Treason Keep

Chapter 54

The walls of the Citadel defined Brak’s prison. He had discovered this annoying detail quite by accident as he had tried to follow Lord Terbolt to a meeting with another Karien agent in the small village of Kordale, west of the city. He had met an invisible wall as solid and impenetrable as the wall that cut him off from his power. Brak had tested its limits right around the Citadel, but could find no weak point. He wondered if it was entirely Zegarnald’s doing or if the Citadel itself was aiding the War God, although he could think of no reason why the Citadel would ever cooperate with Zegarnald.

He spent his days watching and worrying over R’shiel. His frustration was a palpable thing and his worry enough to make him physically sick. He had watched Loclon tormenting her and the demon, helpless to intervene. He had watched him punish her then cut off her hair, tearing uselessly at the invisible barrier that separated him from the ordinary world. But worse, he watched as every day R’shiel sank a little lower into despair; a little closer to giving in; a little closer to the day he might have to kill her.

Brak had an odd relationship with R’shiel. Part guardian, part teacher, he had been sent to find the demon child and bring her home to Sanctuary. His first impressions of her had not been good – she was spoilt, manipulative and rebellious. She bore long grudges and tended to be rather single-minded when it came to getting even. Brak had not liked her much in the beginning. It had taken a long time for him to discover how much of R’shiel’s behaviour was a result of her upbringing as much as her true nature. She carried a lot of hurt inside and those who hurt her would suffer for it. He was also cynical enough to realise that the very qualities that made him distrust her were just the sort of characteristics one needed if one was destined to destroy a god.

When he had first set out to find the demon child, he had vague visions of a noble young man with a pure heart, who would take on his appointed task with a solemn vow and then... well, he’d never really got to that bit. He had not expected R’shiel; not expected to find a complicated, troubled young woman, who had been raised by the most ruthless and unloving mother that the Sisterhood had ever spawned.

It wasn’t until he learnt how much of her suffering had been sanctioned by the gods, that he truly began to sympathise with her. Zegarnald’s “tempering” had been a cruel and rocky road for R’shiel and she was a long way from the end.

If he stood back from it, he understood the logic. Xaphista was a master of seduction, in his own way. He had seduced millions of Kariens into believing him. One half-breed Harshini would hardly be a threat, unless that half-breed was inured to his enticements. R’shiel had to be so determined to destroy him that nothing would stop her. She had to be ruthless enough to stand back and watch everything and everyone she held dear threatened with extinction, and not waver from her purpose. She had survived being raised by Joyhinia, raped by Loclon, imprisoned by the Sisterhood, a near-fatal wound, and the discovery that she was a member of a race that she had been raised to despise. The experience had left her battered and bruised, but it had not even come close to breaking her. Brak was beginning to wonder if her current situation would succeed where everything else had failed.

When she regained consciousness after Loclon left her room, it had taken her a little while to get her bearings. Her face was a mess – her forehead puffy and bruised and covered in dried blood. She lay for a time, staring at the canopy over the bed, as if trying to recall how she came to be there. Then she sat up and ran her fingers through her hair. She stiffened with shock, then looked behind her at the carefully laid-out halo of dark red hair that was left behind on the pillow.

For a moment she did nothing but stare at it in bewilderment, then she leapt off the bed and ran to the mirror hanging over the dresser. Brak winced as she looked at her reflection. Vanity was not a quality he associated with R’shiel – she had always seemed rather unconscious of her beauty – but even the plainest woman would have gasped at the reflection staring back at her. Loclon had hacked off her hair with little care. It stood up in clumps in places; elsewhere it had been cut so close to the scalp that the skin showed through. Her eyes were blackening, the cut on her forehead a red slash across a purple landscape of bruises. Her long neck was livid; white blisters already visible above and below the thin silver collar. Several had burst when she began to move, leaving weeping patches of raw flesh to rub against the metal.

R’shiel stared at her reflection for a long, long time, then she sank down onto the floor and sobbed like a brokenhearted child.

Brak could feel her anguish but could do nothing to relieve it.

He could not imagine what it must be like for her to cope with Loclon in Joyhinia’s body. Added to that, she had failed in her attempt to coerce the Sisterhood. Mahina was imprisoned. Affiana and Lord Draco were both dead. Garet Warner had changed sides and the Kariens effectively had control of the Citadel. If that wasn’t enough, when the order to surrender arrived at the border, Tarja’s life would be forfeit. He had no way of knowing, but Brak suspected R’shiel’s tears were as much from failure, as they were from pain.

But while her reactions up to that point had been typical, since that day R’shiel seemed sunk so far in misery, that she no longer cared what happened.

Terbolt had been quite appalled at the state she was in when he returned from his prayers and livid over the loss of the demon. He had chastised Loclon severely, but the Karien still needed a cooperative Joyhinia, so he had done little more than make his displeasure known. He had ordered the priests to treat her wounds and Garanus, in a rare show of compassion, trimmed her hair until it was, if not quite styled, then at least tidy. Once the bruises faded, she wouldn’t look too bad, Brak thought. She had that sort of bone structure.

But R’shiel cared no more for how she looked than she did about anything else, at present. She ate only if the priests stood over her, and then it was mechanically, as if she didn’t taste a bite. She said nothing unless directly addressed and then answered in a monotone. She washed when they told her, ate when they ordered her, and when she was alone she simply sat where they left her, staring blindly into the distance.

Two days after Loclon’s attack some of the blisters under the collar began to fester. She did not even flinch when the priests held back her head, lanced the sores and poured saltwater onto the open cuts. They did not remove the collar, simply worked around it, but even that rough handling got no reaction from her. He remembered how vague she had been after he rescued her from the Grimfield, the night she had tried to kill Loclon. She had been animated then, compared to her present state.

And there was not a damned thing he could do about it.

Two weeks after R’shiel’s capture at the Gathering, Lord Terbolt finally announced his intention to leave the Citadel and return to Karien. Brak had been certain he was waiting for something, but could not work out what it was. The arrival of a tall, dour-looking Karien who introduced himself as Squire Mathen was apparently what the duke had been expecting. The two of them remained closeted for hours. When they emerged, Terbolt announced his plans to leave.

Loclon had been fairly panting in anticipation for that moment, and his chance at unfettered power as First Sister. Brak had wondered if Terbolt would be so foolish as to leave Loclon in charge. The Karien Duke was not stupid and Loclon’s loss of the demon and his attack on R’shiel had done nothing to foster any trust between them. Brak thought it would be better for everyone if he simply slit the throat of Loclon’s senseless body and let his soul wither and die.

They kept Loclon’s body in a room in the First Sister’s apartments. The priests tended it with businesslike efficiency. Transferring the mind of one person into the body of another was not such a difficult feat to arrange, by Harshini standards. It was just one of those things that was only done if there was a good reason for it – and that was rare. Had they thought about it, they could have done the same to Joyhinia themselves, although considering the way things had turned out, it probably would not have made a difference, given that Zegarnald actually wanted to push R’shiel to breaking point.

There were risks, though. If the host body died, then the mind automatically returned to its own body with little more than a nasty shock. But if the vacant body died, the soul had nowhere to go. It would survive a day or two, no longer, before joining its physical counterpart in death. Loclon’s transfer was nothing like the subtle removal of wit that Dacendaran had performed on Joyhinia. This was the working of a clutch of Karien priests who lacked the finesse of a god. They had simply taken Loclon’s mind – lock, stock and barrel – and dumped it into Joyhinia’s unresisting body.

Squire Mathen would remain behind to “assist” the First Sister. Loclon was furious, and could do nothing but agree. Two priests would remain behind also, Terbolt declared, then made a great show of handing Mathen the key to the room where Loclon’s body lay. The message was clear, even to Loclon.

Terbolt’s announcement of their imminent departure drew no visible reaction from R’shiel. She barely even glanced at him. Loclon waited outside the door, fidgeting with Joyhinia’s long skirts. As soon as Terbolt emerged, he began demanding to know exactly who Squire Mathen was. Brak made to follow them, until he spied Garet Warner entering the apartment. He said something to guards on R’shiel’s door that Brak didn’t catch then went inside. On impulse, Brak followed Garet.

The commandant seemed shocked at R’shiel’s condition, but she was as unresponsive to his arrival as she had been to anything else in the past week. Garet knelt down beside her chair and gently shook her shoulder.

“R’shiel?”

She ignored him, or perhaps she was so far inside herself, she really didn’t know he was there.

“R’shiel?”

Finally she turned to him, her eyes blank. “What?”

“You’re leaving today. With Lord Terbolt.”

“I know.”

“They’ve ordered the troops on the border to surrender.”

“I know.”

Garet muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse.

“Do you understand me, R’shiel? Do you even know who I am?”

“I know you,” she replied tonelessly. “You betrayed me.”

He nodded, satisfied with her answer for some reason. “I didn’t betray you, R’shiel. I just can’t help anyone from a prison cell. Do you understand? Do you know why I did what I did?”

She turned to him, showing some real interest for the first time. “You did what you said you would do. Brak called you an honest man.”

“Not a description I’d use myself, but I think I know what he means.” He reached into his boot-top and withdrew a thin sheathed blade. “Can you hide this somewhere?”

She stared at the knife incomprehensibly. “What for?”

“To escape, maybe? Or do you want to go to Karien?”

“I have to face the Overlord. He wants me to join him.”

Garet sighed and pushed the knife into the top of her boot. “You do what you have to, R’shiel. The only thing I’m concerned about is Medalon. I’ve done all I can for you.”

The commandant left after that and the guards came in to escort R’shiel downstairs. She let them drape a plain woollen cloak over her shoulders and lead her away without resistance. Brak followed her and the Karien party as they descended the stairs, wanting to scream with frustration. Once they left the Citadel, she would be entirely out of reach.

Garanus handed her into the carriage and then climbed in beside her. As soon as the door snicked shut the carriage moved off toward the Main Gate where Terbolt and nearly a thousand Defenders awaited the order to move out. Brak had never felt more helpless in his entire life.

“Zegarnald!”

The grey limbo in which he was trapped seemed to quiver with the strength of his cry.

“Zegarnald! Let me out of here!”

The silence he received in reply was absolute.

Chapter 55

Adrina had just finished packing, if throwing her few meagre possessions into a sack could be called that, when the door flew open and Tarja appeared.

“If you’re leaving, your Highness, you’d better do it now,” he warned. “The Kariens are on their way.”

“How can that be? Damin said Jenga had agreed not to surrender until we’d gone.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps they know about the order from the Citadel. They may even have had a hand in it somehow. All I know is that there’s a whole troop of knights riding this way under a flag of truce.”

Adrina cursed in a most unladylike fashion. “Tam, go and find... no, on second thoughts, you’d better stay with me. Someone might recognise you. Are you certain they’re heading this way?”

“Yes.”

“How long do we have?”

“Not long at all, I’m afraid.”

“We’d best get moving then.” Adrina snatched up her sack and slung it over her shoulder. Tarja led them onto the landing. The guards were gone now. Lord Jenga had dismissed them days ago, when it became apparent she was no longer using the quarters over the main hall often enough to warrant placing a guard on them.

She followed Tarja cautiously, Tam close on her heels. They were halfway down the stairs when he stopped suddenly and held his arm out to bar her progress. The Hall doors rattled as they were pushed open.

“Back! Now!” Tarja hissed.

Adrina did not need to be told twice. She raced back up the stairs, pushing Tam ahead of her. When they reached the landing, Tarja motioned them down. By the time they were stretched out on their bellies, looking down over the Hall, the first of the Kariens were clattering through the door.

Adrina recognised Lord Roache and Lord Laetho as they raised their faceplates. The other knights she did not know; they were more than likely an escort. The Dukes made their way to the end of the hall as Lord Jenga entered with Cratyn at his side. Following them were a dozen or more Defenders. None of the Medalonians looked very happy.

Adrina studied Cratyn for a moment. He removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair as he looked around the Hall. His eyes skimmed over the darkened balcony. He could not see her, she knew, but she held her breath in any case. Jenga ordered wine served and turned to face Cratyn. The two opposing sides had unconsciously arranged themselves on either side of the long wooden table near the fireplace.

“You requested a parley, your Highness, and I have honoured your flag of truce. What do you want?”

Cratyn seemed a little taken aback by Jenga’s blunt manner. “I’m certain you know exactly what I want, my Lord. I want your surrender.”

Several Defenders, those officers who did not know of the order from the Citadel, gasped in surprise. Jenga silenced them with a look and turned back to the young prince.

“What makes you think I’m planning to surrender?”

Cratyn looked at Roache uncertainly. “I was led to believe, my Lord, that you had received an order to that effect some time ago.”

“Then you were misinformed, your Highness.”

Adrina was quite astounded to hear the Lord Defender lie so blatantly. Isn’t truth supposed to be a virtue of the Defenders? She glanced at Tarja, but he was engrossed in the scene below and his expression was impossible to read in the gloom.

“He’s lying, your Highness,” Roache assured the prince confidently.

Jenga turned on Roache. “You impugn my honour, sir?”

Before Roache could reply the doors flew open and Damin burst in, followed by Almodavar and a score of Raiders. Adrina smiled at Damin’s theatrical flair – every man with him must have been picked for his size, she thought. They were conspicuously armed and arrayed themselves across the doorway, blocking the exit.

Tarja groaned softly. “Founders, what’s he up to now?”

“My apologies for being late,” Damin announced as he strode into the Hall. He walked straight up to Lord Roache and bowed extravagantly. “You must be Prince Cratyn.”

“I am Cratyn,” the prince announced in annoyance. Damin had walked straight past him. It was no accident, Adrina was certain. Roache was old enough to be his grandfather and Damin knew well how old Cratyn was.

“You?” Damin asked in feigned surprise. “Gods! You’re just a child. Ah, but you’re not a child, are you? I hear you’re married now. How is your lovely wife, by the way?”

Adrina cringed at the question. What the hell was he playing at? Cratyn glared at him, quite appalled by the Warlord.

“Who are you, sir?” Roache demanded angrily.

“I’m sorry, did I forget to introduce myself? I am Damin Wolfblade, Warlord of Krakandar, Crown Prince of Hythria, Prince of the Northern Marshes, and there’s another title or two that I can’t quite recall. And you would be...?”

“This is Lord Roache and Lord Laetho, my advisers,” Cratyn said, not having the wits to announce their full titles.

“Lord Laetho?” Damin asked. “Now you I’ve heard of. What happened to that brat we sent back, by the way?”

“We are here to discuss surrender!” Cratyn declared, sounding more like a petulant child than a statesman.

As she watched Cratyn try to impose his will on the gathering, she could not help but compare her husband to her lover. Apart from the physical differences between the men – even the most objective observer would agree that Cratyn fared a poor second – there was no comparison. Damin commanded authority without even trying. Cratyn had to demand it – loudly.

“Surrender?” Damin cried, as if it was the first time he had heard the word. “Surely you’re not going to quit after one measly little battle, Cratyn? I came here for a good fight and you want to surrender already? Have some balls, man!”

Even Jenga bit back a smile at Damin’s deliberate misunderstanding.

“Not me, you fool!” Cratyn snapped. Normally surrounded by men who treated him like rare porcelain, he was floundering in the face of Damin’s disrespect. “Medalon is surrendering to us!”

“You are?” Damin asked Jenga. “Since when?”

“No decision has been made as yet, Lord Wolfblade.”

“You claimed you knew nothing about this,” Cratyn accused.

“An unverified message has been received, your Highness. I do not consider that an order when dealing with an issue of such importance.”

“You require verification, my Lord?” Roache asked.

“Naturally. Would you surrender a strategically superior position without some sort of confirmation?”

Roache nodded solemnly. “Of course not. How long will this verification take?”

“I suppose that depends on whether or not the order is genuine,” Jenga shrugged. “I imagine the confirmation should arrive within the week, if it is.”

“And if the order is proved genuine?”

“Then I have no choice, your Grace,” Jenga conceded.

Roache appeared satisfied with the Lord Defender’s answer. He was the most experienced of Cratyn’s dukes. He understood the Lord Defender’s position, even admired his stance.

“Perhaps then, in anticipation of the verification you require, we could discuss the details of your surrender?”

“That is somewhat premature, is it not?” Jenga ventured.

“Not at all, my Lord. Given that we have also been advised of your imminent surrender, one could safely assume that the order is genuine. Given that neither of us wishes unnecessary misunderstanding, such an agreement would seem prudent, don’t you think?”

Cratyn had become superfluous in the face of the experience of the Lord Defender and the canny Lord Roache. Even Laetho seemed at a loss for words. But Damin wasn’t finished. Not yet.

“Well, I’m sorry, but if you’re going to surrender, I can’t condone it,” he declared. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

“The surrender includes all forces currently allied with Medalon,” Cratyn pointed out stiffly.

“Then consider our alliance at an end,” Damin announced. “I’m not going to surrender to this whelp.” He turned on Cratyn shaking his head. “Did you really marry one of Hablet’s daughters? Gods! I can’t imagine how you manage to keep her satisfied.”

Adrina would have thrown something at Damin, had she had a missile handy, but Cratyn did blush an interesting shade of red.

Damin turned to Jenga. “My Lord, I cannot countenance this farce any longer. I shall be leaving immediately. Kindly have my court’esa delivered to my tent at once.”

The Warlord tossed his head dramatically and marched from the Hall, his savage looking Raiders in his wake. Jenga purposely kept his eyes downcast.

“Aren’t you going to stop him?” Lord Laetho demanded.

“Lord Wolfblade is an ally, my Lord. I do not command him. Short of a pitched battle, I don’t see how I can stop him leaving.”

“The Hythrun is of no importance,” Roache agreed. “There is only one place he can go, and he might find more waiting for him when he gets there than he bargained for.”

“There is also the matter of Captain Tenragan,” Cratyn added, annoyed that the discussion was slipping from his control.

“Your Highness?”

“Don’t play the innocent, Lord Jenga. Tarja Tenragan murdered Lord Pieter and the priest Elfron. He is to be handed over to us for trial.”

“There was nothing mentioned about this, even in the unverified order.”

“I can assure you, verification is on its way. You must agree to hold him, pending your surrender.”

Adrina glanced at Tarja. He was torn between stepping forward and bolting, she thought. Duty warring with survival. She placed a hand on his arm and shook her head.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Tarja,” she said softly. “There’s nothing you can achieve by going down there.”

Tarja looked at her for a moment. He nodded slowly, acknowledging her advice, then turned back to watching the Kariens.

“Should such an order be received, then of course I will honour it,” Jenga assured Cratyn.

“I should think so,” Cratyn replied, rather lamely. He really wasn’t handling this very well.

“In that case, gentlemen, I believe this discussion is at an end. I shall have Captain Alcarnen escort you to the border. Should verification arrive, I will send a message, advising my position.”

“Your cooperation in this matter is much appreciated, my Lord,” Roache agreed, before Cratyn could add anything further.

“Captain!”

Nheal Alcarnen stepped forward and saluted sharply.

“Would you be so kind as to escort our guests back to the border?”

“Sir!”

There was little else Cratyn and his party could do but follow the captain.

As soon as the Kariens had left the Hall, pandemonium broke loose, as the officers demanded an explanation. Tarja waited until Jenga had quieted his men and ordered them about their business. The last man was leaving as they descended the stairs. Jenga looked up at their approach. His face was haggard.

“You’d better get out of here, and soon.”

Adrina nodded. “I thank you for not betraying my presence, my Lord.”

Jenga shrugged. “A small victory over the Kariens, your Highness, even if there is nobody to share it with. I wish you a safe journey, although I suspect your future is as doubtful as mine.” He turned to Tarja. “I want you to go with them, Captain.”

“I won’t desert you, Jenga. Not this time.”

The Lord Defender shook his head. “I want your resignation then. I’m damned if I’m going to hand any man of mine over to the Kariens for some sort of farcical trial with a noose waiting at the end of it. Particularly for a crime he didn’t commit.”

Adrina looked at Tarja curiously. If Tarja hadn’t killed Lord Pieter, then who had?

“I won’t run away, Jenga.”

“Now is not the time to be noble, Tarja. I lied to the Kariens. A courier delivered the orders from the Citadel this morning, signed by Joyhinia. Accompanying the orders was a warrant for your arrest.”

“Then you will surrender?”

“I have no choice.”

Tarja didn’t answer.

“Go,” Jenga ordered. There was more emotion in that one word than Adrina could ever recall seeing the Lord Defender betray previously.

Tarja hesitated for a moment then saluted smartly. “My Lord!”

He turned away, his expression determined and even a little disappointed. Adrina impulsively leaned forward and kissed Jenga’s weathered cheek before she and Tam hurried after him.

“Captain!”

They stopped and looked back. Adrina could have sworn there were tears in the old man’s eyes.

“Take as many men with you as you can. Just be quiet about it.”

Tarja nodded in understanding. “As you wish.”

“You’re the only one I can ask this of, you understand that, don’t you? No other man in my command has experience of this type of warfare.”

The comment puzzled Adrina. “War is war, isn’t it? Besides, you said you would surrender.”

“I’m surrendering my forces, your Highness. I have no say over what former officers do once they have resigned from the corps.”

“You’ll accept my resignation then, my Lord?”

The Lord Defender nodded.

“Make the bastards pay, Tarja,” he added. “Make them pay for every league of Medalon soil they claim.”

What could one man and a handful of renegade soldiers do, she wondered, to halt an army the size of the Kariens? Then she glanced at the captain and saw the look of quiet determination in Tarja’s eyes.

Cratyn was going to find taking Medalon a lot harder than he imagined.

Chapter 56

There was no denying the rumours once the Kariens arrived under a flag of truce, and Lord Jenga did not bother trying. On the morning following the meeting with Prince Cratyn word was passed through the camp that Medalon would surrender. The following day a messenger was sent north through a miserable squall to request another meeting with the Kariens – this one to negotiate the details. Mikel heard the news with mixed feelings. The welcome thought that he would soon be back among his own people was soured by the knowledge he carried.

The Hythrun camp was dismantled with remarkable speed. Rather than move out as one large force, Lord Wolfblade dispatched his men in waves, a Century at a time. He was concerned that his fleeing force might prove too tempting to the Kariens. Cratyn would not be able to resist pursuing a thousand Hythrun across Medalon, but it was unlikely he would bother hunting down countless scattered bands of them.

Mikel overheard Monthay discussing the strategic merits of the Warlord’s decision with another sergeant. He seemed to admire it. The Raiders left in platoons of one hundred, which would break into smaller groups once they were clear of the battlefield. They had been ordered to make their way home anyway they could. Some would ride straight for the Glass River, others would stay on this side until they almost reached Bordertown. It would be well nigh impossible to round them all up.

The Hythrun weren’t the only ones departing in haste. The followers’ camp was a frenzy of activity as some hastened to leave and others dug in, hoping for even more business once the countless Kariens arrived. Mistress Miffany’s brightly striped tent was gone even before the Kariens had paid Lord Jenga a visit, as was old Draginya’s tent. Mikel had no idea what happened to his eggs but he cared little for them now. He had more important things to worry about. More adult things. He had not seen Dace or Kali for days and assumed his new friends had left too.

The last of the Hythrun to leave was Lord Wolfblade’s party, and the size of it puzzled him. He was certain nearly all of the Hythrun Raiders had left already, yet there seemed far too many men gathered on the edge of the camp waiting for the order to move out. Then Mikel realised that over half the men riding with the Warlord were mounted on sturdy Medalonian horses, not the magnificent golden horses of the Hythrun. There were even men mounted on the captured Fardohnyan steeds. His suspicions were confirmed when Damin appeared with Tarja at his side. The soldiers wore nondescript civilian clothing, but they were Defenders, sure as Xaphista was the Overlord. Tarja was abandoning the field and taking hundreds of his men with him, including the captured Fardohnyans.

Mikel watched from the top rail of the corral nearest the Hythrun stables. He could not see the princess, but she was there somewhere, he was certain. Nor could he spot Jaymes in the milling crowd. He had anxiously studied every troop leaving the field and was sure that his brother was still in the camp. Perhaps Jaymes had seen the light; or perhaps the Hythrun had abandoned him once they knew they were heading home.

It was just on dawn when Tarja gave the order to move out. He and Damin waited off to the side, their heads close together as they discussed something of import, as the men moved off. Several other riders waited behind then, but from this distance, Mikel could not identify them.

“Mikel!”

Jaymes broke away from the host and cantered toward him. He was mounted on a Medalonian horse – he was too raw to be trusted with a valuable Hythrun mount, but his saddlebags were full, his bed roll tied to the saddle.

“Have you come to see me off?” His brother’s eyes glittered with the excitement of his adventure. He sat his horse as proud as any Defender.

Mikel glared at him reproachfully. “Traitor.”

Jaymes’expression hardened. “You’re a child, Mikel. You don’t understand.”

“I understand plenty. You’re betraying your country, your lord and your prince. Just like her.”

“Just like who?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He was not going to share his knowledge with Jaymes. He didn’t deserve to know the truth.

His brother sighed. “I have to go, Mikel. Will you give mother and father my love?”

The audacity of the request made Mikel’s blood boil. “I’ll do no such thing! I’ll tell them you’re dead. Better they think that than know the truth!”

He jumped off the rail and ran back toward the Keep, ignoring Jaymes’ frantic calls for him to return.

When he finally stopped and looked back Jaymes was gone.

The next time Prince Cratyn arrived, a long and frustrating day after the Hythrun had departed, it was with a much larger party and there was no white flag in evidence. The Prince knew he had won and was in no mood to mind the tender feelings of his vanquished foe. He marched into the Keep, his dukes at his heels, with all the assurance of one who knew he had nothing to fear.

Mikel hung around the yard, trying to be inconspicuous. It proved to be a relatively simply task. Neither the Defenders on guard nor the Karien escort spared him a glance. They were too busy eyeing each other warily to be concerned with one small boy.

Mikel had no idea how he was going to get near the prince. He knew none of the knights waiting outside with the horses, and he was fairly sure that he looked like nothing more than a Medalonian urchin. They would not spare him a copper if he was starving, let alone take him to see the prince. The meeting dragged on for hours as the cold sun climbed high in the sky. Mikel missed lunch and his stomach growled in complaint as the sky darkened toward dusk.

His chance came just as he was on the verge of giving up. Sir Andony emerged from the hall to speak to the knights waiting outside. Mikel swallowed his apprehension and hurried forward.

“Sir Andony?”

The young knight glanced at him, his eyes widening in shock.

“Mikel? What in Xaphista’s name are you doing here?”

“I have to see the prince, Sir Andony.”

“Don’t be absurd! What could you possibly need to see the prince for?”

“It’s about Princess Adrina.”

Andony was not renowned for his intelligence, but even he understood the implications. He nodded slowly.

“Wait here.”

Mikel fidgeted impatiently under the scrutiny of the Karien knights as Andony disappeared inside. In a surprisingly short time, Lord Roache appeared. He grabbed Mikel by the collar and dragged him aside, out of the hearing of the knights and the Defenders alike.

“What do you know of the princess?” he demanded without preamble.

“She was here, my Lord.”

Roache’s expression betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. “Are you certain?”

He nodded. “I fled Karien with the princess and her servant. The Hythrun captured us the morning after we left. The princess has been here ever since.”

“And where is her Highness now?”

“I’m not sure. I think she left with Lord Wolfblade.”

“I see.”

“My Lord? There... there is something else you should know.”

“What?” Lord Roache sounded impatient, as if his mind was already on other things.

“The princess and Lord Wolfblade... they’re... well...”

“Out with it, boy!”

“She was kissing him, my Lord,” Mikel blurted out.

Roache’s eyes narrowed. “Who else knows of this?”

“Nobody, my Lord! I —”

“Come with me,” Roache demanded, not in the least interested in what else Mikel had to say. He pulled Mikel along in his wake and thrust him at Andony.

“Take the boy back to our camp. Now!” Roache ordered. “You are to stop for no one. Nor must you allow anybody to speak to the child. He is to be held in my tent until I return.”

Andony nodded, too well conditioned to question his orders. Before he truly understood what was happening Mikel was sitting in front of Andony on his big warhorse, riding away from the Medalonian camp and heading for home.

It was close to midnight before Roache returned and when he did, he had Prince Cratyn with him. Mikel’s determination to reveal the true depth of Adrina’s treachery wavered in the Prince’s serious presence.

“Tell his Highness what you told me,” Roache ordered, waking Mikel from a light doze. The boy jumped to his feet and brushed his fingers through his sleep-tousled hair.

“The Princess is with Lord Wolfblade,” Mikel told Cratyn. The young prince’s expression was shadowed in the light from the smoking brazier.

“Then she fled to Medalon, not back to Yarnarrow as we thought.”

“She told me she was going to Fardohnya, your Highness. To seek aid from her father.” Mikel thought it important that he establish his own innocence as soon as possible. “I thought I was following your orders, Sire.”

“Lying bitch,” Cratyn muttered. “What else?”

Mikel glanced at Lord Roache uncertainly.

“Tell him the rest of it, boy.”

“I saw them kissing, your Highness.”

“You mean Wolfblade was forcing himself on her?”

Mikel shook his head sadly. “No, your Highness. She was... well, she didn’t seem to mind at all. She called you...”

“What? What did she call me?”

Mikel stared at his boots with determination. “Prince Cretin the Cringing.”

“I see. And what else did she say?”

Mikel looked to Lord Roache desperately for help. He did not want to repeat what he had heard, despite his promises to himself.

“The prince must know the truth, boy,” Roach said, almost sympathetically. “Tell him.”

Mikel nodded and told him everything he had heard. He told him of the meeting on top of the tower. He told him of what he had seen and heard in the stables. He told him everything he knew, although it broke his heart to be the bearer of such dreadful news.

Cratyn swore under his breath and then turned to Roache. “This is intolerable! I will send a party out to hunt her down. By Xaphista, I will see the bitch burn!”

“We’ll hunt her down,” Roache agreed. “But do you really want it made public that the wife you could not satisfy turned to a Hythrun for comfort?”

Cratyn paced the tent angrily. “She can’t be allowed to get away with this!”

“Nor shall she, but there are other things to consider.”

“What other things? She has publicly humiliated me!”

“And she will humiliate you even more, should the truth get out. You do not want to put her on trial, Cratyn.”

The Prince glared at Lord Roache. Mikel seemed all but forgotten.

“You’re surely not suggesting that I take her back?”

“Of course not! I am suggesting that you do everything in your power to rescue your wife from the clutches of the barbarian warlord who has kidnapped and raped her. It will be unfortunate, but she will be killed in the attempt.”

“We’ll have no chance at an heir if she’s killed.”

“She has been sullied by another man. No heir could come from your union in any case.”

Cratyn nodded, savagely pleased with the duke’s suggestion.

“I will lead the rescue party, myself.”

“That would be most heroic of you, your Highness. Your grief, on the discovery of your wife’s fate, will be inconsolable, of course. But I’m sure you will recover. In time.”

Cratyn smiled coldly. “I’m sure I will. And what of the boy?”

Lord Roache glanced at Mikel for a moment before turning back to the prince.

“Perhaps he should accompany you, your Highness. He can, after all, give testament to your wife’s... indiscretions.”

The prince nodded. “It would be most unfortunate if something were to happen to him.”

“Most unfortunate,” Lord Roache agreed.

Mikel studied the prince and the duke, not at all certain he understood.

Chapter 57

The darkness into which R’shiel retreated was comforting at first. The memories of the Gathering and everything that had happened since that awful night could gain no toehold here. There was no pain, no unbearable guilt, and no despair. Just blessed emptiness. A nothing place where nobody could hurt her.

She had been here before. She first discovered it on the road to the Grimfield, when Loclon had chosen her as his instrument of revenge on Tarja. It welcomed her the night she had confronted Loclon and almost succeeded in killing him. For a time, on waking to find herself in Sanctuary amid the Harshini, she had fled there again, until Korandellan’s magic had suppressed her emotions and made it bearable to face reality. It was a tantalising, alluring place, and each time she retreated there, it became a little harder to leave.

A part of R’shiel still existed in the real world. A part of her responded when someone spoke to her, ate the meals she was served, and rode in the carriage each day staring blindly at the winter-browned plains as they wound their way north. But it was a small part only. Just enough to pretend she was alive.

Within herself, R’shiel knew that she could not stay here indefinitely. Comforting it might be, but it was her Harshini side that fled from the violence and the pain. Her human side hankered to return, to wreak havoc on those who had caused her suffering.

It was her human side to whom Xaphista spoke.

R’shiel did not recognise his voice at first. The sensuous, soothing tones seemed like a distant echo that she hardly noticed. It took a long time to recognise it for what it was. It took even longer before she bothered to respond.

You run from the pain, demon child. Let me ease it for you.

Calling her the demon child finally evoked a response. She had never liked that name.

Don’t call me that.

What would you have me call you?

Don’t bother calling me anything. Just leave me alone.

The voice did not reply and R’shiel did not particularly care.

Later, she had no way of judging time in this place, the voice returned. It was stronger, as if by acknowledging it the first time, she had given it strength.

I can help you, R’shiel.

How do you know my name?

All the gods know the name of the demon child.

Are you a god?

I am the only god. At least I will be, with your help.

She laughed sourly. With my help? Why would I want to help you?

Because I can ease your pain, R’shiel. I can take away the hurt.

Can you turn back time?

Of course not.

Then you can do nothing for me. Go away.

The voice did as she bid, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

The living part of R’shiel vaguely noted the changing scenery as the days grew shorter; saw the silver ribbon of the Glass River draw nearer. For some reason, the sight of the broad waterway sparked a brief reaction in her, as if the thought of crossing it would take her beyond redemption.

You fear crossing the river? the voice asked curiously.

I fear what it represents.

It brings you closer to me.

I can destroy you, Xaphista. Shouldn’t you be the one who fears my approach?

You need not destroy me, R’shiel. Together we would be invincible.

Together?

You would be my High Priestess. We could rule the world.

Suppose I don’t want to rule the world?

You are half human.

That doesn’t mean I crave an empire.

What do you crave, R’shiel?

Sanity.

Xaphista had no answer to that and it was a long time before he spoke to her again.

They crossed the river in a blustery, cold wind that chopped the mirror-like surface of the water into millions of glittering shards. The sun was high in a pale, cloudless sky, offering no warmth. R’shiel stood by the rail on the barge, oblivious to the cold spray that misted over her as the sailors hauled on the thick rope, pulling the barge across the river with grim determination. The current fought them at every turn. Although they professed to be atheists, the ferrymen muttered among themselves about the wrath of Maera, the River Goddess. They had never known a crossing like it. It was as though the Glass River was alive and determined to prevent them landing on the other side.

They made it eventually. R’shiel let Terbolt lead her onto dry ground and waited patiently for the rest of their party to disembark. The barge would be busy for two days or more, ferrying the remainder of the troops across. Aware of this, Terbolt commandeered the Heart and Hearth and settled in to wait. R’shiel paid no more attention to her surroundings at the inn than she had when they camped by the road each night on the journey here.

Garanus came to her at dinnertime and stood over her while she ate. When her meal was finished he sent the tray away and sat beside her. He did the same thing every night. He would talk to her as if she was listening, describing the power of the Overlord, preaching in a rasping, but impassioned voice that R’shiel found more irritating than comforting.

He pleads my case most eloquently.

He’s a nuisance. If you truly want to ease my pain, getting rid of Garanus would be a good start.

As you wish. Without warning, Garanus broke off mid-sentence and left the room. I would give you anything you asked for, R’shiel.

So long as I promise not to kill you, she added wryly.

That would be a reasonable expectation, don’t you think?

You can’t give me what I want, Xaphista.

I can give you anything. You have but to ask.

Free me, then. Take this collar from me. Let me feel the power again.

Ah! I’m not certain I trust you that much, demon child.

Then what do I need you for? You are the reason for my pain.

Not I, R’shiel. It is the Primal gods who want you to suffer.

The Primal gods created me.

And they live in fear of their creation. Who do you think allowed this to happen?

It is your followers who hold me prisoner.

For your protection, nothing more. The Primal gods have interfered in your life enough.

What are you talking about?

Can you be so blind, child? They wish to destroy me. Why do you think you were raised in the Citadel? No child raised by the Harshini could contemplate killing, even with human blood.

Brak seems to manage.

He is as much a creature of the Primal gods as you are.

Are you telling me the Primal gods made Joyhinia adopt me?

That’s exactly what I’m telling you. They picked the most ruthless, cold-hearted bitch they could find to raise you. How else could they ensure you had the skills to commit murder? They engineered your suffering, R’shiel. They have manipulated you since you were born.

You’re delusional, Xaphista, as well as power hungry.

It is you who are deluded. Do you think your love for Tarja is an accident? Or his for you? Of course not! Kalianah made it happen.

Why?

Just to make you suffer. Think what it has cost you. Loclon raped you because Tarja loves you.

The last time I looked, Loclon was on your side. He misjudged her badly if he thought that was going to persuade her to his cause.

You will see the truth eventually, demon child. I pray that it will not be too late.

He left her then, leaving R’shiel with a puzzling thought. Xaphista was a god. To whom did he pray?

They left Cauthside and continued their journey north the third day after the river crossing. Outwardly, R’shiel showed no more interest on this side of the river than she had on the other. Garanus no longer came to her each night to aid her conversion, but little else changed. She woke, she ate, she rode in the carriage, then ate and slept where she was told. The routine never varied; it was unlikely she would have noticed if it had.

Her retreat was no longer peaceful, though. Her silent haven had been disturbed by Xaphista’s poisonous logic.

Was she really just a pawn, manipulated since birth to become a weapon the Primal gods could use against their enemy? Was Tarja’s love for her simply imposed on him? Had the Primal gods sat back and let Loclon do what he had done to her, hoping it would toughen her up? The idea seemed ludicrous at first, but the longer she thought about it, the more credibility it gained.

And what of Xaphista? Was he really so evil? And who was she to judge what was evil anyway? Xaphista had hurt her, there was no denying that; her current predicament was entirely attributable to him, but he was fighting for his survival. Were his actions any worse than those of the Primal gods?

For the first time since retreating into herself, R’shiel began to hunger for release. It was no longer peaceful here. Memories she had no wish to confront began to plague her. Thoughts she had no wish to contemplate refused to go away.

You see? Everything you hold dear is a lie, Xaphista told her seductively. Tarja’s love is no more real than this place. The Harshini secretly despise you, else why would they let you leave Sanctuary? Even the Primal gods fear you. You are a weapon, R’shiel, to be aimed and pointed by whoever holds your heart in his hands. Don’t let them use you.

You would use me just as soon as the Primal gods.

I offer you something in return. I can ease your pain. I can help you.

How? By suppressing my emotions like the Harshini did? That was simply an illusion and it hurt tenfold when they released it. I’ve no wish to experience it again.

I can do better than that, demon child. I can take away the memories that pain you.

Those memories make me who I am.

Then perhaps you should think about who you would rather be.

I won’t be your pawn, Xaphista.

I offer you a partnership, R’shiel, not bondage.

Perhaps, she thought once he was gone. But when it comes to the gods, who can tell the difference?

Chapter 58

Tarja set a gruelling pace as they fled the border. Jenga had promised to stall the Kariens as long as he was able, but even in Tarja’s most optimistic estimate that gave them a start of only a day or two. Adrina kept up and did not complain, despite the fact that her backside felt bruised to the bone and her inner thighs were rubbed raw. They ate cold rations when they stopped each night, and collapsed into their bedrolls under an open sky.

As a child Adrina had been entranced by the bards who sang long, romantic ballads about lovers on the run who spent all day galloping toward freedom and all night making love. What utter nonsense, she thought, dismounting gingerly in the small grove of trees Tarja had chosen for their camp that night. Damin proved to be more human than heroic. He looked tired and haggard and even he walked a bit stiffly, despite a lifetime spent in the saddle. For some reason his discomfort made her feel a little better.

Their numbers had thinned considerably since they left the border. Following Damin’s lead, Tarja had broken his men into much smaller groups and dispatched them south with orders to muster at an abandoned vineyard south of Testra, where he seemed to think they would be safe until he could join them. There were barely a hundred men left, and less than half of those were Damin’s Raiders. The rest were Defenders and the remainder of her Guard. When they crossed the Glass River at Cauthside, they would split up once more. Tarja and his men would head for the Citadel, while Damin continued south for Hythria.

Adrina knew the reason for Tarja’s mission, although he rarely spoke of it.

Something had happened to R’shiel.

Adrina prayed it was nothing serious. Tarja would not rest until he discovered the demon child’s fate. It was a pity she would never meet her. Although she was careful not to broach the subject, R’shiel fascinated Adrina. Damin spoke of her in such glowing terms that she might have been jealous, but for two very good reasons. The first was Tarja. He was so completely besotted with the girl, that if he thought Damin’s motives were anything but honourable, he’d have killed the Warlord long ago. The second was Damin. Jealousy would imply she had some feeling for the man, and of course she didn’t, so there was nothing to be jealous about.

Adrina unsaddled her mount and dumped her gear near the small fire that one of the Defenders had started. Tarja had ordered at least one night with a fire and a hot meal. If he was feeling the strain of the pace he set, then he knew some of the others would be at the point of exhaustion. Adrina had tried not to look too happy when she heard the news, but poor Tam’s expression had been pathetically grateful. The slave wasn’t accustomed to long hours in the saddle, and Adrina looked a picture of health compared to her faithful companion.

“Can I take your horse, my Lady?”

Adrina turned and smiled wearily at Damin’s captain. Almodavar was a fearsome-looking brute, but he was quite the gentleman underneath all that leather and chainmail.

“Thank you, Captain, but it’s every man for himself on this journey. I can take care of my horse. You have other things to do.”

“Aye, your Highness, but I have a few young studs with more energy than sense. I’ll see she’s cared for. You take the chance to rest while you can.”

Adrina was too tired to argue. “Thank you.”

Almodavar led the mare toward the picket line. He had sent someone for Tam’s horse too. She turned to find Tamylan by the fire, warming her hands and swaying on her feet.

“Sit down before you fall down, Tam.”

“I’ll stand, if you don’t mind. In fact if I never sit down again, it will be fine by me.”

By the time darkness fell completely, Adrina was feeling a little better. A hot meal and a warm fire eased her aching muscles. Damin and Tarja did not join them until long after they had eaten. Tam had already fallen asleep and Adrina’s eyes were drooping. The only reason she was still awake was her inability to find a comfortable position.

“Come on, sleepy. Time for some exercise.”

“Don’t be absurd. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“I know, but trust me. If you stretch your legs now you’ll be much better for it in the morning.”

Damin reached down and grabbed her hand, hauling her to her feet.

“Leave me alone!”

“Stop complaining. You sound like a spoilt princess.”

“I am a spoilt princess,” she retorted.

“Who am I to argue with royalty? Are you coming, Tarja?”

“No. I have to check on the sentries. Enjoy your walk, your Highness.” She couldn’t see his face clearly in the darkness, but she could hear his amusement.

“I’ll bet he doesn’t laugh at R’shiel,” she grumbled as Damin pulled her along beside him. It was bitterly cold and the uneven ground made her muscles cry out in protest.

“Would you laugh at someone who could fry you with a look?”

“How can you possibly be in such a good mood?”

“I’ve still got my head on my shoulders. In this business that’s daily cause for celebration. Take longer strides. The idea is to stretch your legs out, not mince along like you’re at court.”

“I do not mince, thank you.”

“I do beg your pardon, your Highness.”

“Don’t patronise me either.”

“You’re in a right temper tonight. I thought you’d be happy to be free.”

“I’m cold and I’m tired, Damin. I feel like someone’s tied me in a sack and beaten me with a pole for an hour or two. I don’t have the energy to be happy about anything.”

He slowed his pace a little and put his arm around her shoulder. “I’m tired too. And I’m cheerful because I’m a Warlord and nothing is supposed to bother me.”

“I’m not one of your hired hands, you know. You’re not morally obliged to keep my spirits up.”

He laughed softly, but did not answer. They kept walking through the darkness away from the fires, although they stayed within the ring of sentries posted around the camp. Adrina could make out the silhouette of a guard every fifty paces or so, their eyes fixed on the open ground beyond the trees.

It was much warmer with his arm around her and after a time her legs seemed to loosen up a little. The respite was temporary, though. Tomorrow they would resume their killing pace.

“How long till we reach the river?” she asked after a long period of companionable silence.

“Seven or eight days, I guess. Tarja could tell you exactly.”

“Are we going to keep this pace up for another eight days?”

“No. The horses couldn’t take it, even if we could. We’ll ease up in a day or so.”

“You think Cratyn will come after us, don’t you?”

He nodded, all trace of his previous good humour gone. “Jenga won’t tell him where you are, but there are plenty of people who know you were in the camp. We have to assume he’ll hear about it, sooner rather than later.”

“What if he catches us?”

“He won’t. We’ve got too big a head start and we’re not stopping for anything. Once we’ve crossed the Glass River, he’ll have no chance of finding us.” He stopped and pulled her to him, kissing her forehead lightly. “Stop worrying about it.”

She lay her head on his shoulder and stood in the circle of his arms, surprised at how comforting it was. It was a real pity he was a Hythrun. She could easily grow accustomed to this. To feel so secure, so...

“Hey, don’t fall asleep on me,” he chided. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to carry you all the way back.”

She drew back from him, annoyed that he had disturbed her pleasant, if rather unrealistic, daydreams. “You are so rude sometimes! I’m sure you do it just to aggravate me.”

“Rude I might be, but I’m still not going to carry you,” he said with a grin.

“A true nobleman would.”

“That’s because most true nobleman are inbred morons with more brawn than brains. I could cite your husband as a prime example.”

“I didn’t choose him, you know.”

“Which says something for your good taste, I suppose. Come on, we’d best get back before Tarja sends out a search party.”

Stifling a yawn, Adrina took his hand and they walked back towards the fire and the welcome prospect of a good night’s sleep. She glanced at him as they walked back through the darkened trees and reminded herself sternly that Damin Wolfblade might be very disarming when he wanted, but he was, first and foremost, her enemy. His desire to keep her from Cratyn was nothing more than political, and she had better not forget it.

They were on the move by first light the next day. Poor Tam was on the verge of tears as she struggled to mount her horse, but Adrina found she was much better than she expected. Although she would have preferred to ride with Damin or Tarja, she took her usual place in the very centre of the column surrounded by Raiders, Defenders and Fardohnyans who had orders to die before any harm was allowed to befall her.

They kept to the road that wound south towards Cauthside, in part because it was the fastest route, and in part to disguise the size of their group. They had left the border in significant numbers and there was no need for any pursuing force to think that had changed. Scouts ranged ahead and behind them, scouring the countryside for signs of pursuit, or unexpected danger. Now that Medalon had surrendered, any Defenders they met heading north would be enemies and both Tarja and Damin agreed that in this case running was more prudent than fighting.

She had heard them discussing their plans late into the night as she lay by the fire, her head resting in Damin’s lap and he unconsciously stroked her hair. She drifted into sleep listening to Tarja explain his plans for the men who waited for him in Testra.

She understood now why Jenga had wanted Tarja to resign from the corps, why he wanted him to escape the border while he still could. It had little to do with the Lord Defender’s affection for him. Tarja was an expert guerilla fighter and Jenga wanted him to do to the Kariens what he had done to the Defenders when he led the heathen rebellion. He didn’t have the men to take on the Karien invaders directly but he would make life very difficult for them.

Adrina fell asleep and dreamt of ambushes, and sabotage, and hit-and-run raids on places she had never heard of.

They stopped just after midday at a small brook that tumbled over moss-covered rocks beside the road. The water was icy, but the horses seemed grateful. Adrina stood by her mare as she drank her fill, munching on a wedge of hard cheese, when one of the forward scouts came thundering through their midst. He skidded to a halt in front of Damin and Tarja, turning his mount sharply to avoid barrelling them over.

“Defenders!” he panted. “A thousand at least. Headed this way.”

“How far?” Tarja demanded.

“Five leagues. They’re not moving very fast, but if we stay on the road, we’ll ride straight into them.”

Tarja grabbed his mount and swung into the saddle. “Show me.”

The scout turned his mount and galloped off with Tarja on his heels.

“Almodavar!”

“My Lord?”

“Get everyone off the road. Make camp in that stand of trees we passed a league or so back. No fires, no noise. You know what to do.”

Damin was mounted and racing down the road after Tarja before Almodavar had a chance to acknowledge the order.

Adrina patted her mare with a weary sigh then climbed back into the saddle. Almodavar got them organised in a very short time, the urgency of their situation not lost on a single man. They rode back along the road at a canter, until Almodavar called a halt when they neared the trees.

The copse was a fair way back, separated from the road by a broad stretch of long brown grass. The captain studied the tree line for a while then stood in his stirrups to look over the surrounding countryside. Then he turned and cantered back in the direction they had come from.

“What’s the matter?” Adrina asked the guard on her left.

“If we ride through that grass, your Highness, we might as well put up a sign telling them where we are. The captain’s looking for a way to reach the trees without leaving any tracks.”

Adrina nodded, rather impressed by the Hythrun eye for detail. They waited for another few minutes before Almodavar returned.

“There’s a gully back that way that leads toward the trees,” the captain announced in Medalonian, for the benefit of the Defenders among them. “But we’ll have to lead the horses, it’s too treacherous to ride through. Once we clear it, we’ll have a bit of open ground to cover, so we’ll cross it in single file.”

He did not ask for questions, or expect any. Adrina followed her guards and picked her way through the gully after the young man who had told her of Almodavar’s intentions. A bubbling stream coursed through the centre, perhaps a tributary of the brook where they had stopped earlier. The rocks were slick and the icy water splashed over her boots. She was dressed in trousers and a warm jacket, as was Tam – there was no point in advertising their presence by dressing like ladies – but her feet were starting to numb by the time she led her mare out of the gully and mounted for the ride to the trees.

There was no respite when she reached them, either. Almodavar ordered no fires to betray their presence so she settled down for a long cold wait until Damin and Tarja returned.

Adrina was sitting with her back to a tall poplar, Tam’s sleeping head resting on her shoulder, when the sound of galloping horses woke her from a light doze. Expecting to find Damin and Tarja returning, she gently moved Tam’s head onto the cloak they were using as a rug and struggled to her feet. She found Almodavar waiting at the edge of the trees as a Defender and a Raider galloped toward them through the grass, making a mockery of his effort to conceal their hiding place.

“That’s not Damin and Tarja,” she pointed out as the horsemen drew nearer.

“The Raider is Jocim, one of the rear scouts,” Almodavar agreed. “I don’t know the Defender.”

They waited until the men had almost reached the trees before waving them down. Jocim stayed in his saddle, but the Defender jumped down, almost collapsing with exhaustion as he hit the ground. Almodavar reached out an arm to steady him, but he waved it away.

“Where’s Captain Tenragan?”

“He’s not here.”

“Who’s the ranking Defender officer then?”

Almodavar looked a little annoyed at the man’s insistence on following Defender protocol.

“If you have news man, out with it.”

The Defender looked as if he was going to argue the point, but weariness won out over procedure.

“I have a message from the Lord Defender,” he said. “The Kariens crossed the border two days after you left. The Defenders were ordered to throw down their arms. The Kariens have control of the Keep.”

Almodavar nodded, unsurprised by the news. “Jenga ordered you to founder a horse just to tell us that?”

He shook his head. “No. He sent me to tell you that two hundred Kariens were dispatched south at the same time. He thinks they know about the princess. Cratyn is leading them himself.”

Adrina’s heart skipped a beat. Surely they had enough lead on them to escape? The Kariens could not travel as fast as their troop and they were making excellent time.

Almodavar nodded and glanced at Adrina. Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts. “They’ll not catch us, your Highness.”

“Not if we keep moving,” she agreed.

Adrina left the rest of it unsaid. Almodavar knew, as well as she, that a force of a thousand Defenders was blocking the way south.

Chapter 59

From a distance, the northern plains looked as flat and featureless as a tabletop. The view was deceptive, though. In reality the plains were a series of low rolling folds that concealed as much as they revealed. Tarja, Damin and the Hythrun scout, whose name was Colsy, dismounted some distance from the Defenders. They led their horses off the road for quite a way, before leaving them to fend for themselves as they scrambled up a low hillside, dropping on their bellies as they neared the summit.

“Gods!” Damin muttered as they reached the top.

Tarja studied the scene below, forcing down a wave of despair. The column of Defenders was stretched out along the road in a snaking line that stretched for half a league or more. At its head, rode a Karien knight, displaying a coat of arms on his shield that he could not make out from this distance.

“Do you have your looking-glass?”

Damin nodded and handed Tarja the instrument from the pouch he carried on his belt. Tarja aimed it at the knight’s shield. As the three silver pike on a red field slowly resolved into focus he swore softly, then handed it back to Damin.

“Well, at least that answers the question about the whereabouts of the Duke of Setenton.”

Damin took the looking-glass and followed Tarja’s pointing finger.

“And where the order for the surrender came from,” Damin agreed. “What’s he doing leading half the damned Defender Corps north?”

Half was a gross exaggeration, but that near a thousand Defenders marched under the command of a Karien knight was cause enough for concern.

“If he was waiting at the Citadel when R’shiel arrived...” Tarja did not finish the sentence. He was afraid to put his thought into words.

“I wonder who’s in the carriage,” Colsy added, pointing at the elaborate vehicle drawn by six matched horses, which trundled along behind the Kariens.

“That’s the First Sister’s carriage.”

“That’s all we need,” Damin groaned. “Joyhinia Tenragan, in all her vicious glory. I thought you destroyed her wit after Dacendaran stole it?”

“So did I.”

Damin returned the looking-glass to its case and rolled onto his back. He put his hands behind his head and stared at the pale sky for a moment then looked at Tarja.

“They’ll be on us by nightfall.”

“Or so close it won’t matter.”

“I’ve always fancied myself a brilliant warrior, Tarja, but odds of ten to one are a bit much, even for me.”

Tarja nodded. “There’s nothing to be achieved by engaging them.”

“So what do we do? Hide until they ride by? Head overland?”

“If we turn off the road, it’ll take a lot longer to reach the river and even more time to find a place where we can cross. Cauthside is the only place with a decent barge this side of Testra.” He didn’t add that going overland meant turning west. Damin knew it without having it spelled out for him.

“Then it seems we have no choice. We hide until they pass by.”

“That may not be as simple as you think. Terbolt might be in command, but the Defenders won’t let that interfere with their normal routine. They’ll have scouts out, you can be certain.”

“I didn’t see any,” Colsy objected.

“That doesn’t mean they aren’t out there,” Tarja warned.

Damin nodded in agreement. “The reputation of the Defenders is well earned. All the more reason not to take them on.”

“If we’re careful, we should be able to avoid them,” Tarja suggested.

The Warlord smiled wistfully. “Remember the good old days, Tarja? When you and I knew exactly who our enemies were? I miss them.”

“I remember them well. You were the enemy, as I recall.”

“And you were always one step ahead of me. I always meant to ask you how you managed that.”

“I probably shouldn’t disillusion you, but it was luck as much as anything.”

Damin grinned. “I don’t believe you. Nobody could be that lucky.”

“Alright, if it makes you happy, it was my sheer tactical brilliance.”

“Just as I always suspected,” Damin agreed. He rolled over and stared down at the advancing Defenders. “I have to tell you. The sight of those Defenders has completely ruined my day, you know that, don’t you?”

“You’ll get over it.”

“Eventually,” Damin sighed. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Aren’t we going to do anything?” Colsy asked, obviously disappointed.

“We are going to hide, young man.”

“Hiding is for women.”

“And very smart men,” the Warlord retorted.

It was late afternoon before they located Almodavar and the rest of their band. The Hythrun captain had done an excellent job of concealing their presence. But for some scattered tracks heading toward the tree-line, there was nothing to indicate that more than a hundred men were concealed among the trees. Tarja looked around the camp with approval. The Hythrun seemed to lack discipline, but when it really counted, they did exactly as they were ordered.

Adrina hurried forward as they rode into the camp. The change in her was quite remarkable, Tarja thought. She seemed to have shed her spoilt outer shell. She had ridden without complaint, as though she was trying to prove she was worthy of the danger they had placed themselves in by offering her protection. Her face brightened at Damin’s approach, revealing far more than she meant to.

Tarja was wary of Damin’s relationship with Adrina. It was fraught with danger and long-term ramifications that did not bear thinking about. Despite the insistence of both Damin and Adrina that the relationship meant nothing, Tarja could see the danger signs. Adrina never strayed far from Damin and he was prepared to risk his life to keep her by his side. Tarja understood what it was like to be willing to lay down your life for someone you loved. He wondered how long it would be before the Hythrun Warlord and the Fardohnyan Princess worked it out for themselves.

“Cratyn’s coming!” Adrina cried as Damin dismounted.

Damin looked over her shoulder at Almodavar who approached them at a much more dignified pace.

“She speaks the truth, my Lord. Jenga sent a messenger to warn us.”

Tarja dismounted and let Shadow be led away by one of his own men who had clustered around them, anxious for news.

“How far behind us?”

“A day or two, three at the outside.”

“This could make things interesting,” Damin remarked laconically.

Adrina punched his arm impatiently. “Interesting? Don’t you realise the danger we’re in?”

Tarja understood Adrina’s annoyance. Damin had a bad habit of treating everything as if it was some sort of elaborate game. His refusal to take anything seriously could be frustrating at times. In this case it was downright dangerous.

“She has a point, Damin.”

“What’s the problem?” he shrugged. “We’ve already agreed that it would be insane to take the Defenders on. We can’t go overland – it will slow us down too much – so we hide. The Defenders will ride by us, none the wiser.”

“And run straight into Cratyn,” Tarja reminded him. “What do you think will happen then?”

“If we’re lucky, they’ll wipe each other out,” the Warlord chuckled.

“Be serious!”

Damin had the decency to look contrite. “You’re right. If Cratyn knows when we left, and we haven’t been seen by the Defenders, even he should be able to figure out that we’re around here somewhere.”

“Can’t we slip past the Defenders?” Adrina asked hopefully. There was an edge of desperation in her voice.

Tarja shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“Then we go overland,” Damin said, no happier with the idea than Tarja. But at least this way they would have a chance of avoiding the two forces that were inexorably closing in on them. But it took him away from the Citadel. Away from R’shiel.

“If we start moving now, we can put a few leagues between us and the Defenders by nightfall.”

The Warlord nodded and ordered Almodavar to get everyone moving. Tarja’s stomach rumbled in complaint, reminding him that he had missed lunch as Damin led Adrina away, his arm around her shoulder.

As he watched the retreating couple he frowned. He should have put a stop to it. That he would have had more chance of stopping the sun rising tomorrow did little to ease his concern. Were it not for Adrina, Cratyn would more than likely have ignored the Hythrun refusal to surrender. What were a thousand Hythrun to a man who could muster a hundred thousand men? If Cratyn was simply chasing down his errant wife, then it was bad enough. If anyone suspected that she and Damin were lovers, and shared their suspicions with the prince, Cratyn would not rest until every last person who knew of the liaison was dead. He was the Karien Crown Prince and his religion demanded the most terrible vengeance he could wreak. Adrina’s infidelity could not be forgiven – it could only be washed away in blood.

It was slow going as they picked their way cross country. The terrain was hard on the horses. One minute they were climbing, the next descending, and although the slopes were not steep, the horses had been ridden hard for days now. By the time darkness fell, and with it the temperature, even some of the magnificent Hythrun horses, renowned for their stamina, were stumbling. Tarja called a halt and ordered them to make camp, but refused to allow any fires. The chance of being spotted by a Defender scout was too real to be ignored.

Tarja hobbled his mount and finally got around to eating something long after dark, although hard cheese and jerky barely counted as a meal. He had been spoilt, he decided, living on the border. There was a time when he didn’t mind trail rations. Had he been tougher then – or just less discerning, he wondered?

“Tarja?”

He turned, a little surprised to find Adrina weaving her way among the picketed horses toward him. Her breath frosted in the moonlight and she held her borrowed jacket tightly closed against the cold.

“I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“Sleep?” she laughed humourlessly. “That’s a joke. Who can sleep with a thousand Defenders over the next hill and the Kariens riding us down?”

“You need to rest, then, even if you can’t sleep. The last few days are going to seem like a picnic compared to what lies ahead.”

She reached up and patted Shadow’s forelock. The mare nuzzled her hopefully for a moment then returned to her feedbag when she decided the princess had nothing better to offer.

“Can I ask you something, Tarja?”

“I suppose.”

“If I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t be doing this, would you?”

She knew the answer as well as he did. He wondered what was really behind the question.

“Cratyn probably wouldn’t be on our tail, but we’d still be hiding from the Defenders. You can’t blame yourself for that.”

She smiled. “Actually, I’m a little surprised at myself. Taking the blame for things is not my style. I’ve never been known for my selflessness.”

Tarja found that very easy to believe.

“I keep thinking I should just go back to Cratyn and be damned.”

“What good would that do?” He hoped he hadn’t let his astonishment show. Such an offer from Adrina verged on the miraculous.

“R’shiel is missing, Tarja. You should be helping her, not saving me from my own stupidity.” She smiled self-consciously, as if she was startled to have made such an admission. “I have a feeling that the demon child is more important in the general scheme of things than one disgruntled princess.”

“She’s right, Tarja.”

Brak appeared out of nowhere a pace behind Adrina. The princess spun around, startled by the unexpected voice. A thousand questions leapt to Tarja’s mind at the sight of him, but one question overrode every other, even his astonishment at Brak’s sudden return:

“Where is R’shiel?”

“Closer than you think,” Brak replied, then he bowed to Adrina. “You must be Hablet’s girl. Adrina, isn’t it? The one who married Cratyn?”

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Tarja? Who is he?”

“Brakandaran,” Tarja told her, fighting to keep an even temper. What in the name of the Founders had happened to R’shiel? How did Brak get here? “He’s Harshini. He was supposed to be looking after R’shiel.”

“You can’t blame Brak, Tarja, it wasn’t his fault.”

Tarja started at the new voice and turned to find Dace standing behind him. The God of Thieves was grinning broadly, rather pleased with the effect of his dramatic entrance.

“What are you doing here?”

“You know, most people would prostrate themselves when confronted with a god,” Dace pointed out, a little miffed at Tarja’s less-than-enthusiastic reception.

“I’m not ‘most people’. What happened to R’shiel?”

“That’s a god?” Adrina asked. She looked awestruck, but then, she was a pagan. Being confronted with one of her gods probably meant a great deal more to her than it meant to him.

“Unfortunately, yes. This is Dacendaran. He’s supposed to be the God of Thieves, I think. Personally, I think he’s the God of Unreliable Fools.”

“Don’t be absurd, Tarja, there’s no such entity. If you’re going to be like that, then I won’t help you.”

“That’s an empty threat under the circumstances,” Brak remarked.

“But he can’t be a god,” Adrina scoffed. “I’ve seen him in the Defenders’ camp. He was hanging around with Mikel.”

“My newest and most fervent... no actually, he’s more like a reluctant disciple.”

“Brak, what the hell is going on?”

He held up his hand wearily to stay Tarja’s avalanche of questions. “Look, I know I have a lot of explaining to do, and I will, I promise. But let’s find Damin first. I don’t want to have to go over this more than once.”

Chapter 60

“Before I tell you where R’shiel is,” Brak began, looking at each one of them in turn, “I have to explain a few things.”

They had gathered around a brightly burning fire, safe in the knowledge that Brak’s magic concealed them from prying eyes. Tarja was sceptical when he promised they would not be seen, and his men were decidedly edgy, but even Almodavar seemed satisfied with the Harshini’s assurance that he was protecting them. The fire warmed them more than it should have, and he wondered if Brak’s magic was responsible for that too. The half-Harshini’s eyes were completely black, a sure sign he was drawing on his power. It reminded Tarja sharply how alien the Harshini really were.

“You’d better tell them the rules, too,” Dace added.

“What rules?” Tarja asked warily.

“I’ll get to that. There are other things you must understand first.”

Tarja shifted restlessly. He knew from experience how futile it was to demand answers from Brak when he wasn’t ready to give them. Damin sat on his left, with Adrina curled up beside him. On the other side of the fire sat Almodavar, Ghari and Dace, who seemed quite content to let Brak do the talking.

“As you’ve probably figured out by now,” Brak continued, “the Kariens were waiting for us when we reached the Citadel.”

“I tried to warn you,” Dace interjected.

“You knew they were waiting for you? Why in the name of the Founders didn’t you turn back?”

“Dace warned us Xaphista had believers in the Citadel, Tarja. Even he didn’t know Terbolt and his priests were there.”

“So much for the infallibility of the gods.”

Dace glared at him, but let the comment pass.

“It wouldn’t have mattered if Dace had given us the disposition of every Karien on the continent, there were forces at work that would have seen to it that we did not succeed.”

“How could you fail with the gods on your side?” Adrina scoffed.

“That’s just the point. The only side the gods care about is their own.”

Dace snorted with disgust at the comment, but he seemed unusually reticent tonight and offered no other sign of his displeasure.

“Anyway, we reached the Citadel and everything went according to plan until Joyhinia appeared at the Gathering. The real Joyhinia that is, as lucid as she ever was.”

“How? I destroyed her wit. Her mind was gone.”

“The Karien priests found her another mind and transferred it into her body. Once Joyhinia appeared things fell apart fairly rapidly. The demon meld collapsed and R’shiel couldn’t hold the coercion. She was discovered within minutes of Terbolt’s appearance. Mahina was arrested. Draco’s dead, by the way. So is Affiana.”

“And just what were you doing while R’shiel was being arrested?” Tarja asked, his voice dangerous. The news that that man who fathered him was dead meant little to him. He was more concerned about Mahina. He was sick with worry about R’shiel.

“I was also being detained – by Zegarnald.”

Damin sat bolt upright and stared at the Harshini in astonishment. “The God of War prevented you from going to the demon child’s aid? That makes no sense. He delivered her to me for safekeeping. Why would he allow her to fall into the hands of his enemies?”

“The Kariens are your enemies, Damin, not Zegarnald’s. Xaphista is his adversary and that’s all he’s interested in.”

“I don’t understand,” Adrina said, giving voice to Tarja’s own confusion.

“The only reason the gods allowed R’shiel to be created was their need to destroy Xaphista. They’re not interested in anything else. The demon child has a job to do and they want to be damned sure she’s capable of doing it.”

“You mean they want to know if she can kill?”

“She can do that readily enough,” Ghari warned her. “Ask anyone who knew her in the rebellion.”

Brak nodded. “That’s not what concerns them. They’re more worried that Xaphista will win her over to his cause. She can kill a god. Which god she destroys is entirely up to her.”

“So they let the Kariens capture her? Isn’t that rather counter-productive?” Damin asked.

“Zegarnald’s theory is that if she is going to succumb to Xaphista, he’d rather know now, before she fully realises what she is capable of.”

“He wants to find out while there’s still a chance she be can killed,” Tarja translated for the benefit of the others. “That’s your job, isn’t it, Brak?”

The Harshini dropped his eyes.

Adrina looked at Tarja in confusion before turning back to Brak. “But what happened to R’shiel?”

“She was taken prisoner.”

“And then what?” Damin asked. He knew Brak, too; knew they had yet to hear the worst of it.

“You recall I said the Kariens transferred another mind into Joyhinia’s body? Well it wasn’t just any mind.” Brak looked straight at Tarja. “It was Loclon’s mind.”

Tarja experienced a moment of such blind, mindless rage that he thought he might explode from it. He didn’t say a word. He just sat there, trembling, clenching his fists in helpless fury. The others looked at him curiously, sensing his mood but unaware of the reason for it. Nobody but Brak, Dace and Tarja knew of what Loclon had done to R’shiel in the past. They did not understand.

“I gather from the look on Tarja’s face that this Loclon is not a very nice person?” Damin asked flippantly. Tarja turned on him with such fury that the Warlord leaned back, out of his reach. “Sorry... Just trying to lighten the mood. I’ll shut up.”

“That would be a very good idea,” Adrina agreed sternly.

Brak resumed his narrative, looking almost as annoyed at Damin as Adrina was. “If you need details, I’ll let Tarja fill you in if he wants to. Suffice to say that Loclon has harmed R’shiel in the past. Enough that he’s probably the only thing in this world she truly fears. R’shiel’s feelings for Joyhinia aren’t much better. Being confronted by both of them in the one body was more than she could take.”

“Did he kill her?” Tarja asked. His voice was colder than the night.

Brak shook his head. “He roughed her up a bit, but he couldn’t risk killing her. But for a few cuts and bruises, physically she’s fine.”

“Physically?”

“You remember the night we escaped the Grimfield?”

“I’m not likely to forget it.”

“Then you recall what happened to R’shiel after she tried to kill Loclon? How she retreated into herself?”

Tarja nodded. “She was like it for days.”

“Well that’s basically what’s happened to her now. She’s alive, she speaks, she eats; but R’shiel is not there.”

“You mean she’s in some sort of coma?” Adrina asked.

“Not exactly. Tarja knows what I mean. He’s seen her like this before.”

“Then how do we wake her?”

“We can’t. She has to come back of her own accord.”

“If she wants to come back,” Dace reminded Brak.

“What do you mean?”

Brak sighed. “Wherever she is, it’s more than likely Xaphista is there too.”

“Then only the gods can reach her? Why don’t you do something, Dacendaran?”

“I’m not allowed to, Damin,” the young god replied. “Zeggie says she has to turn away from Xaphista of her own accord, or when it comes time to face him she’ll simply give in.” He looked around the fire-lit circle of faces, begging for understanding. “Look, I’m going to be in enough trouble for freeing Brak. I’d help if I could, but with all these wars going on, Zegarnald is as strong as he’s ever been. Unless you can start some sort of worldwide crime wave, I haven’t the strength to defy him.”

“Then how can Xaphista get to her?” Tarja asked. He didn’t have the benefit of a pagan education. He was floundering with all this talk of gods.

“Xaphista gains his strength from his believers and he’s got millions of them. That’s why the Primal gods fear him.”

“But she’s half-Harshini, isn’t she?” Damin pointed out. “Why didn’t she just call on her power and escape herself?”

“The priests have blocked her power. They’re using some sort of collar I’ve never seen before. If she tries to touch the source of her power it burns. If she manages to get past that, the pain is intolerable. Not even the demons can reach her.”

Tarja watched Brak, wondering how much of what he told them was conjecture and how much he knew to be fact.

“So what is Xaphista doing to her?” Adrina wondered aloud.

“I doubt if he’s hurting her,” Brak shrugged. “If anything he’ll be trying to coax her to follow him. He doesn’t need to kill R’shiel to remove the threat. He just needs her on his side.”

“So if she defies him, he’ll kill her and if she doesn’t, you’ll kill her anyway,” Tarja concluded bleakly.

Brak didn’t answer; he didn’t have to.

“Where is she, Brak?”

“With the Defenders camped less than two leagues from here. Terbolt is escorting her back to Karien.”

The stunned silence lasted only a moment.

“We have to rescue her,” Almodavar announced.

“How?” Tarja demanded.

“We’ll think of something,” Damin said, with a nod to his captain. “You’re surely not suggesting that we leave her there?”

“Why not? She’s as safe there as anywhere. I’m not going to risk the life of every man here, just so that the moment we get her back Brak can kill her.”

The Harshini stared at him with unreadable black eyes.

“Brakandaran would never...” Damin began, then saw the look on the Harshini’s face. “Gods! You can’t be serious!”

Adrina glanced around at the men angrily. “This is insane! You can’t leave her there. You can’t let them take her back to Karien. They would destroy her, and trust me, I know what I’m talking about! You have to rescue her!”

“It won’t be easy,” Ghari warned. “And if she has turned to Xaphista, she may not want to be rescued.”

“Bollocks!” the Fardohnyan princess spat angrily. “You don’t know what’s happened to her. You have to give her a chance.”

Tarja nodded in agreement. “Nobody wants to get her back more than I, Adrina, but she’s being held in the middle of a thousand Defenders.”

“But we have the Harshini on our side,” Damin pointed out. “We could be in and out before anyone knew about it. That’s assuming you’ll help us, Brak.”

“I’ll help you as much as I can, but you must understand that I can’t do anything for R’shiel. She has to make her own decisions.” He turned to Dace. “I’m allowed to do that much aren’t I, Divine One?”

Dace nodded miserably. “I suppose.”

“And once we have rescued the demon child?” Ghari asked. “You forget the Karien force approaching from the north. Unless Lord Brakandaran can magically transport us away from here, we’ll have little hope of escape. Cratyn is angry enough to hunt down his wife. I imagine losing the demon child will do nothing to improve his temper.”

“We need something to distract him,” Damin agreed.

“That’s easy,” Adrina said. “I’ll surrender.”

“No!” Damin cried.

“What else will turn him back, Damin? He seeks his wife. He doesn’t know that the Defenders approach, or that they have the demon child. If you can get R’shiel out of the Defenders’ camp, Terbolt will be furious certainly, but the Defenders will not pursue you with the same dedication that Cratyn will. With Brak’s help you can get clear. If Cratyn joins the hunt, nothing will deter him.”

Tarja could see the logic in her plan, but remained silent, as did the others. This was something they needed to decide between themselves. He wondered if Damin was beginning to realise just how hard he would find it to let Adrina go.

“I can’t let you do it, Adrina. If Cratyn suspects for a minute —”

“I’m prepared to take that risk, Damin.”

“Well, I’m not. You’re not going back to him and that’s final. We haven’t come this far to quit now.” He turned to Tarja, his face chiselled in determination. “We’ll get R’shiel back, Tarja, then we’ll run like hell. We’ll split our forces and scatter them so wide, Cratyn and Terbolt won’t even begin to know where to look. Brak can conceal us and —”

“And his priests will think I’ve lit a beacon for them,” Brak warned.

“But you’re shielding us now. Can’t they feel it?”

“I’m helping,” Dace admitted.

“Then you can help us when we flee.”

The God of Thieves shook his head. “That would be interfering. If you take R’shiel and try to stop what’s happening to her, and Zegarnald catches me helping you...” Dace left the sentence hanging ominously.

The gods could not destroy each other, Tarja knew that much, but he wondered what one god could do to another that would cause Dacendaran such concern. He had a feeling he didn’t really want to know.

Damin thought for a moment then shrugged. “What the hell. I wasn’t planning to live forever anyway. What say we go and rescue the demon child anyway, and to hell with the risk?”

“You’re mad!” Adrina declared, but she didn’t offer any further protest, or repeat her offer to return to her husband.

One by one the others nodded their agreement, including Brak, until Damin turned to Tarja questioningly.

“Well?”

Tarja looked up and met Brak’s unwavering, alien eyes. He wanted to rescue R’shiel more than he wanted to keep breathing, but he could not shake the feeling that saving her from her current predicament might be placing her in even more danger.

“Let’s do it,” he agreed, sounding far more certain than he felt.

It was too late by the time they finished their discussion to take any action that night, so they planned their rescue attempt for the following evening. The delay made Tarja nervous. The Kariens were already too close for comfort and the wait served only to bring them closer.

The Defenders had stopped for the night so Damin sent out scouts to spy out the lay of their camp as it was more than likely the camp would be set up in the same way each evening. Two Hythrun Raiders and two Defenders, hand-picked by Tarja for both their experience and their common sense, were despatched to learn as much as they could before sunrise – specifically, where the occupants of the coach were camped. Tarja didn’t need a spy to tell him they would be in the centre of the camp, but it would simplify things considerably if he knew exactly which tent and the disposition of the guards.

He spent the rest of the night organising the Defenders. Although they travelled in civilian clothing, every man had his uniform safely tucked away in his saddlebags. Sneaking into the Defender camp would be impossible, so Tarja planned to march through it openly. With luck, he could simply walk up to R’shiel’s tent, order her brought out, and then escort her away without a question being asked.

If she was alone.

If the guards on the tent did not recognise him.

If the guards hadn’t been given any orders to the contrary.

If she was guarded by Defenders, rather than Karien priests.

He forced himself to stop thinking about the ifs. There were too many of them for comfort.

Damin agreed with his plan, but was rather disappointed that he was not to be included in the rescue party. He consoled himself with the prospect of some useful sabotage. A small party of his Raiders would sneak into the camp and disable the coach, while the rest would attempt to scatter the horses. Pursuit was certain, once R’shiel was discovered missing, but they planned to make it as difficult as possible.

That left only Adrina, her slave and the thirty men left of her Guard. The question of what to do with them was rather hotly debated, mostly between Damin and the princess. She did not want to be left behind to wait, and Damin was understandably reluctant to lead her into the middle of the Defenders’ camp. In they end they compromised. Adrina would stay with the horses on the edge of the camp, ready for a quick getaway. The Fardohnyans were more easily dealt with. With Damin as his interpreter, Tarja told the Fardohnyans they were free to go. He gave them maps to find their way home and enough supplies to see them to the Glass River. The young Lanceman accepted their release with quiet gratitude, following an assurance that the princess would be safe. The men would leave at dawn – one more scattered group in a landscape that would soon be crowded with them.

Their plans made, they settled down to rest until daylight. They would need to travel north tomorrow, shadowing the Defenders until they stopped again for the evening. Tarja hoped that Cratyn was far enough back that his troop would not run into the approaching Defenders. They had no real idea how far behind he was. Their estimates were based almost entirely on the assumption that Cratyn and his knights were probably armoured, and therefore unable to maintain any sort of sustained speed. The chances were good that the Karien force would not meet up with the Defenders until the day after tomorrow. Tarja needed to be well away by then.

Sleep eluded him, and he finally gave up pretending that he was getting any rest, just as the first of the stars winked out of existence with the onset of daylight. He walked to the edge of the camp, climbing a small hill to look out over their route for the next day. The sound of following footsteps alerted him to the fact that he was not alone, but he did not turn. He had a feeling he knew who it was.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Nor can you, I’d guess.”

Brak stepped up beside him and followed Tarja’s gaze.

“I don’t need sleep the way you do. One of the advantages of being half Harshini.”

They were silent for a time, each alone with his thoughts.

“How bad was it?” Tarja asked eventually.

“Bad enough,” Brak admitted. “You might get a shock when you find her. He cut her hair.”

Her glorious, dark-red hair. Tarja felt his ire rising, but forced it down. It would serve no purpose here.

“Tell me the rest of it.”

“There’s not much to tell. It took a while before I finally convinced Dace to release me – it was a good thing you sent him, by the way. Zegarnald was quite happy to let me rot. Anyway, Terbolt had already left the Citadel by then. Joyhinia, or rather Loclon, is still nominally in charge of the Sisterhood, but he’s taking his orders from a Karien called Squire Mathen. I don’t know who he is, but he’s working to his own agenda. Loclon doesn’t have much freedom of action.”

“For as long as I live, I will regret not killing him when I had the chance.”

“Accept it, Tarja. Being consumed by your regrets is a bad way to live.”

Tarja was surprised by the bitterness in his voice. “You speak from experience?”

“Oh yes,” the Harshini replied with feeling.

Tarja glanced at him curiously. Brak’s eyes had returned to their normal faded blue, but they were full of pain.

“I killed R’shiel’s father, Tarja. In doing so, not only did I destroy a good friend and my king, I saved her mother and allowed R’shiel to be born. Trust me, I have regrets that you couldn’t begin to understand.”

Tarja did understand though, more than Brak realised. “If R’shiel turns to Xaphista and the other gods want you to kill her, you’ll have destroyed your king for nothing.”

Brak nodded. “Nobody in this world wants her to succeed more than I do, Tarja.” Then he added with a sour smile, “and nobody has as much to lose if she does.”

“Will she succeed?”

“I wish I knew.”

Chapter 61

The Crown Prince of Karien was pious, noble and dedicated, but he was not stupid. He knew the Hythrun were better horseman, knew that they could travel much farther and faster than he could. So he broke with tradition and travelled without armour. He left his dukes behind and took only his good friend Drendyn, the Earl of Tiler’s Pass, and young Jannis, the Earl of Menthall. They were the only two men in his council he knew to be loyal to him, rather than to his father. The remainder of his force was made up of young knights who wanted to curry favour with the heir to the throne. Jasnoff would not reign forever, nor would the elder dukes. If he succeeded, these men would form the core of his personal support when he became king.

If he failed, none of them was so important or well connected that they would be missed.

Mikel learnt of all this the night before they left in pursuit of the princess. Cratyn was reluctant to let him out of his sight, so he lay in the corner of the prince’s tent pretending sleep, listening to Cratyn make his plans. The prince seemed consumed by a cold determination that would brook no interference. Their force would travel light: no armour, no lances, no lackeys, he declared. They would travel from before sunrise until after sunset. They would eat on the run and each man would lead a spare horse so that they could change mounts frequently. They would catch the Hythrun before they reached the Glass River.

Mikel admired Cratyn’s determination, but a small part of him was beginning to wonder what he had done. The prince was justifiably angry with Adrina. She had betrayed him most foully, but Mikel hadn’t really thought about what Cratyn would actually do when he learnt of her treachery.

He had expected him to be angry, certainly, but he didn’t think the prince would decide to hunt her down personally. His own anger at Adrina’s betrayal had faded somewhat. He wanted her punished, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to witness her murder, and there was no question about it – that was exactly what Cratyn had in mind.

The journey south proved a nightmare. Mikel clung to his saddle through long days of endless hard riding, cold rations and freezing nights. Cratyn made no allowance for his age or inexperience, and worse, when they did finally stop each night, he treated Mikel as his page and expected him to unsaddle his horse and fetch and carry for him, just as if they were back in Karien. Mikel’s admiration was slowly turning into burning resentment.

On their fourth day out they finally stumbled across proof that they were on the right road. While looking for a campsite for the night, one of knights discovered a small grove of trees with the remains of several fires scattered among the bare trunks. The ashes appeared to be quite fresh. Drendyn, the most experienced hunter among them, estimated that the Hythrun were only a day and a half ahead. The news invigorated Cratyn and the next day the pace he set was even harder. But, towards the evening of their fifth day on the road, they made a discovery that changed the whole nature of their mission.

Night had fallen, but the moon was bright. Cratyn judged it safe to continue, although he did slacken the pace a little and sent two knights out to ride in the van, a precaution he did not normally bother with. Mikel rode behind him, swaying in the saddle as fatigue threatened to unseat him. They had found no further sign of the Hythrun, but Cratyn’s determination was becoming an obsession. He would ride all night if he thought the horses could take it.

The sound of galloping hooves jerked Mikel fully awake. One of the knights sent to ride point was thundering toward them. Cratyn called a halt and waited for the man to reach them. Mikel leaned forward anxiously, hoping to hear what was being said. Had they found the Hythrun?

“Sire! Lord Terbolt approaches!”

“Terbolt?” Cratyn repeated, sounding rather puzzled. “But he is supposed to be at the Citadel. My father dispatched him there at the same time we left for the border.”

“There’s nearly a thousand Defenders with him, your Highness. They are camped not more than two or three leagues from here.”

Cratyn nodded, but his brow was furrowed. “You saw no sign of the Hythrun?”

“No, sire.”

“Then we may have ridden past them. We’ll have to turn back.”

“But Cratyn, what about Terbolt?” Drendyn asked. The young earl rode at Cratyn’s side and was probably the only man in camp who dared address him by name. “Shouldn’t we at least pay our respects?”

“I’ve no time to stand on protocol,” Cratyn snapped impatiently.

“Perhaps, but a thousand pairs of eyes are better than two hundred.”

The prince thought about it for a moment then nodded. “Very well, we shall join Lord Terbolt. And then we’ll look under every rock and every blade of grass between the border and the Glass River until we unearth the traitors.”

There was a time when Cratyn’s words would have thrilled Mikel, but now they simply left him cold.

Cratyn and Mikel rode ahead of the troop and into the Defenders’ camp amid curious looks and sullen stares. Drendyn had been left in charge with orders to wait until Cratyn returned. Mikel was disillusioned enough to realise that his place beside Cratyn was earnt through distrust, not honour.

As they moved past countless small fires surrounded by red-coated troopers, Mikel wondered what the Defenders thought about surrendering to Karien. In his experience, they were proud men – proud of both their reputation and their Corps. To be under the command of a Karien Duke must be galling. He was old enough to understand that it was only their discipline that kept them in line. The Hythrun had fled and Mikel suspected that the Kariens would have behaved no better, were the situation reversed. It seemed a tragedy that the very discipline that made the Defenders famous now placed them at the mercy of their enemies.

Lord Terbolt met them in the centre of the camp, a little surprised to find his prince so far from the border. Cratyn dismounted but to Mikel’s relief one of Lord Terbolt’s men led his horse away. Mikel jumped to the ground wearily, somewhat pleased to find his own mount being catered for in a similar manner. Cratyn waved him forward and he followed the prince into Lord Terbolt’s tent, wondering if the Duke would think to feed them as well.

“I must say, I didn’t expect to find you out here, your Highness,” Terbolt said as he poured two cups of wine. As an afterthought, he glanced at Mikel and jerked his head in the direction of a barrel in the corner of the tent. “There’s water over there. Drink if you wish.”

Mikel bowed and hurried over to the barrel, dipping the ladle into the chill water gratefully as Cratyn settled into Terbolt’s only comfortable chair.

“I did not expect to find you either, my Lord.”

“My work was done at the Citadel. I’ve left Mathen overseeing things.”

Cratyn frowned. “A commoner?”

“He may be a commoner, your Highness, but he’s about the smartest man I’ve ever met. And the most ruthless. I trust him completely. I believe you’ll find him eminently qualified for the position.”

“And the demon child?”

“She is here. I’ll have her brought to you if you wish, although if she truly is destined for great things, I can’t see it in her myself. But who are we to question our God, eh?”

“Send for her.”

Terbolt nodded and went to the entrance. He pushed back the tent flap and issued the order then returned to his wine.

“You’ve not told me what brings you out here, your Highness.”

“Adrina has been kidnapped by the Hythrun. They left the border just before Jenga surrendered.”

Terbolt looked genuinely horrified. “Gods! How did they get across the border? Wasn’t she guarded?”

“I believe my wife may have... contributed... to her own capture,” Cratyn said cautiously. He did not want to admit to Lord Terbolt that she had run away.

The duke frowned. “I was never happy with this arrangement, Cratyn. You know that. I would far rather you had married my daughter.”

“And I would much rather have married Chastity, my Lord.”

“There’s not much we can do about it now, I suppose,” Terbolt said with a sigh.

“Not much.” Cratyn sipped his wine and studied the duke over the rim of his cup. “Unless of course, something were to happen to my wife.”

“Your Highness?”

“She has been kidnapped by the Hythrun, after all. You know what barbarians they are. They might do anything. For that matter, they may even kill her.” He had heard Cratyn express the same sentiment to Drendyn, but never so coldly, so calmly.

“That would be a great shame,” Terbolt agreed, with the same, bland expression. If Mikel had not heard it for himself, he would not have believed the duke could agree to such a thing so easily. “Are you sure they came this way? We’ve seen no sign of them.”

Before Cratyn could answer the tent flap was thrown open and a Defender stepped inside. He saluted sharply before speaking.

“R’shiel is not in her tent, my Lord. If you would tell me where she has been moved, I will have her brought here immediately.”

“What do you mean she’s not in her tent?”

“She was moved a short time ago, sir. The captain who collected her said that it was at your request. I thought perhaps —”

“I gave no such orders! Who was the captain?”

“I don’t know, sir. The troopers on duty didn’t recognise him.”

Cratyn leapt to his feet, knocking over the chair in his haste. “It was Tarja Tenragan! I’d stake my life on it!”

“I don’t see how —”

“He was with them! Don’t you see? That’s why we’ve found no sign of the Hythrun. They’ve been hiding, waiting for their chance to rescue the demon child. Who else could it be?”

Terbolt thought about it for less then a minute. “How long ago did they take her, Captain?”

“A quarter of an hour, perhaps, my Lord, no more.”

“Then they’ll still be in the camp somewhere. Rouse your men, Captain! We have intruders among us. R’shiel must not be allowed to escape. And I want Tarja Tenragan. I don’t particularly care whether he’s dead or alive.”

The Defender saluted sharply enough, but it was clear, even to Mikel, that he did not care for his orders. Cratyn was pacing the tent impatiently. As soon as the Medalonian had left, he turned to Terbolt.

“If Tarja is here, then Wolfblade is out there somewhere too. And that means Adrina is with them.”

Terbolt nodded and reached for his sword. “Then the hunting should be good tonight. Tarja Tenragan’s head will make an excellent trophy.”

“You can mount it over the gates of Yarnarrow Castle,” Cratyn agreed with bloodthirsty enthusiasm. “Right next to that bitch Adrina’s.”

Chapter 62

As R’shiel’s days blurred into each other, she knew they were getting closer and closer to Karien. Every day took her nearer to the decision she realised she would soon have to make. The decision that might cost her her life.

Xaphista spoke to her often, coaxing one minute, taunting the next. As they neared the border his attempts to win her over developed an edge of desperation which R’shiel found inexplicable. They were nearing the place where he was strongest. If anything, she thought he might have begun to relax.

She was led to her tent once the camp was set up, and went inside without complaint. The priests left her alone now. Even Terbolt showed no interest in her. She was simply the package that he was escorting north. He had no interest in social intercourse, even assuming that R’shiel would have responded to it.

Loneliness can destroy the soul, R’shiel.

How can I be lonely with you filling my head, day and night?

I would be a good friend, demon child. I would never allow you to be lonely.

You need to study humans a bit more, Xaphista. Promising that you’ll never leave me alone is hardly a pleasant thought.

Is it pleasure you seek? I can give you more pleasure than you could possibly imagine.

You don’t understand pleasure.

Then you shall teach me to understand. Tell me what you want and I will learn.

Why are you so desperate?

Why are you so stubborn?

When R’shiel refused to answer, he went away.

Later that evening, after her barely touched meal had been removed by a silent priest, she lay on her pallet and pondered her fate consciously for the first time since her capture.

Her chances of rescue were remote. Brak would have come to her already if he could. The demons were linked to her power and she could not call them without invoking the pain of the collar. Tarja was on the border, probably already in the custody of the Kariens and awaiting execution. Damin Wolfblade was either a prisoner of the Kariens himself or fleeing for Hythria. The Harshini would not bestir themselves from Sanctuary with so many Karien priests abroad and the Primal gods... well, if Xaphista were to be believed, it was their fault she was in this mess in the first place.

As she ran through the list of those who might come to her aid, she realised that she was truly on her own. If she was to be saved – if she wanted to be saved – she was going to have to do something about it herself.

The Harshini power that made her what she was lurked tantalisingly out of reach. She knew it was there; could feel it beckoning, but the pain that barred her way was stronger than any wall. The only way to access it was to get rid of the collar, and Xaphista would not allow that to happen until he was certain that she was completely and utterly his. There was no point in pretending. He was a god. He could see into her soul. If he willingly removed the collar, it would be because he knew that she was no longer a threat to him.

Escape that way was no escape at all.

Or perhaps it was. Perhaps he was right. Why should she do the bidding of the Primal gods who had been responsible for so much of her suffering? Why shouldn’t she join with Xaphista? A lifetime of comfort lay down that path. As the High Priestess of the Overlord, she would know unlimited power. She could have anything she wanted. Xaphista would destroy Loclon if she asked. He could spare Tarja if she demanded it.

Anything you want.

The idea was very, very tempting.

Come to me, demon child. Now!

R’shiel did not answer immediately. Besides the weighty nature of the decision she faced, there were voices outside that sounded vaguely familiar. She sat up, straining to hear the exchange. Then the tent flap opened and Tarja stepped through.

He stared at her wordlessly for a moment. The guttering candle by the pallet only served to highlight his shock at her appearance. Her bruises had faded, and her hair had grown out enough so that at least she didn’t have bald patches any more, but she knew she looked terrible. She was thin and wasted and so deep into herself that she found herself unable to return.

“R’shiel?”

Do I look so bad that he doesn’t recognise me?

Turn away from him, demon child. He cannot offer you the succour that I can. Come to me now, child. Everything you ever wanted rests with me.

But Xaphista was wrong. Everything she ever wanted stood before her, with a look of shock and despair on his face.

His presence seemed to give her an anchor. She clung to it, like a climber pulling himself hand over hand up a long rope, out of a hole so deep the top was merely a speck of light in the distance.

“R’shiel? Do you know who I am?”

She nodded. It was the best she could do.

A small relieved smile flickered over his lips then he stepped closer and gently took her hand.

“I’m taking you out of here,” he explained, as if he knew how hard she was trying to comprehend. “We have to walk away like nothing’s wrong.”

You will never know peace if you turn from me now!

She nodded again, not capable of speaking. Tarja held open the flap and she walked forward, her footsteps taking all her concentration.

He doesn’t even love you! Not really. Kalianah forced it on him. Only I can love you like you want to be loved.

R’shiel fell in with the guard brought to escort her from the tent. Tarja walked by her side. He was so tense she could feel it radiating off him like light from the sun.

You will not defeat me, demon child.

She ignored him, understanding now that her responses gave him power over her. Acknowledging his presence was only a step away from worshipping him and it was worship that gave this elevated demon his strength.

You will find that all you believe in is a lie. Then, when you come to face me, I will not be so understanding. You will suffer for this.

Then the collar started to burn.

Chapter 63

Adrina waited in the darkness with Tamylan, holding the six horses that would take Damin, her and Tamylan, Almodavar and the two other Raiders Damin had chosen to accompany them to freedom. The entire band would split into similar small groups and scatter in every direction. The plan was to give the Defenders so many targets that they would not know which was the one they sought. She wasn’t even sure which direction they would head, but it would be opposite to the one Tarja and Brak took with R’shiel. There was no point in making things any easier for their adversaries than it already was.

They had said their goodbyes earlier and Tarja had surprised her by seeking her out. As he had always maintained a distance between them, the spectre of her brother’s death prevented them ever becoming close, she found his gesture quite out of character. He had led her away a short distance from the others as they were preparing to depart.

“If we succeed, we may never meet again, your Highness.”

“I respect you, Tarja, but not enough to hope we fail on the off-chance we might become friends.”

“Then can a would-be friend give you some parting advice?”

“If you think it will do any good. Listening to advice isn’t one of my strong suits either.”

He smiled for a moment, then his expression grew serious. “Decide what you plan to do about Damin, and sooner rather than later.”

“What’s to decide? I know he’s your friend, Tarja, but don’t mistake his actions for anything noble. He doesn’t want a Karien heir to my father’s throne. It’s really that simple.”

Tarja shook his head. “Kid yourself all you want, Adrina. He’s in love with you. Probably almost as much as you are with him.” He held up his hand to forestall her protest. “Don’t bother to deny it. The only two people in Medalon who can’t see what’s going on are you and Damin.”

“You’re imagining things!” she scoffed.

“Am I?” he asked. “In that case, it doesn’t matter where you go, simply that you stay free of Cratyn. I’ll go and tell Damin you’ve decided to come with R’shiel and me instead, shall I? That way he’s free to head back to Hythria and you can —”

“No!” Her panic at his suggestion had surprised her.

He smiled. “See? It’s not really that simple at all, is it?”

Adrina was not willing to concede the unthinkable. “You’re jumping to conclusions, Tarja. If I go with Damin, I’ll be closer to home. The gods alone know where you and R’shiel are liable to wind up.”

Tarja shook his head and smiled knowingly. “Have it your way, your Highness. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, then led her back to the others.

Have it your way. Adrina stamped her feet against the cold and replayed the conversation in her mind. It was her own fault, she knew. These Medalonians simply didn’t understand. She’d had scores of lovers... well, that was an exaggeration, but she’d had several. They were fun for a while and then they left. Of course, they had all been court’esa, and in the employ of her father, but that didn’t make them any less intimate... well... maybe it did. A court’esa’s livelihood depended on their ability to satisfy and entertain their employer. She was the king’s daughter so she had only ever been provided with the very best.

Damin was her first – her only – lover who did not need her approval or her patronage. He did not need her wealth. He did not need her position to advance himself. He could not even marry her as she was already married to someone else. On the contrary, he courted danger by courting her.

Perhaps that was the attraction for him. It certainly wasn’t love. The heir to the Hythrun throne did not fall in love with the King of Fardohnya’s eldest daughter. That, along with lovers who rode all day and made love all night, belonged in a bard’s tale. It was the sort of plot one could expect to find in a badly acted tragedy by a band of travelling minstrels. It simply didn’t happen in real life.

She would not allow it to happen.

One of the horses snorted irritably. Adrina patted the gelding’s neck, whispering soothing nothings to him, hoping nobody could hear them. What in the name of the gods is taking them so long? Adrina peered into the darkness, wishing she knew how long they had been waiting. It seemed to be forever, but she was not good at judging time. Others who took care of such mundane things had always regulated her life. She glanced at Tamylan who was standing by the other horses. The day’s rest had done her good, but she was still stiff and sore. She held the reins, standing close to the horses for warmth, her whole body listening for danger.

Perhaps I should ask Tam what she thinks?

Adrina knew that if asked for, Tamylan’s opinion would be as honest as it was tactless.

I should do something for her when we get home. Free her, maybe, and gift her with some property. Enough that she need never work again. She really has been a tower of strength through all of this. I wonder what I ever did to deserve such loyalty?

Not much, that Adrina could recall.

How did I ever come to this? she wondered. I am standing here in the dead of the night, freezing to death, a bare fifty paces from a camp full of Defenders, in the middle of nowhere and the only people I can count as my friends are a slave, a man wanted for murder and an enemy warlord.

Which brought her back to wondering about Damin.

She was determined not to believe what Tarja told her, but when they had sneaked away into the darkness Damin had slipped back to kiss her goodbye. It was, short, hard and passionate. Not the kiss of a lover, but the kiss of a daredevil stealing a moment of pleasure in the midst of danger.

He wasn’t in love with anyone but himself.

All thoughts of Damin Wolfblade’s failings were suddenly forgotten as a high-pitched, agonised scream split the night. The horses reared at the sound, almost jerking Adrina’s arm out of its socket. She and Tamylan struggled to keep the beasts under control as all hell broke loose in the Defenders’ camp.

Torches flared brightly as the camp was roused, the sound of shouting, of orders issued then countermanded, overlaid the screams that tore into Adrina’s soul.

The screams were female. Whoever it was, she sounded like she was dying.

“Mount up, Tam!” she whispered urgently. When Damin and the others made it out of the camp, every second would count. The shouting grew closer and the torches were so near that she could see the flames clearly, although the fold of the land still concealed their bearers. Tam scrambled into the saddle of the nearest horse, but dropped the reins of the other two. With a curse, Adrina kicked her mount forward and leaned down to reach for the reins of the nearest beast.

“Go! Get out of here! Now!”

She turned toward the shout and discovered Damin, Almodavar and one of the Raiders barrelling down the small slope behind them. On their heels were so many Defenders she could not begin to count them. She froze for a moment, torn between escape and assuring herself that Damin would win free of his pursuers.

“Run!” Damin screamed, seeing her hesitation.

The slope was swarming with Defenders now. Torches dotted their ranks, lighting their red coats in scattered patches along the ridge like drops of hot blood. Tam gave up trying to catch the other horse and looked to her mistress desperately.

“Adrina! Let’s go!”

She wavered for another instant. Long enough to see first Almodavar and then the Raider, overcome by the Defenders. But Damin still ran free.

Turning her horse savagely, she galloped toward him. Tam’s desperate cry of protest was drowned out by the shouts of the Defenders and the tortured screams that tore relentlessly through the darkness. The gap between them narrowed as the distance between Damin and the Defenders closed even faster.

The arrow, when it hit her in the shoulder, took her completely by surprise. She toppled from the saddle just as Damin reached her and that was only seconds before the Defenders overcame them both.

She had time to notice that the screams had stopped, just before she fainted.

When Adrina came to she was in a tent, which was bare of anything but the centre pole supporting the roof. She realised there was another body that lay groaning softly on the other side of the tent. She rolled over and cried out in pain. Her shoulder ached abominably and her fingers came away sticky with blood when she gently probed the source of her agony.

She tried to recall what had happened, but the details were sketchy. She remembered trying to help Damin. And the screams. Gods, she would never forget the screams. Something had hit her and she had fallen. Had Damin won free? She seemed to recall seeing his face, his eyes full of anger. Why had he been angry? Because she had tried to come to his rescue? Typical.

And what in the name of the gods had happened to Tam? Her last sight of the slave was her desperately calling Adrina back. Had she been captured too? Why wasn’t she here? The fate of a female slave in a Fardohnyan war camp was a foregone conclusion, but the Defenders were better disciplined. The Sisterhood who ruled them would not countenance such behaviour. Tamylan’s absence meant she had escaped – or she was dead. Adrina prayed it was the former. She feared it was the latter.

The body groaned again and Adrina stopped thinking of her own troubles long enough to wonder who it was. She sat up carefully and moved across the small gap separating them on her knees. Her companion was a young woman with short-cropped red hair wearing dark, close-fitting leathers and a silver collar smeared with dried blood.

“R’shiel?”

It couldn’t really be anyone else, but she was hardly what Adrina had envisioned. The girl was younger than she expected, and in her present condition she was far from the matchless beauty Damin had described.

What did one say to the fabled Harshini demon child?

“I’m Adrina,” she said, unable to think of anything else.

R’shiel stared at her uncomprehendingly.

“We have a mutual friend,” she added inanely. “Tarja Tenragan.”

I sound like Lady Chastity.

The demon child blinked at the mention of Tarja’s name, but that was the only reaction Adrina could get from her.

“R’shiel?”

She shook her shoulder, gently at first, and then quite roughly when that had no effect. Although R’shiel’s eyes were open, there was no light of comprehension in them. Adrina shrugged and immediately regretted it. Her shoulder was pounding and there was no point speaking to someone who was so obviously not listening. Brak had said something about that. Something about R’shiel retreating so far into herself that she was almost comatose.

“Well, I hope you don’t stay away for too much longer,” she told R’shiel irritably. “Right now the only thing that’s going to save either of us is a bloody miracle, so if you don’t mind, get over whatever it is that’s upsetting you girl, and come to your senses. There are people here who need you.”

Her reprimand delivered, Adrina sat back on her heels and waited for them to come for her.

Chapter 64

There are people here who need you.

The words filtered down through R’shiel’s pain. She did not know who had voiced them, but they echoed through the emptiness like a reproach.

I warned you, demon child. If you will not come to me through love, you will come to me through fear. The end result is the same.

The memory of the pain was too fresh for R’shiel to deny Xaphista’s claim. But if she could not face him, she could run from him.

There are people here who need you.

R’shiel clung to the thought, clawing her way back to sanity with every scrap of her remaining strength.

She blinked suddenly and looked around. Canvas walls surrounded her and the ground where she lay was cold and hard. She turned her head, ignoring the pain the movement caused as the square of bright light intruded. It was blocked a moment later by the figure of a man stepping through, followed by several others. They were Defenders, but that meant nothing. The Defenders were her enemies now.

Someone pulled her to her feet, along with another prisoner. R’shiel did not have time to wonder who she was before they were both hustled out of the tent and led through the camp to Lord Terbolt’s tent.

Waiting inside was Lord Terbolt, a young man with brown hair and angry eyes, and in the corner, the young Karien boy who had been a prisoner in the Defenders’ camp. She could not imagine how he came to be here.

“Your Highness,” Terbolt said with a short bow.

R’shiel was a little surprised to hear her fellow prisoner being addressed so formally. It hurt too much to move her head so she tried to study her out of the corner of her eye.

She was shorter than R’shiel, but even her rough clothing and her dishevelled appearance could not conceal her innate beauty. She was foreign; her skin was dusky and her hair much darker than R’shiel’s, and she had startling green eyes. Perhaps she was Fardohnyan. She certainly wasn’t from Medalon and Karien never produced such exotic looks.

“And this is supposed to be the demon child?” the young man asked sceptically. “She doesn’t look much, does she?”

“I recall thinking the same thing when I met you, Cretin,” the woman snapped with a surprising amount of venom.

The young man leapt to his feet angrily. “You will only speak when spoken to, whore!”

R’shiel fought to stay conscious, the argument between the angry young Karien and the beautiful Fardohnyan woman giving her something to focus on. She didn’t know either of them, but their conflict kept the nothingness at bay. It kept away Xaphista’s persistent attempts to coax her back down into the hole. If she went back now, she would never escape. She knew that with a certainty.

“Don’t you dare speak to me in such a tone!” the Fardohnyan declared. “When my father hears about this —”

“When he hears about what, Adrina? Your treachery or your Hythrun lover?”

Adrina. Damin’s floozy in the see-through dress. Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside her but she fought it down. The sobering process was helped considerably by the realisation that this young man was probably Prince Cratyn. And the Hythrun lover? Even in her semi-conscious state, R’shiel could easily guess who that was.

“What lover?” Adrina scoffed. “Is this some pathetic story you’ve invented to provide an excuse to have me stoned? No one will believe you, Cretin. I am a loyal and dutiful wife. It is you who could never get the job done.”

Cratyn smiled coldly. “I have a witness, Adrina.”

R’shiel’s eyes fixed on the Karien boy, who looked as if he would rather be any place but in this tent. He was so guilty he was trembling with it.

Adrina glanced at the boy also, then laughed. “Mikel is your witness? A boy who’s spent as much time with the enemy as he has with you? He’s not even a disciple of the Overlord. He follows Dacendaran, the God of Thieves, and I have that from the god himself.”

“There are no other gods,” Cratyn retorted.

Good, then you don’t need me, R’shiel said to herself.

Terbolt turned to the boy who cowered under his gaze.

“Is this true, boy? Do you follow a false god?”

“No!” he cried. “I follow the Overlord.”

“That’s not what Dace says,” Adrina said smugly.

“Dace?” The boy looked utterly confused. “But he’s just a thief.”

“Then you do know him?” Terbolt asked.

“Well, yes, but —”

Cratyn grabbed the boy and shook him savagely. “Is this true? You are an agent of the God of Thieves?”

“Pick on someone your own size, Cretin.”

He threw the boy down and turned on the princess, slapping her with a vicious backhanded blow. “Shut up!”

Adrina stumbled backward but when she looked back at him, once she regained her balance and wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth, her eyes were full of defiance.

“It’s not going to work, is it, Cretin. What was your plan? Hunt me down and kill me and claim the Hythrun did it? Only the Defenders found me first, so you had to fall back on your other plan, didn’t you? Accuse me of adultery and have me stoned. But your star witness can’t testify for you, can he? He isn’t just a disciple of Dacendaran, he counts him as a friend! Now what are you going to do?” Cratyn hit her again. Adrina staggered backwards, then turned on R’shiel. “Hey! Demon child! If you’re thinking of doing anything useful, now would be a pretty good time!”

Cratyn struck her again. His anger had slipped beyond reason.

“Leave the princess alone!” Mikel cried in protest but Lord Terbolt held him back.

Come to me, R’shiel. Through love or fear, the end result is the same.

The boy struggled against Terbolt as Adrina launched herself at Cratyn. She hit him with a clenched fist, almost knocking him off his feet. Princess she might be, but she fought like an alley cat, although she cried out as fresh blood seeped from the wound in her shoulder. But neither the pain nor the fact that Cratyn was bigger and stronger than she was seemed to deter her.

There are people here who need you.

It was Adrina who had spoken those words, R’shiel realised with a start.

Cratyn managed to push Adrina off him and draw his sword. At the sight of the blade, Adrina knew she was done for, R’shiel could tell by the look in her eyes. Mikel was sobbing as he realised what Cratyn intended.

But not Adrina. She was defiant to the last.

“Go on, Cretin. Kill me. But before you do, I want you to know that I did take a lover. And do you know what? It was wonderful! He was strong and passionate and I made love to him every chance I could, anywhere I could. But the best part... the best part... was that he made me forget you and your evil, insidious Overlord.”

If you’re planning to do anything useful, now would be a pretty good time.

Your evil, insidious Overlord.

Cratyn raised his sword at the same time that R’shiel reached into her boot and drew the small dagger that Garet Warner had given her. Her aim was unerring. It took Cratyn in the chest with a solid thunk.

The young prince looked down in astonishment at the blade that was buried up to the hilt in his tabard, before his eyes rolled back in his head and he dropped to the floor.

Adrina stared at R’shiel for a moment then smiled. “I’ll give you one thing, demon child, your timing is impeccable.”

She had no chance to reply. Terbolt threw the boy aside and opened his mouth to call the guards. R’shiel’s eyes darkened as she drew on her power. The burning seared through her but she ignored it.

She understood now. The collar worked on fear as much as pain. Xaphista had told her that himself. Come to me, R’shiel. Through love or fear, the end result is the same. Fear, not pain. It was her fear of the pain the blocked her power, not the pain itself. If Adrina could stand fearlessly in the face of death, R’shiel could cope with a little burning agony.

She raised her arm and pointed at Terbolt. The duke dropped to the ground before he could utter a word, dead or unconscious – even R’shiel didn’t know for certain. She turned her attention inward then and focused on the collar. It disintegrated with a thought, falling away from her neck like sparkles thrown at a children’s party. With it went the pain. In the back of her mind she caught the echo of an anguished cry. Xaphista realising she was lost to him.

For the first time in weeks, R’shiel felt whole again. The power coursing through her eased her pain and healed the burns. The feeling was the closest thing to pure ecstasy she had ever experienced.

R’shiel turned her black eyes on Adrina. She liked this fearless Fardohnyan princess. She reached out and touched her shoulder, felt the muscle and skin knit beneath her hand.

Adrina stared in wonder for a moment, flexing her healed shoulder, then she frowned at R’shiel. “Thank you. Now, are you just going to stand there looking majestic, or are we going to help the others?”

“Where are they?”

“How should I know? Mikel!”

The boy edged his way past the bodies of Lord Terbolt and Prince Cratyn. Adrina caught his sleeve as he neared the entrance and pulled him to her, squatting down so that she was eye to eye with the terrified child.

“Do you know where they’re holding the others, Mikel?”

He nodded dumbly.

“Good. Then we shall go and rescue them. You needn’t be afraid. R’shiel is Harshini and she’ll protect us with her magic.” The boy began to cry. Adrina rolled her eyes, but she put her arms around him and hugged him gently. “There, there, Mikel. Don’t let it upset you.”

“But I’ve betrayed the Overlord. And my prince.”

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over that, child. You have Dacendaran to pray to now and Cratyn isn’t worth crying over. Now, are you going to help us or not?”

Mikel wiped his eyes and nodded.

“Good boy. Shall we go then?” She looked up at R’shiel questioningly.

“This could get messy,” she warned. “The priests can feel me now and I’m really not very good at this.”

Adrina looked around the tent and shrugged. “You seem to be doing just fine to me.”

They stepped out of the tent and into chaos. The priests rushed toward Terbolt’s tent clutching their magic-killing staffs, shouting conflicting orders to the Defenders. As R’shiel emerged into the sunlight with Adrina and Mikel, the priests halted their headlong rush. They stood before her cautiously, their lips moving silently as they prayed to their god.

Garanus stepped forward, holding his staff before him. The Defenders, for whom religion was a quaint foreign custom, stood back to give him room. They were curious, not alarmed. Two women and a child hardly warranted their attention and they had no idea what lay inside the Karien lord’s tent. The priests’ antics were more entertaining than threatening and they were reluctant allies at best.

“I call on the Overlord to strike you down, demon child!” Garanus chanted as he approached. He knew she was drawing on her power, his staff would have warned him, even if her eyes did not. “I call on Xaphista to vanquish your evil!”

“Vanquish?” Adrina muttered behind her. “Where do they come up with this nonsense? Do something about him R’shiel. We haven’t got time for this.”

Brave she might be, but Adrina certainly wasn’t blessed with patience in any great quantity.

Garanus was chanting loudly, in unison with the other priests. Her skin tingled as the magic they tried to raise washed over her. It was stronger than it should have been. Xaphista was lending them a hand.

Without warning a bolt of bright light exploded from the tip of Garanus’ staff. R’shiel raised her arm deflected the bolt with a thought. It landed with crash amidst the tents a few paces away, sending Defenders scurrying for safety. Another bolt followed it and then another. Xaphista wanted to destroy her. There was no question about that now. She had chosen sides and in His mind, chosen the wrong one.

I am the demon child, she told herself, and Xaphista has only a smattering of believers here. This battle, at least, I can win.

R’shiel deflected another blinding bolt of lightning and then pointed at the staff Garanus carried. It exploded in a burst of shattered gems, sending the few Defenders left standing diving for cover. The staffs of the other three priests behind him exploded almost immediately after.

She looked past them and discovered Brak, his eyes as black as hers, standing behind the priests. He nodded as she caught his eye, but made no move to aid her. R’shiel smiled briefly, then focused her disconcerting eyes on the Kariens.

“If you leave now, I will let you live. If you choose to stay, you will meet Xaphista a lot sooner than you expected.”

To his credit, Garanus hesitated. Without his staff he had no more power than any other mortal. He debated the issue for a moment or two then glanced over his shoulder at Brak. He might be brave enough to tackle one simple girl, but two Harshini filled with a power he was helpless to combat, was enough to sway him. He conceded defeat with ill grace.

“This is a temporary victory only, demon child. You cannot defeat the Overlord.”

“We’ll find that out some other day. Now go, before I change my mind.”

The priests fled as the Defenders emerged from their cover. Their faces ranged from confused to completely stunned. Others hurried to put out the scattered fires that she had started as she deflected the lightning. For weeks they had ridden under the command of Terbolt and his priests. R’shiel’s dismissal of them left them speechless. Brak walked toward her and treated her to a rare smile of approval.

“Where have you been?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied.

Not all the Defenders were at a loss for words, however. A captain stepped forward, blocking their path, his sword drawn. R’shiel recognised him as Denjon, one of Tarja’s classmates when they were cadets.

“Where is Lord Terbolt, R’shiel?”

“In the tent with Cratyn,” Adrina answered for her, rather more cheerfully than the situation warranted. “You might want to take command now, Captain. Lord Terbolt is indisposed and it seems I’m a widow.”

The captain stared at them for a moment, then allowed himself a thin smile. “That’s tragic news, your Highness. You have my condolences.”

“Thank you, Captain, but don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be able to deal with my grief.”

“Where are Tarja and the others, Denjon?”

“The Hythrun and the Defenders who tried to free you are being held down near the picket line. Tarja’s in the Infirmary tent.”

R’shiel’s heart skipped a beat. “Where? What happened?”

“What do you think happened, R’shiel? He doesn’t believe in giving in gracefully. He took a sword in the belly trying to get you out of here.”

There was a reprimand in his words that startled R’shiel. “You sound as if you think this is all my fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Denjon asked. He met her alien eyes for a moment then looked away. “Sergeant! Find Captain Dorak and tell him to go to Lord Terbolt’s tent. And then go down to the picket line and... who’s in charge of the Hythrun?”

“Lord Wolfblade,” Adrina told him.

“The Lord Wolfblade?” He had obviously not been aware of the importance of his prisoner. Adrina nodded, rather amused by his expression. Denjon turned back to the sergeant. “Bring Lord Wolfblade to me. And do it tactfully, Sergeant. The last I heard he was supposed to be on our side.”

“Sir!” The man saluted and turned to go, but Denjon called him back before he had taken more than two steps.

“Send someone to fetch Captain Kilton and Captain Linst, too. I’ll be in the Infirmary.”

The sergeant left to carry out his orders and Denjon turned back to R’shiel.

“I have to warn you, he’s in a bad way.”

“Just take me to him, Denjon.”

“As you wish.”

The captain turned and led the way through the camp followed by R’shiel, Brak, Adrina, Mikel and the curious eyes of a thousand Defenders who sensed that something very significant had just occurred.

Just how significant it was would not be known until the officers had decided what to do now that they were effectively free of Karien control. They had two choices, R’shiel knew: obey their orders and continue on to the border, or defy them and choose a much more dangerous path.

She was certain the latter was what they wanted to do, but she was not at all certain that they would act on it. The Defenders took their duty very seriously. Of all the men she knew in the corps, only Tarja and Jenga had ever had the strength to defy their oath when faced with something they found they could not stomach.

As Denjon pushed back the flap to the large Infirmary tent and the sickening smell of blood and death washed over her, she could only hope that Tarja’s brother captains, when it came to the crunch, were made of the same stuff.

Chapter 65

The first thing that R’shiel noticed in the long tent was the absence of any physics. An occupation almost entirely restricted to Sisters of the Blade, it did not seem possible that the Defenders would undertake such a journey without some of them in attendance. When she questioned Denjon about them, he shrugged.

“It was Lord Terbolt’s decision. There are no sisters in the camp at all. I don’t think he trusts them. Besides,” he added. “We were simply escorting him to the border. We weren’t expecting any trouble.”

“Why would Terbolt want a thousand-man escort? That seems a bit excessive, even for a Karien.”

“Because when the Fardohnyans cross the southern border, the Defenders will send for reinforcements,” Damin remarked, pushing through the tent flap behind them. “If the troops are in the north, even if the Sisterhood wanted to, they couldn’t send help. What the Kariens don’t know is that Hablet is playing his own game. He’s not coming to help the Kariens, he’s heading for Hythria.”

Adrina spun around at the sound of his voice and flew at him. Damin caught her in a brief hug then held her at arm’s length. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. R’shiel came through in the nick of time.”

At the mention of her name, he looked up, unable to hide his shock. With her hair cut close and her eyes black with the power she refused to relinquish, she must look nothing like the girl he remembered.

“Where’s Tarja?” he asked.

The sergeant must have told him what was happening, or what little he knew, at any rate.

R’shiel glanced at Denjon, who pointed to the narrow pallet at the far end of the tent. Only a few of the beds were occupied, and the men in them all looked seriously injured. The Defenders had a fairly generous definition of “walking wounded”. If a man could stand, he wasn’t sick enough to be confined to bed. These men were simply the worst of the night’s casualties. There would be many more out in the camp suffering the effects of Tarja’s abortive rescue attempt.

Afraid of what she would find, she pushed past Denjon and the medic in attendance and approached him cautiously. Her throat constricted as she neared him. He was paler than death and barely breathing.

“If you’ve anything important to say to him, make it quick,” the medic suggested with cold practicality. “He’s going fast. Lost so much blood it’s a wonder he’s still got anything for his heart to do.”

R’shiel stared at the man in horror then sought Brak out among those crowded into the tent. He had released his hold on the power and his faded eyes were clouded with doubt.

He knew what she wanted. She did not have to ask.

“I don’t know, R’shiel.”

Adrina still clung to Damin but she looked at them both with wide eyes, confused by their doubt.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re Harshini. You can heal him, can’t you? R’shiel fixed me up with just a touch.”

R’shiel knelt beside the bed and placed her hand on Tarja’s forehead. His skin was cold and clammy. He was deeply unconscious, a step away from death and heading in the wrong direction. The power seemed to both sharpen and deaden her senses at the same time. She could feel the life slipping away from him, but she was insulated from the grief somehow. Perhaps it would hit her later, once she let the power go.

“Get out,” she ordered softly. When no one seemed inclined to heed her, she looked up, her eyes blazing. “Out! All of you!”

Startled by her tone, they did not argue. As they filed from the tent, she turned back to Tarja, wishing she knew where to start. Healing Adrina’s fresh, uncomplicated arrow wound was one thing. Bringing someone back from the brink of death was quite another.

R’shiel waited until she knew she was alone, except for the one person she was certain would not leave her while she was drawing on this much power. She didn’t know if it was loyalty or distrust that kept him there. Nor did she care.

“I can’t do this, Brak. I don’t know enough about healing.”

“I’ll not be much help to you, R’shiel. Like yours, my talent lies in the other direction.”

She looked up sharply, wondering how he could be so callous.

“I have to try.”

“Have you considered the possibility that this was meant to be?”

“What do you mean?” He could not meet her eye. “Brak! What do you mean?”

“Death decides when one’s time is up, R’shiel, not you, or me, or anyone else for that matter.”

“You’re telling me Tarja’s time is up?”

“I’m telling you Death doesn’t negotiate.”

She pushed the hair from Tarja’s forehead gently. “What if I speak to Death? Can’t I ask him not to take Tarja?”

“Not without offering a life of equal value in return.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because that’s what happened when the Harshini healed you, R’shiel. Death demanded a life in return.”

“Whose life? Who could make that kind of decision?”

When he did not answer she looked up, her face drained of colour. “It was you, wasn’t it?” R’shiel looked down at Tarja for a moment then slowly climbed to her feet. “Was it Tarja, Brak? Is that why you want me to let him die? So you can fulfil your bargain with death?”

“R’shiel —”

“Tell me, Brak!” she cried, turning on him angrily. “Who is going to die? Whose life did you trade for mine? You bastard! How could you do such a thing?”

“I couldn’t let you die, R’shiel.”

“You think I want to live knowing some poor sod carries a death sentence so I can keep breathing? Who, Brak? Who did you condemn to death? It was Tarja, wasn’t it? Tarja has to die, so I can live. A soul of equal value, you said...”

Brak grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. Hard. She stopped her tirade and threw her arms around him, sobbing.

“It wasn’t Tarja,” he told her gently as he held her.

She pulled away from him and wiped her eyes. “Who was it, Brak?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“Yes I do.”

“No, you don’t. And I’m not going to tell you, at any rate. See to Tarja. Perhaps he’s destined to die, perhaps he isn’t. I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe in destiny.”

“Which accounts for most of the trouble you’ve found yourself in lately.” He led her back to the pallet and knelt beside her, studying Tarja’s unconscious form with a much more experienced eye. “He’s close to death, R’shiel. Even Cheltaran would find it hard to bring him back.”

“I have the power to flatten mountains, Brak, you said that yourself. If you could just show me...” She stroked Tarja’s clammy forehead, her desperation almost severing her hold on the power. “Can’t you do what Glenanaran did for me? Stop time?”

“And hold him on the edge of death to what purpose, R’shiel? The problem isn’t the wound, it’s the blood he’s lost. You can knit bones and flesh easily enough, but not even the gods can manufacture blood out of thin air.”

“But I can feel him dying!”

“I know.”

“Then tell me what to do!” she cried. “Should I call Cheltaran? He’s the God of Healing. He should —”

“He won’t come, R’shiel,” Dacendaran told her miserably, as he appeared at the foot of the bed. “Zegarnald won’t let him.”

Anger surged through R’shiel, its edge honed by the power she held. How dare Zegarnald deny Tarja his only chance at life? “What do you mean? He won’t let him come?”

The young god shrugged uncomfortably. “He said something about you taking the easy way too often.”

“You mean Tarja is dying as some sort of test?” she gasped furiously. “What sort of sick breed are you, Dace? That’s inhuman!”

“Now you finally begin to understand,” Brak said.

Dace tugged on a loose thread on his motley shirt, avoiding R’shiel’s accusing eyes. “It’s not my fault. I’m not even supposed to be here. But Kali likes Tarja, so she’s keeping Zegarnald busy.”

“What did Kalianah say, Dace?”

R’shiel looked at Brak, wondering at the question.

“She said to tell R’shiel that love will prevail.”

“Oh, well that’s a big help,” R’shiel scoffed.

“Don’t be like that. I’m just the messenger. She said to tell you that you have guardians that protect you and that protection will embrace all who love you truly. That’s why she did what she did, I think. She knows things sometimes...” Dace trailed off with a sigh. “I’m sorry, R’shiel. I have to go. I wish you’d been a thief. I could have helped you a lot more.”

R’shiel felt the god leave, but she was too concerned about Tarja to care much. She was terrified that he would slip away before she could intervene, and afraid of what would happen if she did. Living without him would be hard enough; contributing to his death would be intolerable.

“You should never ignore a message from the gods, R’shiel,” Brak warned. “Particularly one as powerful as Kalianah.”

“Love will prevail,” she repeated caustically, in a fair imitation of Dace.

“She also said you have guardians that protect you, and that protection will embrace all who love you truly.”

“What guardians?”

Brak did not answer. He merely waited for the answer to come to her. When it did, she could have cried, but whether from anger at her own stupidity, or sheer relief, she could not tell.

“The demons!”

She had barely framed the thought when Dranymire popped into existence at the foot of the bed. His appearance was followed by a high-pitched squeal, as the little demon who had grown so fond of sleeping in their bed scrambled thoughtlessly across Tarja and jumped into her arms. The little demon appeared to have recovered from her ordeal in the Citadel. She hugged the creature and turned to Dranymire.

“We were wondering when you would remember us,” the demon said in his unnaturally deep voice.

“I’m sorry, Dranymire. But after the Gathering... so much has happened...”

The demon shrugged. “You have nothing to apologise for, except perhaps for not thinking of us sooner. What grieves you, demon child?”

“Can you show me how to heal Tarja?”

“Did you learn nothing at Sanctuary?”

“But he’s lost so much blood!”

“Don’t human bodies make their own blood?” Dranymire asked curiously. “They certainly spill enough of it to make one think it was readily replaced.”

“He’ll die before his body can replace what he’s lost,” Brak explained.

“Then you need blood to keep him alive, long enough for his own body to repair itself.” He looked at R’shiel with his too-big eyes. They were filled with compassion. “This human’s death would cause you much pain, I suspect.”

“More than anything I have ever suffered.”

Dranymire nodded solemnly. “We could do nothing to protect you from pain the gods imposed on you, but we can do something to prevent this.”

“What can you do? I don’t understand.”

“We shall be his blood.”

“What?” R’shiel began to wonder if she had slipped back into the realms of her living nightmare.

“We shall meld and become the blood that he requires.”

“You can do that?” She looked at Brak for confirmation. The idea was too bizarre to comprehend.

Brak nodded. “Wounded Harshini have been saved by their bonded demons entering their bodies until they could reach help. It’s not unheard of.”

“It is where I come from.”

He smiled faintly. “You still have so much to learn, don’t you?”

“Will this really work?”

Brak glanced at Dranymire who shrugged. “Humans and Harshini are not so different.”

“Then let’s do it,” she announced, reaching for the thin blanket that covered Tarja.

Brak laid a restraining hand on hers. “A word of caution, R’shiel. This will mean that until he’s recovered enough to survive on his own, Tarja will be literally possessed by demons. Not even Dranymire knows what that will do to him if he survives. Are you prepared for that?”

She thought for a moment before replying.

“One problem at a time. I’ll deal with the consequences later.”

He shook his head. “Just so long as you understand that you could be making a big mistake.”

R’shiel did not reply. Rather she pulled the blanket down, revealing the blood-soaked bandages that bound Tarja’s midriff.

“I mean it, R’shiel.”

She looked up at him and shrugged. “I don’t make mistakes, Brak. Everything I’ve ever done in my life seemed like the right idea at the time.”

Chapter 66

Denjon led Adrina and the others away from the Infirmary tent, obviously glad to be gone from such blatant proof of the continuing existence of the Harshini. R’shiel had obviously been acquainted with the captain and he seemed to know Tarja quite well, too. It was more than likely the reason he had not struck them down when they emerged from Terbolt’s tent. On the other hand, if Jenga’s reaction had been anything to go by, surrender was an alien concept to these men. Perhaps R’shiel had merely provided them with the excuse their training and their oath denied them.

Whatever the reason for their cautious cooperation, three other captains awaited them outside Terbolt’s tent. Denjon introduced them as Dorak, Kilton, and Linst. The men all wore that same serious, wary expression that she had come to associate with the Defenders. Between that and their identical uniforms, she found it hard to tell them apart.

“The Karien Prince is dead,” Dorak told Denjon, casting a wary eye over Adrina and Damin as they approached. “He was stabbed. Terbolt’s dead too, although there’s not a mark on him. It could have been poison.”

“It wasn’t poison,” Denjon replied. “Are they still in there?”

Dorak nodded.

“Let’s talk in the mess tent. I’d rather this wasn’t overheard.” He glanced at Mikel meaningfully.

The child followed Adrina like a faithful shadow, afraid to let her out of his sight.

“Mikel, why don’t you go down and join Captain Almodavar and the others. I’m sure he’ll look after you until we finish here.”

“Am I a prisoner now?”

“No. Just go down and tell him everything will be sorted out soon,” Damin added, with surprising gentleness. “Your brother’s down there somewhere too. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

He nodded doubtfully. “Is he all right?”

“Why don’t you go and find out?”

With one last cautious look, the boy turned and ran towards the picket lines.

The captains led the way to another long tent. The only difference between this one and the infirmary was the interior. The mess tent was lined with collapsible tables and benches rather than beds. The smell was marginally better, too. Once inside, Denjon dismissed the cooks and waited until he was certain they were gone before he turned to the others.

“We have a decision to make, gentlemen.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to tell us what’s going on?” one of the captains said. It was Linst or the other one. Adrina really couldn’t remember which one was which.

“I would if I knew. Perhaps you could enlighten us, your Highness?”

After so long among the Kariens, who considered the input of a woman no input at all, Adrina wasn’t really expecting to be included in the conversation. But these men served the Sisterhood. They suffered no illusions about the ability of women. She glanced at Damin who squeezed her hand in encouragement.

“I want to know what happened to my slave, first.”

“What slave?” Denjon asked.

“The young woman who was with me when we were captured.”

The captains glanced at each other and shrugged. “There were no other women captured, your Highness. She probably escaped in the confusion.”

“Could you send some men out to find her, Captain? She’s alone in a foreign country and not equipped to survive on her wits. Not in the wilderness, at least.” Denjon nodded to Linst, who left the tent to issue the order. That worrying detail taken care of, Adrina felt a lot more secure about her future among these men. “Thank you. Now what did you want to know?”

“Let’s start with what you’re doing here,” Denjon suggested.

“I fled Karien. The Defenders offered me their protection and when the order for the surrender came from the Citadel, I decided to leave, rather than return to my husband. Lord Wolfblade kindly offered to escort me.”

“Did you kill Cratyn?” Kilton asked curiously.

“No. R’shiel did.”

“No offence, ma’am, but I can’t say I’m sorry. He was an obnoxious little bastard.”

Adrina immediately warmed to the captain. Cratyn must have made quite an impact in the short time he was in the Defender’s camp.

“No need to apologise, Captain. You merely demonstrate that you are an excellent judge of character.”

“Where are the rest of the Hythrun?” Denjon asked Damin, anxious to stick to the business at hand, although he did allow himself a small smile at Adrina’s comment. None of these men seemed the least bit bothered by Cratyn’s demise. “Rumours in the Citadel had it that you had near a thousand men on the border.”

“I don’t share the Lord Defender’s enthusiasm for following orders, Captain. The bulk of my men left as soon as I realised Jenga intended to surrender. We were the last to leave.”

“And Tarja?”

Damin smiled at the Captain’s expression. “He was following Jenga’s orders. I believe the plan was to make life as difficult as possible for your new masters. The Defenders he took with him were all he thought he could sneak out without the Kariens noticing.”

Denjon nodded, looking rather relieved. “Following the Lord Defender’s orders, you say? Well that makes our decision somewhat easier.”

“Making life difficult for the Kariens does seem a rather noble cause,” Kilton agreed with a grin.

Linst returned from arranging Tamylan’s rescue party and looked at his brother captains with a shake of his head. “You can’t seriously be considering joining him?”

“I doubt Tarja will live long enough to join anything,” Dorak added. “But if the Lord Defender ordered him to undertake a special mission, aren’t we duty-bound to pick up where he left off?”

“There’s a thousand men in this camp! How many of them do you think will want to follow you on such a damned fool mission?”

“Most of them, I imagine,” Kilton shrugged. “Bring me one man in the camp, from the lowliest kitchenhand to the highest ranked officer, who was pleased to be marching anywhere under Karien command.”

Linst nodded in agreement, albeit reluctantly. “Aye. But if we follow the Lord Defender’s orders, aren’t we disobeying the Sisterhood?”

“Ah, but there are no Sisters of the Blade here. In the absence of orders to the contrary, we have no choice but to follow the orders of the Lord Defender.”

Adrina smiled at Kilton’s rather liberal interpretation of the law.

“That seems fairly cut and dried,” Denjon agreed. “And what about you, Lord Wolfblade? Are you still allied with Medalon?”

“You’re holding my men prisoner, Captain.”

“Then you should consider your answer most carefully, my Lord.”

Damin smiled faintly. “Much as I hate to turn down a good fight, I’m afraid I must return to Hythria. The Fardohnyans will be standing at my border come spring. I plan to discourage them from crossing.”

“Pity,” Kilton sighed. “Your Raiders are quite good in a fight.”

Judging by the surprised look on Damin’s face, such an admission was high praise indeed.

“You and your men are free to go, Lord Wolfblade. If you stay clear of the Citadel, you should be able to make it home by spring,” Denjon told him. “You were right when you said the bulk of our forces are in the north. By the way, I heard that the Warlord of Elasapine withdrew from Bordertown as soon as he heard of the surrender.”

“Narvell’s no better at following orders than I am,” Damin said. “It’s a pity, though. He’ll be too far into Hythria to call him back, by the time I get there.”

“Then we have to stop my father attacking Hythria,” Adrina said.

“How?”

“By offering him an alliance.”

“He’s already allied with Karien.”

“The alliance was dependent on my marriage to Cratyn. As that is no longer the case, the treaty can reasonably be assumed to be null and void.”

If Kilton could twist the law to suit the outcome he desired, there was no reason Adrina couldn’t do the same thing.

“I doubt if Hablet will see things quite so clearly,” Damin warned.

“Then we’ll have to make him see.”

“Marry her, Damin, then he won’t have a choice.” The demon child’s unexpected entrance gave Adrina a chance to recover from the shock of her suggestion. R’shiel had finally shed the power she had used to destroy Terbolt and intimidate the Karien priests, and her eyes had returned to normal. They were an unusual shade of violet, wide set and clear. She was very tall – almost as tall as Damin – and she carried herself with an unconscious aura of power. The comatose, uncertain child who had been led into Terbolt’s tent had emerged a woman, sure of her power and certain of her purpose.

“Is Tarja...?” Denjon ventured cautiously.

“Dead? No. He’ll live. Brak is with him. He’s not to be moved, nor is anyone to approach him until I say so. Is that clear?”

Denjon and the others nodded their agreement. Adrina doubted anyone would deny her when she used that tone. She then turned to Damin and smiled. It was obvious R’shiel was fond of the Warlord and the thought sent an unexpected spear of jealousy through her.

“I wasn’t kidding, Damin. If you marry Adrina, and Hablet still wants to attack Hythria, he’ll have to go over the Sunrise Mountains. Fardohnyan law demands a peace treaty between both Houses in the marriage. It may not keep him out of the rest of Hythria, but at least he won’t be able to take the easy road. He’ll be unable to set foot in Krakandar Province until he figures a way around the marriage contract.”

Damin nodded thoughtfully. He seemed to accept the suggestion with remarkable composure. “It would delay him, I suppose, assuming I was willing to go along with such a ludicrous plan. But he could just as easily deny the marriage had taken place and carry on regardless.”

“I’ll have Jelanna perform the ceremony herself, if that’s what it takes.”

Adrina gasped. Somehow the idea that this girl could command the Goddess of Fertility, the goddess her father worshipped with almost fanatical intensity, was more terrifying than anything else she had done this morning.

But things were moving a bit too fast and R’shiel had not even asked her what she thought about this rather hasty decision.

“Do I get a say in this?”

“Why?” R’shiel asked. “Were you planning to object?”

“That’s not the point. But as a matter of fact, I was planning to object. I’ve had all the arranged marriages I want, thank you. Besides, I’ve been a widow for just over an hour. It’s indecent.”

“Don’t be such a hypocrite,” R’shiel said bluntly. “You’ve been sleeping with Damin for ages and he obviously loves you, or he would never have been so stupid as to try to keep you from returning to Karien.”

Adrina felt herself blushing, something she had not done since she was sixteen and was introduced to her first court’esa. She glanced at Damin who actually looked embarrassed. The captains were fighting to maintain straight faces.

R’shiel did not seem to notice, or care, about their feelings.

“Denjon, if you truly mean to undermine the Karien occupation of Medalon, then the first useful thing you can do is give me a few experienced men and enough supplies to reach the Citadel.”

“I’d have thought the Citadel was the last place you’d want to go.”

“There is something that I have to take care of. Or rather, someone. I had it pointed out to me very recently that I take the easy way out, too often. That’s about to change.”

“I’ll see to it,” Denjon agreed. “Unless you want to wait until Tarja...”

“No. This can’t wait and I’ve done all I can for him. Brak will watch over him until he regains consciousness. In the meantime, you’d better do something about those priests I let loose. You don’t want them reaching the border and warning the Kariens about what’s happened here.”

“There’s the rest of Cratyn’s troop out there, too,” Damin reminded them. “You’d be well advised to do something about them before the day is out.”

“We can take care of a few hundred Kariens,” Denjon assured him.

“As for you two,” R’shiel said, turning on Damin and Adrina. “Get one of the captains to marry you; they can perform the ceremony at a pinch under Medalonian law. Once Tarja has recovered, Brak can go to Talabar to deliver the news to King Hablet. If one of the fabled Harshini walking his palace halls doesn’t convince him, nothing will.”

Damin was no more able to argue with her than Adrina was. This was not R’shiel speaking, this was the demon child finally come into her power. She had no intention of marrying Damin Wolfblade and was quite sure he did not want to marry her; but she would wait until R’shiel left for the Citadel before she announced it. Adrina was not foolish enough to defy R’shiel in her current mood.

“There’s a vineyard just south of Testra, that we used as a headquarters during the rebellion,” she continued, addressing the captains once more. “My guess is that Tarja sent his troops there. You’ll need to get a message to them. Once I’ve taken care of what I have to do at the Citadel, I’ll join you.”

“And then what, R’shiel?” Damin asked cautiously.

She hesitated for a moment, as if some weighty decision hung in the balance.

“And then I’m going to put a stop to this insanity, Damin. I am going to kick the Kariens out of Medalon and make damned sure they never stick their noses over our border again.”

“I don’t know how you think you can manage that,” Dorak scoffed.

“It’s quite simple, Captain,” the demon child replied. “I am going to bow to the inevitable and fulfil my destiny. I am going to destroy Xaphista.”

Chapter 67

R’shiel rode far from the Defenders’ camp under a leaden sky, her face flushed and tingling from the cold. She had told nobody the reason for her journey, just that she needed to be alone. She had especially avoided Brak. He may have guessed what she was planning and she did not want to give him the opportunity to object.

The Hythrun mare stretched her legs as the camp dwindled behind them. She had no particular destination in mind and in truth, for a good while she simply enjoyed the ride and the speed of the magnificent sorcerer-bred horse. It was the first time in a very long while she had done anything for the sheer joy of it, and she was reluctant to end it too soon.

Eventually, she came to a small rise on the undulating plain and looked back to discover the Defenders’ camp was completely obscured by the fold of the land. She dismounted and stroked the lathered mare’s neck, urging her to seek out what feed she could on the sparse winter plain. With a nicker of understanding the mare wandered off. When R’shiel was certain the horse was a safe distance from the knoll, she turned and looked up at the sky.

“Zegarnald!”

She received no answer other than the soughing wind rustling through the dried grass like a satin skirt brushing against a taffeta petticoat.

“Zegarnald!”

“Demon child.”

She spun to find the War God standing on the knoll behind her. He was dressed in golden armour that glittered in the dull afternoon light. He was enormous. The battles that were tearing this world apart had made him as strong as he had ever been.

“You defied Xaphista, I see.”

“No thanks to you.”

“Brakandaran seems to have taught you disrespect, along with survival.”

“Brak didn’t teach me survival, and I don’t need any lessons in being disrespectful from anyone,” she retorted.

“Then why did you call me, demon child?”

“My name is R’shiel.”

“You are the demon child.”

“I am R’shiel!” she insisted. “The demon child is a creature you invented. It’s not who I am!”

“Then you refuse your destiny?” The god sounded puzzled. Such fine distinctions were beyond his ability to comprehend.

“I’m not refusing it, Zegarnald. I’m accepting it. I will do as you ask. I will restore the balance and destroy the gods who have skewed things by becoming too strong.”

“Gods? Surely you mean only one god?”

R’shiel smiled ingenuously. “You surely don’t think I can just remove Xaphista without affecting any other gods, do you?”

Zegarnald pondered the problem for a moment and then nodded slowly. “Yes, I see. I had not considered that.”

“Then you will leave me to do fulfil my destiny as I see fit?”

The War God frowned. “You will go to Slarn and destroy Xaphista. What else is to be done?”

“Xaphista’s power is drawn from his believers in Karien. I can’t destroy him without destroying that too.”

He thought on that and then nodded slowly. “Yes, I can see that.”

“Then you’ll leave me be? No more tests? No more tempering?”

“But...”

“Zegarnald, you have to trust me. I’m the only one who can do this. You have to let me do it my way. I’m half human. I know how humans think. I need you to promise that you will not interfere unless I ask you to.”

“You ask a great deal of me, demon child.”

“You’re asking a great deal of me,” she pointed out.

The God of War thought over the problem for a while before he nodded his agreement.

“Very well. I will do as you ask.”

“Give me your oath.”

“You doubt me?” He swelled at the implied insult.

“No. That’s why I want your oath.”

“Very well, I give you my solemn promise I will not interfere in your handling of this affair unless you ask it.”

“No matter what happens?”

“No matter what happens,” he agreed unhappily.

R’shiel smiled at him. “Thank you, Divine One. Now, just to prove that I will need your help from time to time, I have a job for you.”

“A job?”

“Yes. I want you to find Damin’s brother, Narvell, the Warlord of Elasapine and get him to turn back. Tell him he has to protect Krakandar from a Fardohnyan invasion.”

“I AM NOT YOUR MESSENGER!” the god boomed, making the ground shake with his indignation.

“As you wish,” she shrugged, turning away from him. “If Hablet crosses the Hythrun border too easily, there won’t be a battle. On the other hand, if Narvell turns back, there should be a nice little bloodbath. But, if you’d rather not...”

“Perhaps I could consent to do this one favour for you,” the god conceded with ill grace. “But I am not your messenger, demon child. Do not presume to use me in such a manner again.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Divine One.”

It was nearly dark when R’shiel returned to the camp and she rode straight to the infirmary tent to check on Tarja.

Outwardly, his condition had not changed. He still lay as pale as death and barely breathing, but the fact that he still lived at all was a good sign. As she knelt beside the pallet, she was shocked to see his hands and feet bound to the bed with sturdy ropes.

Angrily, she turned on the medic who was changing the bandages of a man on the other side of the tent.

“Who did this?” she demanded.

“That man who came with you,” the medic shrugged. “Jack, or Brak, or whatever his name is. He said things might get a bit rough and that tying him down was for his own protection.”

R’shiel was horrified and fully intended to confront Brak about such a barbarous practice, but she was not so sure of herself that she untied the ropes. She sat with Tarja for a time, stroking his pallid forehead, trying to will him to live, before she left the Infirmary to seek Brak out.

It was fully dark when she emerged from the Infirmary and she looked about with a frown, realising she had no idea where Brak would be. She was still pondering the problem when faint voices raised in anger reached her. One of the voices was unmistakably female and R’shiel could easily guess who it was.

Curiously, she followed the sound to a tent not far from the one where she and Adrina had been held prisoner. She could see Adrina’s silhouette through the canvas wall as she paced in front of the lamp. They could probably hear her in Talabar.

“In case you’re interested, the whole camp can hear you screeching,” she announced as she pushed the flap back.

Adrina spun around angrily. Damin was sitting on a small campstool on the other side of the small table that held the flickering lamp looking thoroughly miserable. A glowing brazier in the corner warmed the tent, almost as much as Adrina’s anger.

“I DO NOT...” she began, then took a deep breath. “I do not screech.”

“You do,” R’shiel said. “I take it this... argument has to do with my declaration that you two should get married? So who’s the dissenting party?”

“R’shiel, perhaps it’s not such a good idea...” Damin began.

“Not a good idea! It’s downright insane!” Adrina retorted. “Hablet will have a fit when he hears about it, and the first thing the Hythrun Warlords will do is hire an assassin to have me killed.”

“You’ve both lived with the threat of assassins all your life – what difference will another make? As for Hablet, we’ll just have to convince him there’s a profit in it.”

“And what about how I feel?” Adrina asked, unable to deny the truth of R’shiel’s words. Anything that was profitable was fine by her father.

“How do you feel, then?”

“Used!” she snapped without hesitation.

“I need Hythria and Fardohnya at peace, Adrina. I can’t face Xaphista any other way.”

Adrina turned to Damin for support. “Even if this marriage stays my father’s hand for a time, the Hythrun Warlords will never accept me as their High Princess.”

“She has a point, R’shiel.”

“The High Arrion will support you – she’s your sister isn’t she? There are already Harshini in Greenharbour. With the Sorcerers’ Collective backing you and once it’s known that the demon child has sanctioned your union...”

“The demon child is still a legend in Hythria,” Damin reminded her. “The only way this will work is if you return to Hythria with us. If you want to stop a civil war and want the other Warlords to believe in the demon child, then you’re going to have to show them the demon child.”

“I can’t go to Hythria, Damin. I have to take care of something at the Citadel. Tarja will need my help when he’s recovered and I still have to figure out how I’m going to deal with the Kariens.”

“None of which you will be able to give your full attention to, until Fardohnya and Hythria are at peace,” Damin pointed out, turning her own argument back on her. “What’s the hurry, anyway? It’ll take months before Tarja and the other captains can get the Defenders under their command organised enough to mount an effective resistance. The Citadel is under the control of the Kariens and you’re not going to be able to do anything about that until you’ve destroyed Xaphista. The war in Medalon is over for now.”

“I have to return to the Citadel. You don’t understand...”

“No, you’re the one who doesn’t understand,” Adrina cut in. “You want to change the whole world to suit your liking, then run off on some personal vendetta while the rest of us get killed trying to carry out your orders. Nobody wants to see the Kariens brought to their knees more than I, R’shiel, but Damin is right. If you want us to do this, then you’re going to have to do it with us. Your mission to the Citadel will have to wait.”

R’shiel glanced at the two of them and sighed. They were both such stubborn, strong-willed personalities and she needed this marriage to take place. She would have called on Kalianah to intervene, but Damin was one of Zegarnald’s favourites. The War God would know she was up to something if another god interfered with Damin.

Frustration welling in her, she was forced to concede that they were right. Sending Damin back to Hythria with Adrina as his bride without proof of the demon child’s existence would be akin to a death sentence.

“Very well, I’ll come. But only long enough to convince the Warlords. After that, it’s up to you two.”

Damin glanced at Adrina, who nodded in agreement, although her scowl made it clear that she was less than enthusiastic about the whole idea.

“So, I’m to be the High Princess of Hythria.”

“First a princess of Fardohnya, then Karien and now Hythria,” Damin remarked. “You do get around, Adrina.”

She turned on him angrily and R’shiel left the tent to continue her search for Brak, before she became even more embroiled in their argument.

Damn them, she though as she strode through the camp. Damn them for being so obstinate. Damn them for being right.

Brak had told her once that destiny had a way of catching up with you. Well, maybe it had. But just because it had caught her, didn’t mean she couldn’t make things happen her way. She would bring peace to the south, even if it meant delaying her inevitable confrontation with Loclon. That she would have to face him before this was over was as certain as her destiny was to destroy a god.

Any god... or all of them. It didn’t really matter which...

The trick, R’shiel decided, as she moved through the firelit Defenders’ camp, would be to manage affairs in such a way that nobody realised what was happening until it was too late to stop it.