blunt question startled him. “I haven’t decided yet, but I don’t plan on letting anybody kill me.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose. You know, I’ll need some guards when I leave. I’ve quite a haul in the chest under my bed. Not looking for a job, are you?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, but I’ve got other things demanding my attention.”

“Ah well, it was worth a try. I’ll ask young Dace. He seems to know everybody in the whole damned camp.”

Tarja stopped dead, almost jerking Miffany off her feet. “Dace? A fair-haired lad about so high? Wears the worst collection of cast-off clothing you’ve ever seen?”

“That’s our Dace,” Miff agreed. “How do you know him?”

“I came here looking for him.”

“I thought it was too much to hope that you came here just to see me,” she sighed.

“Where can I find him?”

She shrugged. “Who knows? He’s a sweet boy too, but every time he appears, something goes missing. He hangs around with a Karien boy. They turn up every now and then, looking for a meal.”

“And you feed them, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Do you have any idea where I can find him? It’s really important.”

Miffany thought for a moment and then nodded. “Try old Draginya, the herb woman. She lives over by Will Barley’s tavern tent. She’s a weird old buzzard, always praying to the Primal gods and muttering to herself, but I’ve seen Dace with her now and then. She might know where he is.”

Tarja bent down and kissed Miffany’s plump cheek. “You are the best.”

“Then how come you’re leaving?” she called after him.

Tarja would have found Draginya’s tent simply by following the smell, even if Miffany had not described its location. The tent was crammed with dried herbs and a smoking brazier that gave off an aroma unlike anything he had smelled before. The old woman was wrapped in several tattered shawls against the cold and she looked up with rheumy eyes as Tarja bent almost double to get through the tent flap. He straightened up once he was inside, his head brushing the roof of the tent.

“Captain Tarja Tenragan,” the old woman said, as if she expected him.

“How do you know who I am?” The tent was gloomy and he had to squint to make her out.

“You are the demon child’s appointed lover. Kalianah has made it so. She told me about you.”

Tarja was still atheist enough not to want to know what she meant. “I seek Dacendaran.”

“The God of Thieves? An odd companion for a man like you.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“The gods are everywhere, Captain.”

“I was hoping you could be a bit more specific.”

The old woman smiled revealing toothless pink gums. “Dacendaran said you were unusual for a Defender. I see what he means.”

“I need to speak with him,” Tarja insisted.

“The gods listen to all our prayers, Captain.”

“I don’t want to pray to him, dammit, I need to ask him something!”

“Well, there’s no need to yell, Tarja. I’m not deaf.” He spun around to find the God of Thieves standing behind him. The boy looked unchanged from the last time he had seen him in Testra, but that was hardly surprising. Dace pushed past him and knelt down beside the old woman. “Is he bullying you, Draginya? Shall I turn him into something with six legs that likes to live under a rock?”

“He is young, Divine One, and at the mercy of Kalianah’s geas.”

Dace stood up and turned to Tarja. “Well, it seems you get to stay in one piece. What did you want?”

“Where’s R’shiel?”

“At the Citadel, I suppose,” Dace shrugged.

“Something’s happened to her.”

“I’d know if she were dead. You humans worry far too much.”

Tarja glared at the boy. “Jenga has been ordered to surrender.”

That news gave the god pause. His grin faded. “That’s probably not a good sign.”

“Dace, the only way that order could have been issued is if R’shiel failed. Something has happened to her.”

“Well, if it has, it’s her own fault. I offered to go with them, but did they want my help? No. They wanted to do it all on their own. The Harshini are like that you know. They always think —”

“Dace!”

“What? Oh, I’m sorry. What did you want me to do?”

“Find out... what happened... to R’shiel,” Tarja explained very slowly and carefully.

“Oh. I suppose that’s not a bad idea. If something’s happened to her, we’ll have to start this whole demon child thing all over again. Now that would be a bore.”

“How long will it take?”

Dace shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Tarja clenched his fists at his side, rather than grab Dace around the throat and shake him soundly, which was what he really wanted to do. “When will you leave?”

“You are so impatient.”

“She could be in danger, Dace.”

“She might just be sunning herself beside a pool somewhere, too,” the god retorted. “On the other hand, it is winter and R’shiel never was the sort to relax, although it wouldn’t do her any harm... Oh, stop looking at me like that! I’ll go and see what’s happening, but I won’t cross Zegarnald if he’s got a hand in this. He’s as strong as he’s ever been with this war going on.”

“You do whatever you have to, Divine One,” Tarja agreed.

Dace grinned. “Divine One? Does this mean you’re finally coming to believe in us, Tarja?”

“I believe in you Dace, I just don’t happen to want to worship you.”

“Ah, well,” the god sighed. “Just so long as you never tell Kalianah you love her.”

“That’s not very likely.”

“Glad to hear it. Will you see that Draginya gets away safely?”

Tarja nodded. The boy turned to the old woman and kissed her cheek. “See, Tarja will take care of you. I’d better go see what’s happened to the demon child.”

Dace vanished without warning, leaving Tarja frowning and old Draginya smiling toothlessly.

Chapter 53

Mikel was chattering away to Dace about the eggs they had stolen when he suddenly realised that his friend was no longer with him. He looked around the crowded camp, puzzled. Dace was nowhere to be seen.

Mikel sighed, used to Dace’s odd disappearances by now. He did that sort of thing a lot. One minute he was there and the next he was gone. Still, it wasn’t that important. Mikel knew the way to the old herb woman’s place where the eggs were safely nestled in an old shawl in the corner of her tent. He was far more interested in them, anyway. The chicks should hatch any day now and he was as excited as any expectant father.

He turned into the street beside Will Barley’s tavern tent and stopped dead as a familiar figure emerged from the old woman’s tent. Mikel bit back a startled cry and slipped back between the tavern tent and the tent beside it. What was Tarja doing in the old woman’s tent? Had he discovered the eggs?

Even Mikel knew that stealing a clutch of swallow’s eggs would not warrant the attention of a Defender. Perhaps he was sickening for something and had gone to see Draginya for a cure? Then something truly dreadful occurred to him. Perhaps Tarja had discovered that Mikel spent most of his afternoons with Dace and had come looking for him. The only reason Tarja would seek him out was to punish him, Mikel was certain. What would he do? Would Jaymes lose a finger because of his brother’s folly? That he had disowned his brother as a traitor was momentarily forgotten.

He waited anxiously, filled with trepidation as Tarja moved off between the tents. When he was sure the Defender would not turn back, he hurried to the old woman’s tent and slipped inside.

“Did he hurt you?” Mikel demanded as soon as the flap closed behind him.

Draginya sat in her chair by the smoking brazier from where she hardly ever seemed to move; at least in Mikel’s company.

“Did who hurt me, child?” She sounded surprised by his question.

“Tarja.”

Her face creased into a wrinkled frown. “You speak with too much hatred for a child.”

“That’s because he’s a monster!”

“Your ignorance blinds you, boy. Tarja is the appointed lover of the demon child. He is destined for great things.”

Mikel stared at her. “Says who?”

“The gods, of course. Hasn’t your god explained these things?”

“The Overlord doesn’t speak to the likes of me. He only speaks to the priests and stuff.”

Draginya nodded sadly. “That is a great shame.”

“Anyway,” Mikel added, rather put out by the old woman’s pitying tone. “Tarja’s a Medalonian. That makes him an atheist. Even if I believed what you say about the other gods, he wouldn’t.”

“Tarja knows the gods exist, Mikel. He simply choses not to worship them. The Primal gods like to have believers, but they don’t need them. You honoured Dacendaran when you stole those eggs. Whether you believe in him or not doesn’t enter into it.”

“We never stole anything!”

“You removed those eggs from their rightful owner without permission. That defines theft, don’t you think?”

“But we wanted to save the chicks,” he protested.

“If you kill one man to save another, it is still killing, Mikel. Good intentions don’t alter the nature of an event.”

“Then I betrayed the Overlord,” he concluded, sinking down to the floor beside Draginya’s stool. “I’m doomed.”

“You’re exaggerating,” the old woman scolded. “You are a child, Mikel, and far too young to concern yourself with visions of doom and eternal damnation. Live life to the full and follow the god of your heart, not the tired litanies of grown-ups whose desire for power has a lot more to do with their faith than what their god might want.”

“That’s blasphemy.”

“No, it’s wisdom. When you’re as old as I am, you get to call everything wisdom. Now go check on your eggs and be off with you. I’m tired and I have to start packing.”

“You’re leaving? Why?” Mikel was much less concerned about the old woman travelling in winter than he was about his eggs. If she left, what would he do with them?

“Because your people will be here soon. They’ll take one look at me and burn me for a witch, I’m certain.”

“You mean there’ll be another battle? One that Prince Cratyn will win?”

She shook her head and placed a withered hand on his shoulder. “The battle has been fought and lost far from this place, child. The Defenders have been ordered to surrender.”

All thought of eggs fled Mikel’s mind as the news sunk in. The Defenders were going to surrender! Jaymes would be released and brought back into the arms of the Overlord.

And best of all, he thought happily, Princess Adrina would not have to pretend to hate Prince Cratyn any more.

Mikel hurried back through the camp, his heart lighter than it had been for months. Any day now, Prince Cratyn would cross the border in triumph. Karien had won. Tarja would be hung for the criminal he was. The Overlord had made the Medalonians surrender with hardly a drop of blood spilt. (He conveniently forgot the massacre resulting from the only serious Karien incursion into Medalon.) It didn’t matter what happened now. It didn’t matter what they did to him. The Overlord was truly omnipotent, just like the priests said.

He skirted the edge of the camp and wound his way back through the corrals, taking the route closest to the Hythrun stables. He always took the same route. Dace claimed it was in the hope of catching sight of his brother – a charge Mikel vehemently denied. It was simply the easiest way back, he insisted, ignoring Dace’s knowing smirk.

This time, however, he actively searched for his brother. He had to give him the news, quite certain that as soon as Jaymes learnt his own people would soon be here, he would see the error of his ways. Mikel was thrilled by the prospect and burning to share it with someone.

Jaymes was nowhere to be found, but as he stuck his head cautiously around the corner of the first stable block, he spied someone who deserved to hear the news even more.

Adrina was alone, brushing down a gorgeous golden mare, talking to the beast softly as she worked. There was nobody else around, not even a guard. Mikel chose to think of that as a sign from the Overlord, rather than the more obvious conclusion – that she wasn’t guarded because they didn’t consider her in need of one.

“Your Highness!” he hissed loudly.

Adrina turned and frowned when she caught sight of him.

“Mikel? What are you doing hiding over there?”

He slipped into the stable and ran to her, dropping to one knee as he had seen the Fardohnyan lanceman do after the battle. The gesture had struck him as being terribly noble.

“Your Highness, I have the most wonderful news!”

“Have you now? Do tell.”

“Medalon has surrendered, your Highness. Prince Cratyn will be here any day. We are to be rescued!”

Mikel looked up, expecting to see relief and happiness radiating from her in equal measure. He was disappointed to find her taking the news quite calmly.

“And where did you hear this startling piece of intelligence?” she asked.

“From the old herb woman in the camp. She’s already packing to leave for fear of the Overlord’s wrath.”

Adrina smiled. “Mikel, don’t you think if Medalon had surrendered, their troops might be told before some old herb woman? I’m sure she’s mistaken.”

“But she seemed so certain, your Highness. Even Tarja went to visit her.”

“Now that’s interesting,” Adrina agreed. “Do you know why?”

“The old woman said it was to talk to the God of Thieves, but I don’t believe her. There is only the Overlord, isn’t there?”

“Yes, of course,” she agreed absently.

“Aren’t you happy, your Highness?”

“I’m delirious with happiness,” she assured him. “It’s just not seemly that a woman in my position display extremes of emotion.”

He smiled with relief. He had forgotten how well mannered she was, how careful she was not to shame herself. It must have been so hard on her, having to pretend to be nice to everyone, while inside she was missing Prince Cratyn so badly.

“It will be alright, your Highness. Prince Cratyn will be here soon.”

“I can’t tell you what a comfort that is,” she said.

Mikel stood up beaming. To have been able to deliver such wonderful news to his lady was more than he could have hoped for in this dreadful place.

Adrina smiled down at him. “I thank you, Mikel, but shouldn’t you be getting along? The Defenders haven’t surrendered yet, and I’d hate for you to wear a beating on my account.”

“It won’t be long now, your Highness,” Mikel promised with an encouraging smile. He turned and ran from the stable, almost colliding with Lord Wolfblade. He yelped with astonishment and fled past the Warlord, praying he hadn’t been recognised.

A few paces from the stable, Mikel stopped and looked back over his shoulder. The Warlord had vanished inside. The princess was in there. Alone. It just wasn’t proper. He wavered with indecision for a moment and then headed back to the stable.

Mikel slipped back into the building silently, grateful for Dace’s instruction on how to sneak around without being noticed, and hid in the first empty stall he came to. It was close enough to hear what the Warlord said to the princess. The boy smiled expectantly. Now that she knew she was to be rescued soon, he fully expected Adrina to give him a piece of her mind.

“You don’t have to do that, you know.”

Adrina looked over her shoulder. “When I was a child, the only thing we were ever allowed to do for ourselves, was groom our horses. Hablet thought it would teach us a responsibility.”

“And did it?”

She smiled. “Actually, I think it taught us more about the value of bribes. It was more fun trying to avoid the task than doing it.”

Damin walked up behind Adrina and placed his hand over hers as she brushed the animal with long slow strokes. He stood so close behind her that their bodies were touching. The princess didn’t scream. She didn’t even flinch. Damin bent his head and touched his lips to her neck, just below her right ear. She arched her back and leaned into him.

“Stop that.”

“Why?”

“There’s no future in this, Damin. You know that as well as I.”

He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer. “Ah, that’s right, we hate each other, don’t we?”

She turned in his arms and touched her forehead to his. “You’re confusing lust with genuine feeling, my Lord.”

As if to give lie to her words, she kissed him. There was no mistaking it for anything else; she was definitely kissing him, not the other way around. Mikel almost bit through his bottom lip to prevent himself from crying out his outrage.

“If that’s your idea of trying to make me stop, then the court’esa who trained you needs to be horsewhipped,” Damin laughed softly when they finally came up for air.

Adrina smiled. It was the same sort of intimate smile R’shiel saved for Tarja. The sort of smile Adrina had never bestowed on his prince.

“That’s all this is, you know. A simple case of two well trained and rather bored people amusing themselves far from home.”

“I grant you that we’re both well trained,” Damin agreed, unwrapping her arms from around his neck. He held her hands for a moment and then turned them over, kissing the palms. “And I’ve no doubt you’re bored. But this is far from simple, Adrina.”

She sighed. “I know. So what are we going to do?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m heading home while I still can.”

“How noble of you. What happens to me?”

“That’s up to you. You have two choices. Stay and face Cratyn, or come with me.”

Adrina’s eyes widened. “Follow you to Hythria? You’re pretty damn certain of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I wish I could say my offer was entirely motivated by the knowledge that you’d rather die than live without me, but the fact is, neither you nor I want a Karien heir to your father’s throne. The whole world will be safer with you in my bed, rather than Cratyn’s.”

“You are the most arrogant pig I have ever met.”

“Probably. Will you come with me, or not?”

“Is sharing your bed a condition of the deal?”

“No. If you want, I’ll never touch you again. I’ll escort you to Hythria and kill any man who tries to lay a hand on you against your will. Myself included.”

“You’d throw yourself on your sword for me? Somehow, I doubt that, Damin.”

“It sounded rather noble, though, don’t you think?”

Adrina kissed him again. Mikel couldn’t tell how long it lasted. He was too busy wiping away tears of anger and disappointment. Adrina knew that Cratyn was on his way to rescue her. The only reason she was doing this was the one he had refused to contemplate until now.

“I have conditions,” she said, when they finally broke apart.

“Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.” Damin gathered up the mare’s lead rope and led her to an empty stall next to the one where Mikel was hiding. He held his breath.

“I’m a princess of royal blood, Damin, not some whore you picked up in the followers’ camp. I expect to be treated as such.”

“My men shall treat you with the utmost respect, your Highness, or I’ll whip them myself.” He closed the gate on the stall and walked back to her. The sun had almost set and it was getting hard to see them in the gloom.

“I wasn’t referring to your men, I was talking about you.”

“I’ll ignore that. What else?”

“The remainder of my Guard, those men the Defenders are holding prisoner, are to be released.”

“I think I can arrange that.”

“And I’m not your damned prisoner, either. If I go with you, I go of my own free will. I’ll be free to leave anytime I want.”

“Was that all?”

“No. I want it clearly understood where we stand with each other.”

“And where is that, exactly?”

“I don’t love you, Damin, and I’m damned sure you don’t love me. I’ll admit that there is a certain... physical attraction... between us, but that’s all it is. I get a thrill out of flirting with danger and you are about the most dangerous thing around. I don’t want you mistaking this affair for something it’s not.”

Damin didn’t answer her for a long moment. Then he smiled. “You’re a consummate liar, Adrina.”

“I assure you, sir, I meant every word.”

“That’s what makes you so believable. Very well, I agree to your conditions. I’m planning to break camp the day after tomorrow. Be prepared for some hard riding. If your husband should happen to discover where you are, we’ll have every Karien on the border chasing us all the way to Hythria.”

“Then you’d better hope your Medalonian friends don’t tell him. I wasn’t planning to leave him a note, you know.”

“Now there’s a thought,” he laughed. He picked up her cloak from where she had thrown it over the railing and held it out for her. Adrina turned and allowed him to drape it over her shoulders. “Let me see, how would it go? Dear Cratyn —”

“Cretin,” she corrected. “I always called him Cretin. The Kariens thought it was my accent.”

“Very subtle... Dear Cretin, sorry I can’t be here to meet you dear, but I’ve run off to Hythria with a dashing warlord —”

“Dashing?”

“Handsome sounded a bit arrogant, I thought... Anyway, where was I? I’ve run off to Hythria with a dashing warlord with whom I’ve been making wild, passionate love every night for... how long has it been?”

“One week and two days...”

“Are you counting?”

“Only out of curiosity.” She turned to face him, her expression suddenly serious. “We shouldn’t joke about this, Damin. He’ll kill us both.”

Damin kissed her forehead. “It will take more than – what did you call him? Prince Cretin the Cringing – to kill me. And I swear I’ll kill you myself before I hand you back to him.”

“Well, that makes me feel so much better.”

Mikel shrank down as they walked past his stall exchanging that odd mixture of intimate secrets and insulting banter that seemed to characterise their conversations, tears of bitter disappointment sliding down his cheeks.

The truth burned in his stomach like a bad meal. He waited in the darkness surrounded by the moist smell of the horses for a long, long time after they were gone. His heart was breaking; his childish illusions well and truly shattered.

By the time he forced himself to move, his fingers were numb with cold. But he had made a decision. When the Karien army crossed the border, Mikel would find a way to gain an audience with the prince.

He was going to have to explain to Cratyn that his beautiful, noble princess was nothing more than a traitorous slut.