Harshini

CHAPTER 1

Korandellan té Ortyn, the last King of the Harshini, waited until the end of the concert before he left the natural amphitheatre in the centre of Sanctuary to return to his apartment. But first, he congratulated the performers. He admired the clever scenery they had devised, which used a mixture of magic and everyday objects, and graciously thanked them for their efforts. He moved among them, smiling and waving, as the glimmering twilight, that was as close to night as it came in this magical place, descended over the valley. Sanctuary's tall, elegant white spires towered over the hidden city, touched with silver as evening closed in. The people were trying so desperately hard to be happy. He did his best to seem happy for them in return.

There was a brittle edge to the serenity of Sanctuary these days. An edge that Korandellan, more than any other Harshini, could feel. The happiness here was fragile; the cheerfulness an illusion. The Harshini were running out of time. Quite literally. Only Korandellan knew how close they were to the end.

Perhaps Shananara suspected. She fell in beside him, dressed in the long loose robes that most of the Harshini favoured, which surprised him a little. Shananara had been in and out of Sanctuary a great deal of late, and he was more used to seeing her in Dragon Rider's leathers. His sister had always been more interested in the comings and goings of the human population than he. With the demon child abroad, and the whole world affected by her presence, Shananara was anxious to know what was happening. Slipping her arm companionably through his, she walked with him back to his quarters, waiting until the doors swung silently shut behind them before she spoke.

“Let me help, Koran.”

The King sighed, letting his shoulders slump and his façade of vitality crumble in her presence. He looked haggard.

“No. You cannot help, Shanan,” he told her, lowering his tall frame into a delicately carved chair near the open doors that led to the balcony. The tinkling sound of the waterfall drifted through the open windows. The evening, as usual, was balmy and clear. “I need your strength for other matters.”

“There won't be any other matters if you falter,” she warned. “Let me carry some of the load. Or do you enjoy being a martyr?”

He smiled at her wearily. She had been out visiting the humans again. Her manner of speech always reflected her journeys among the mortals. “No, I do not enjoy being a martyr, sister. But if I fail, our people will need you to guide them. If you help me now, you will certainly ease my burden, but it will weaken you at a time when one of us needs to be strong. Only the demon child can lift the burden from my shoulders completely.”

Shananara flung herself into one of the chairs opposite the window. “The demon child? That unreliable, spoilt, half-human atheist brat? If that's who you're relying on to save us, brother, we are doomed.”

“You shouldn't speak of her so harshly, my dear. R'shiel will do what she must.”

“She will do what suits her, Koran, and not a damned thing more. I doubt if even the gods know if it will be what she was destined for.”

“Yet it is on her we must rely.”

“Then let me bring her back.”

“Here? To Sanctuary? For what purpose?”

“If you won't let me ease your burden, then let R'shiel do it. The gods know she's strong enough. Let me bring her back, Koran. Let her carry the load for a time, enough to let you recover, at least. Then you can take up the burden again and R'shiel can do what she has to.”

The King shook his head. “Events unfold as they should, Shananara. We cannot interfere.”

“What events?” she scoffed. “Where is it written that you should destroy yourself holding Sanctuary out of time, while the demon child sits on her hands trying to decide if she even believes that we exist or not?”

“You did not speak to R'shiel before she left us. She has learnt much.”

“She doesn't know a fraction of what she needs to know. And who is there to teach her? Brak?”

“I thought you were fond of him.”

“I am, but he's hardly the one I would have chosen as the demon child's mentor. He doesn't even like her. And he certainly doesn't trust her.”

“She will learn what she needs to know in Hythria.”

“But does R'shiel know that? She's just as liable to head in the other direction.”

“You worry too much, Shanan. These things have a way of working themselves out. R'shiel will come to accept her destiny and will learn what she needs in due course.”

“Before or after the Harshini are destroyed, brother?” Leaning forward, she studied him intently, as if she could see through his skin and into his soul. “Xaphista's minions have control of Medalon. The Defenders have surrendered to Karien. Hythria is on the brink of civil war and Fardohnya is arming for invasion. And you are beginning to weaken. I can see it in your eyes. You tremble constantly and cannot control it. Your eyes burn. Your aura is streaked with black. A flicker, a slight wavering in your hold on the spell that holds Sanctuary out of time, and Xaphista's priests will know where we are. Once that happens, you will be able to count the days on the fingers of one hand before the Kariens are standing at our gates.”

“R'shiel will deal with Xaphista before that happens,” he assured her.

“I wish I shared your faith in her. But how long do we have, Koran? How long can you keep draining yourself?”

“As long as I need to.”

She leaned back with a defeated sigh. “Then I can only pray to the gods that it will be long enough.”

“The demon child will do what she must.”

Shananara did not look convinced. “You place far too much faith in that uncontrollable half-breed.”

The Harshini King nodded tiredly. “I'm aware of that, Shananara, but unfortunately that uncontrollable half-breed is our only hope.”

CHAPTER 2

The marriage of Damin Wolfblade, Warlord of Krakandar, to Her Serene Highness, Princess Adrina of Fardohnya, took place on a small, windswept knoll in the middle of northern Medalon on a bitterly cold afternoon. It was little more than two weeks since the bride had unexpectedly become a widow.

The sky was overcast and low, the sullen clouds defying the brisk, chilly wind by staying determinedly in place. The somewhat less-than-radiant bride was dressed in a borrowed white shirt and dark woollen trousers. The groom looked just as uncomfortable in his battle-worn leathers. The assorted guests appeared either bemused or amused, depending on their country of origin.

Officiating over the ceremony was a tall, serious looking Defender, who wore the insignia of a captain and quoted the stiff, practical and very unromantic Medalonian wedding vows that were carried away by the wind almost as soon as he uttered the words. This wedding was taking place because the demon child had demanded it, and a quick ceremony - enough to make it legal - was all R'shiel cared about. She had neither the time nor the patience for any pomp or ceremony.

“This is probably a waste of time, you know,” Brak muttered as he watched the ceremony with a frown.

“Why?” R'shiel asked softly, not taking her eyes from the bride and groom, as if they would somehow manage to escape their fate if she looked away.

“This marriage will only hold up if you can get the High Arrion to accept the legality of a Medalonian ceremony as soon as you get to Greenharbour,” he explained.

“The leader of the Sorcerers' Collective?”

“The High Arrion is Damin's half-sister.”

“She's not going to be very happy about this, is she?”

“Even if she wasn't concerned about her brother, as the High Prince's heir, he's doing a very dangerous thing.”

“But worth it, Brak. In the end, it will be the best thing that could have happened. This will force peace between Hythria and Fardohnya. Nothing else we can do will achieve that.”

Brak looked unconvinced. “There's an awful lot that can go wrong, R'shiel.”

“It'll work.”

He stared at her.

“Trust me, it'll work!”

“I'm surprised Zegarnald is letting you get away with this.”

“I have the God of War's solemn promise that he won't interfere. Besides, he'll think this is likely to cause a war.”

“That's because it is likely to cause a war, R'shiel,” Brak pointed out.

“Only in the short term.”

He shook his head at her folly and turned his attention back to the ceremony. It was almost over. Denjon was calling on the gods to bless the union - Kalianah to bless it with love, Jelanna to bless it with children. He sounded very uncomfortable, but R'shiel had insisted on acknowledging the gods, even in some small measure. Personally, she didn't think it would make much difference, but Damin and Adrina were both pagans and it was what they believed that counted. One or both of them might try to wheedle out of it if she left them a loophole.

Denjon declared the union sealed, to the scattered applause of the gathered Defenders and Hythrun who had come to watch. The newlyweds turned to face the crowd and smiled with the insincere ease of those trained from childhood to perform in public. They stepped down from the knoll and began to walk towards R'shiel and Brak. R'shiel shivered, although it was not from the cold.

“Just how much power do the Sorcerers' Collective have, anyway?”

“Politically or magically?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“The magic they wield shouldn't bother you. They tap into the same power we do, but it's the result of years of study, not innate ability. It's done with incantations and spells and a bit of co-operation from the gods. Politically, however, they're one of the strongest forces in Hythria.”

“So if the High Arrion publicly sanctions this union, the Warlords will accept it?”

“They won't openly object, but don't count on acceptance.”

“Then we need the Sorcerers' Collective on our side.”

“Most definitely.”

R'shiel nodded, her mind already working through how to get the High Arrion on side. And the King of Fardohnya. Brak could deal with him. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion he was going to enjoy it. Her mind churned with possibilities, as she pondered the problem. The scheming came to her as naturally as breathing - one of the legacies of being raised by the Sisters of the Blade.

“Well, it's done now,” Damin remarked as he and Adrina reached them.

“A true romantic, isn't he,” Adrina complained. “Do we have to stand around here chatting? I'm freezing. Every time I get married, I seem to be freezing.”

“We should head back to the camp. Denjon had the cooks prepare a wedding feast for you.”

“What a culinary experience that's going to be,” Adrina grumbled.

“You're not planning to make this easy, are you?” R'shiel asked.

The Princess conceded the point reluctantly. “Very well, I shall endeavour to be appreciative of the efforts of my hosts.”

“That should be a new experience for you,” Damin remarked blandly.

The Warlord enjoyed living dangerously, R'shiel decided, noticing the look Adrina gave him. She made her excuses, leaving the bride and groom with Brak, and slipped away to speak with Denjon.

“Thank you, Captain.”

“I'm sure I've broken a score of laws here today, R'shiel. Are you sure this was necessary?”

“Positive. It'll keep Hythria and Fardohnya off our backs while we deal with the Kariens.”

“I hope you're right. I'm not sure the marriage of a Hythrun Warlord to a Fardohnyan will help Medalon much. Particularly the Warlord who's spent most of the past decade trying to steal every head of cattle on our side on the border.”

“This Warlord is on our side now, Denjon.”

“I'll have to take your word for that. Although he seems reasonable enough.”

She smiled, wondering what Damin would think of such a backhanded compliment. “Never fear. Events will strike a balance eventually.”

“I hope you're right, demon child.”

R'shiel had no chance to chide the captain for calling her by that hated name. A commotion ahead of them distracted her as a Defender ran towards them from the line of tents ahead, calling her name.

“What's wrong?” she demanded as the man pushed through the wedding party to reach her.

“It's Tarja,” the young man panted. “He's awake.”

R'shiel beat everyone else to the infirmary tent. She pushed her way through the flap and ran to the pallet where Tarja lay at the far end of the large tent, straining uselessly against the ropes that held him.

“Tarja?”

He turned at the sound of her voice, but there was no recognition in his eyes. His colour had improved but he had a wild look, as if a battle raged inside him. His dark hair was damp and his brow beaded with sweat. The rough, grey, army-issue blankets that covered him were a twisted tangle.

“Tarja? It's me, R'shiel...”

His only response was to tug even harder at the ropes. Already his wrists were burned from his efforts. With a cry of dismay, she reached for them, to ease his suffering.

“R'shiel! No!”

Brak hurried to her side and looked down on Tarja with concern. Damin and Adrina were close on his heels.

“Look what he's doing to himself, Brak! You can't just leave him there, tied up like a wild animal.”

“If you let him go, he's liable to do a lot worse damage to himself,” Brak warned. “Until the demons leave him, he's better off restrained.”

“Demons?” Adrina gasped in horror. “You mean he's possessed?”

“In a manner of speaking,” the Harshini shrugged.

“That can't be good for him.”

“It's the only thing keeping him alive,” R'shiel retorted, suddenly in no mood for Adrina's tactlessness. “How much longer, Brak?”

“It shouldn't be long now,” he said. “He's awake. That's a good sign.”

“How will the demons know when to leave?”

“Dranymire should sense when they're no longer needed. With luck, when the meld dissolves, all the brethren will follow.”

“With luck?” Damin repeated dubiously. “You mean there's no guarantee they'll all leave?” He stared at Tarja for a moment then turned to Adrina. “For future reference, my dear, if I ever take a fatal wound in battle and the Harshini offer to heal me by having me possessed by demons, let me die.”

“Never fear on that score, Damin. If you ever take a fatal wound in battle, I'll be more than happy to let you die.”

“Stop it!” R'shiel cried impatiently. “I'm sick of you both! Go away!”

The pair of them looked quite startled at her outburst. “I'm sorry, R'shiel...”

“Just leave.”

Without any further comment the Warlord and his bride beat a hasty retreat from the infirmary. R'shiel turned her attention back to Tarja, who seemed to have lapsed into unconsciousness again.

“I have to tell you, R'shiel,” Brak remarked as he watched them leave, “if the fate of Hythria and Fardohnya rests in the hands of those two, we're in big trouble.”

“They need to grow up,” R'shiel agreed impatiently. She had no time for the peculiarities of her friends at this point. She was more concerned about Tarja. “Isn't there anything we can do for him?”

“Not while the demons still substitute for the blood he's lost,” Brak told her.

“How much longer?”

“There's no way of knowing. But he's strong. If anyone can survive this, Tarja can.”

She watched for a moment, as Tarja's chest rose and fell in even, measured breaths. “Every day, I keep hoping... We've already been here too long. We have to leave. I can't keep putting it off.”

“We have a wedding feast to attend first.”

“Don't remind me.” She pulled the blanket up and smoothed it, then looked at Brak. “I just hope those two behave, tonight. If not, I'll strangle the pair of them.”

“Don't worry, they won't dare cross the demon child.”

“Are you making fun of me, Brak?”

He smiled. “Just a little bit.”

She returned his smile wanly. “Don't you ever get sick of watching over me?”

“Constantly. But it's a task I'll be doing for some time yet,” he replied as his smile faded.

“What do you mean?”

“You've chosen which side you're on, demon child. You don't think Xaphista is just going to stand back and watch while you set about destroying him, do you?”

“You think he'll send more priests after me?”

“You should be so lucky,” he told her. “A priest you can see. No, I'm afraid he'll be a bit subtler this time. He'll probably try to turn someone close to you against you. Someone you trust. Someone who can get near you.”

R'shiel studied Brak for a long moment then glanced down at Tarja. “You think he'll turn Tarja against me, don't you?”

“Tarja, Damin, Adrina, one of the Defenders, who knows? Any one of them could become your enemy and you won't know a thing about it until they're pulling the knife from your back.”

R'shiel stroked Tarja's brow gently before she answered. “Tarja would never betray me.”

“Perhaps not. But trust no one, R'shiel.”

“Not even you?”

Brak smiled thinly. “Xaphista can't turn me to his cause, or any Harshini for that matter. He began as a demon and he was never bonded to my clan or yours. The Harshini you can trust.”

“But nobody else?”

“Nobody else.”

She stood up, frowning at the idea that everybody she knew was a potential traitor. “Brak, I really don't like being the demon child, you know that, don't you?”

Brak shrugged. “We all have a destiny we can't avoid, R'shiel.”

“I don't believe in destiny.”

“I know. That's why the Primal Gods are so worried.”

That thought actually cheered her a little. “The Primal Gods are worried?”

“They're worried,” he agreed.

“Good,” she declared petulantly. “They damned well should be.”

CHAPTER 3

R'shiel escaped the mess tent and the wedding feast as soon as she could slip away without being rude. She had arranged this wedding and felt that the least she could do was make some attempt to be sociable, although Brak's warning about Xaphista worried her more than she cared to admit. She had found herself studying faces in the candlelight, wondering who the Overlord would suborn. Which familiar face was really her enemy? Whose eyes hid treachery and whose were genuine in their friendship? She escaped the tent with relief, glad finally to be alone. Brak seemed to sense what bothered her and made no attempt to follow.

She paced the large Defender camp, too restless to seek her bed. Since returning from Sanctuary, R'shiel found she didn't need sleep the way she once had. While a useful trait at times, in the darkest hours of the night, when the human spirit was at its lowest ebb, she felt the burden of her destiny keenly. With Brak's caution about potential enemies ringing in her ears, tonight it seemed harder than usual.

But she was not unhappy. In fact, it was frightening to discover how much she was enjoying herself. She had told Brak she did not believe in destiny, but Joyhinia had unwittingly raised her for this. Every lesson she learnt at Joyhinia's knee was aimed at educating her in the art of survival in the cutthroat politics of the Sisters of the Blade.

R'shiel had rebelled against it as a child. Now she found it not only useful, but almost exhilarating. She frequently told Brak that she hated being the demon child, but there were times when it was intoxicating to have princes and princesses deferring to her. Even the Defenders, who had never treated her as much more than the annoying little sister of one of their officers, now treated her with cautious awe.

For the first time in her life she understood the attraction of power, but was still idealistic enough to hope that it would not corrupt her. R'shiel had not yet reached the point where she was willing to sacrifice anything to achieve her goals. But she was prepared to do a great deal. As Brak had said, she had chosen which side she would be on. All that remained now was for her to do what the Primal Gods had created her for - a destiny she had absolutely no idea how she was going to fulfil.

Her thoughts turned to Hythria, and the reason she had agreed to accompany Damin and Adrina south. Originally, she agreed to go with them to aid Damin's cause and to avert potential trouble now that he was married to the daughter of Hythria's most despised enemy. But in the past few days R'shiel had realised she had to go south because that was where the Sorcerers' Collective was located. If anybody left alive in this world had the knowledge of how to kill a god, the last human practitioners of magic would. R'shiel had already tasted Xaphista's lure and although she would never admit it to Brak, she doubted she could hold out against him a second time. She needed knowledge that even the Harshini did not possess. They had no idea how to kill a god. They couldn't even squash a flea.

Several turns around the large camp in the chilly starlight did nothing to ease her turmoil, so she decided to sit with Tarja for a time. In the darkness of the infirmary tent, the smell of lye soap sharp in her nose, she cooled his fevered forehead with a damp rag as he literally fought the demons that possessed him. Tarja drifted in and out of consciousness, but he never displayed even a hint of recognition. He would lie quietly at times, and then jerk against the bonds that restrained him so hard R'shiel wondered that the pallet did not break under the pressure. There was nothing she could do for him but hope. She did not have enough faith in the gods to waste her time praying.

As she watched him, she wondered if Xaphista would choose Tarja as the instrument of her destruction. It would be the cruellest jest he could play on her. She loved him; had loved him since she was a child. But Kalianah, the Goddess of Love, had imposed Tarja's love for her on him. Xaphista had told her that and she had no reason to doubt him. Tarja loved her because the gods willed it. He had been given no say in the matter, nor was he aware that the choice had not been his.

If Tarja ever learns of the geas, Xaphista will have no need to seduce him, R'shiel thought unhappily. Tarja's wrath would be enough. She knew that, as surely as she knew nothing she could do, nothing she could say would lessen his fury, should he ever discover what had been done to him.

As dawn slowly lightened the sky over the camp, R'shiel abandoned her depressing line of thought. No closer to finding a solution to the troubles that plagued her, she left the tent to find some breakfast and clean up before her meeting with Denjon and the other captains.

“We have a problem,” Denjon announced by way of greeting when she entered the mess tent. It had, by default, become their meeting place over the past two weeks. Brak and Captain Dorak were already there, sitting at one of the long tables nursing steaming mugs. The tables had been cleared from last night's party and the tent was empty other than for Brak and the Defenders. Captain Linst was sitting at the end of the table, the remains of his breakfast in front of him. None of the men rose as she entered. She had finally cured them of that, at least.

“Only one problem? When did things improve?”

Denjon treated her to a weary smile. He was a tall, rangy man, who had been a classmate of Tarja's when they were cadets. He had dark hair and the competent manner R'shiel associated with the Defenders. His proficiency was a credit to Jenga rather than a positive reflection on the Sisters of the Blade who commanded the Defenders.

“Perhaps I should re-phrase that. We have an urgent problem. The rest can wait an hour or two.”

“Where's Damin?”

“Still enjoying his wedding night, I suppose,” Dorak suggested with a grin.

“We can't wait for him,” Denjon shrugged. “We need to decide what we're going to do with the Karien prisoners. We've sat here far too long and the scouts have just brought news of another troop of Kariens coming in from the north, no doubt looking for their Prince.”

“We have to move out,” Linst added. “We can't take the Karien prisoners with us and we can hardly leave them here to announce what we're up to when the search party finds them.”

The problem of what to do with the Karien knights who had accompanied Prince Cratyn on his quest to find Adrina was one R'shiel had been hoping she would not have to face. When Denjon calmly announced he could “take care of a couple of hundred Kariens”, she had callously hoped they would simply die in battle, saving her the problem of what to do with them afterwards. The Defenders, however, were far too efficient to indulge in such needless bloodshed. They had rounded up the Kariens and taken them prisoner with only a handful of Karien casualties and none at all from their own ranks.

The prisoners had done nothing but drain their resources since that day. The young knight in command, Drendyn, the Earl of Tyler's Pass, was a noisy, inexperienced fellow who seemed stunned and heartbroken when he learnt that Adrina was also in the camp and obviously allied with his captors. For a fleeting moment, R'shiel wished she could do what Joyhinia had tried to do to the rebels. Simply put them to the sword and be done with them.

She had no more chance of getting the Defenders to follow that order than Joyhinia had in Testra.

“What do you suggest, Denjon?”

“I was hoping you'd have a suggestion,” he told her with a shrug. “You seem to have an answer for everything else these days.”

R'shiel frowned. “You think I can just wave my arm and solve all your problems for you?”

“That's what the Harshini do, isn't it?”

“That is your prejudice speaking, Captain,” Brak warned. “It does not help your cause to let it get in the way.”

Denjon turned on the Harshini but R'shiel intervened before things could escalate into a full-blown argument.

“Why can't we just release them?”

“Because they'll be on our trail within hours.”

“No, they won't. Their Crown Prince and their Duke are dead. They'll have to go home to return the bodies to Karien, at least. They may send out a party to hunt us down later, but it won't be this lot.”

Denjon looked thoughtful. “You may be right, R'shiel, but I'm not sure I want to risk finding out the hard way that you're wrong.”

“What if I can guarantee that they'll head home?”

“What are you thinking of doing?” Brak asked suspiciously. “Coercing them?”

“No, of course not!”

“Then how do you plan to make nearly four hundred Karien knights turn on their tails and slink home?” Dorak asked. “And they have the three priests with them who were accompanying Lord Setenton. They'll demand retribution, out of spite if nothing else.”

“Don't you see? As soon as the search party realises that Cratyn is dead, they will turn around and head straight back to Karien for guidance from the Overlord, dragging Drendyn, his knights and their priests behind them.”

“It's a nice thought, R'shiel,” Brak agreed. “But the captain is right. You won't dissuade the priests so easily. You'd be better off just killing them outright.”

“How long do we have, Denjon, before the Kariens get here?”

“A day at the most, if we want to be gone before they arrive. Two days if we plan to make a fight of it. I would advise against that. The end result will just be more damned Karien prisoners we have to worry about when the next search party comes looking for them.”

She nodded slowly. “Brak, can Tarja be moved?”

The Harshini frowned. “I wouldn't advise it, but it won't threaten his life, if that's what concerns you.”

“I don't think we have much choice in the matter,” she announced, figuring that if she sounded decisive, nobody would guess how uncertain she was. “You should leave for Fardohnya, anyway. Can you get there on your own?”

Brak was watching her closely. If anyone suspected her uncertainty, it would be him. “Don't worry about me, R'shiel. The demons will see me safely to Talabar.”

“Good. Denjon, you might as well give the order to break camp. Now that Damin and Adrina are married, we need to get to Hythria.”

“And the Kariens?” Denjon asked.

“I'll deal with them.” She glanced at Denjon and frowned. “Do you have any questions?”

“I have one,” Linst replied. “Who put you in charge of the Defenders?”

R'shiel turned on him impatiently. “What Defenders, Linst? You ceased being Defenders the moment you stood back and did nothing when I killed Cratyn. You have defied your orders and taken two hundred Kariens prisoner. If you want to go back to being a lackey for Medalon's new masters, there's another couple of hundred heading this way. Perhaps you'd like to surrender?”

Linst glared at her. “Just remember, R'shiel, we are following the Lord Defender's orders. He was the one who wanted us to fight the Kariens. I'll take orders from him, but I'll be damned if I'm going to sit back and let you order us around for some heathen purpose.”

“My heathen purpose is to throw the Kariens out of Medalon, Captain.”

“There's no point arguing among ourselves,” Denjon interceded. “We've no choice, in any case. We have to move on. We can sort out the details once Tarja wakes up.”

“If he wakes up,” Linst added pointedly.

“He will wake up,” R'shiel insisted. “And when he does, perhaps you'll decide you have a backbone, after all, Linst.”

She did not wait to hear his answer. She stormed from the tent, a part of her simmering with anger; another part of her grateful for the excuse to leave. On the way out she collided with young Mikel, the boy who had followed Adrina from Karien. He squealed in fright at her sudden appearance, landing on his backside in a puddle of icy mud, dropping the tray he carried. He seemed to do that a lot, she recalled, but was too preoccupied to do more than mutter an apology as she strode past the child.

Brak caught up with her near the infirmary.

“Don't you start on me,” she warned, before he could say a word.

“I wasn't going to. I'm on your side, remember?”

R'shiel slowed her pace a little and looked at him. “I'm sorry. They just make me so angry sometimes.”

“I noticed.”

“I shouldn't let them get to me like that, should I?”

“Of course not, but you don't need me to tell you that. What I'd really like to know is what you're planning to do about those priests.”

She shrugged. “I destroyed their staffs. How much trouble can they be?”

“A lot. They may not be able to threaten you any longer, but they still hold a great deal of sway over their people.” R'shiel did not answer him. His faded blue eyes darkened for a moment and he shook his head. “You're not going to kill them, are you?”

“No. I'll think of something else.” She resumed her angry pace and continued on towards the infirmary. An icy wind blew across the plain, stirring dust eddies on the scuffed ground and making her ears ache. She missed her long hair.

“Well, you'd better come up with something quickly,” Brak called after her. “It'll take a miracle to turn that lot and time is of the essence.”

Suddenly she stopped and turned. “That's it! Brak, you're a genius!”

He stared at her in confusion. The solution suddenly clear, she ran back, kissed his cheek and hugged him briefly. “You're right! It's going to take a miracle!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I haven't time to explain,” she said, relief making her giddy.

“What are you thinking of doing, R'shiel?” Brak demanded, grabbing her arm to prevent her escaping.

“I'm going to work a miracle.”

“They won't fall for anything so transparent. Any miracle you conjure up will be dismissed as Harshini magic. You won't fool anyone, not even a bunch of knights as inexperienced as Drendyn and his friends.”

“Then I'll find someone they will believe in,” she said, pulling her arm free of him.

“Who? Adrina?”

“Of course not! I'll use... someone else... someone they'll trust...”

“Who?” Brak repeated suspiciously.

R'shiel glanced around, more to avoid meeting Brak's suspicious gaze than in any real hope of finding an answer to her dilemma. Her eyes alighted on the Karien boy, muttering miserably to himself as he picked up the shards of broken dishes that had fallen from his tray when R'shiel bumped into him.

“I'll use him,” she declared, pointing at Mikel.

CHAPTER 4

Adrina's first thought on waking the morning after she married Damin Wolfblade was: Gods, what have I done?

She had thought the same thing on waking in Yarnarrow the morning after she married the late, unlamented, Crown Prince of Karien, too. There is a disturbing pattern emerging here, she decided.

“Good morning.”

Adrina turned towards the voice. Damin was already up and dressed and pulling on his high leather boots. She was extremely suspicious of anybody who could be so alert, so early in the morning.

“What's so good about it?”

Damin grinned. It was one of his more annoying habits. He seemed to find most of what she said amusing. In Fardohnya, her moods affected the whole palace. Lords and Ladies tiptoed around her. Even in Karien, they had trod warily to avoid incurring her wrath.

“Are you always so unpleasant first thing in the morning?” he inquired.

She sat up on the pallet, drawing the blankets up to hide her nakedness. “Why, in the name of the gods, did I marry you?”

Damin stamped his feet into his boots and reached for his sword-belt. “Because the demon child ordered you to. And you are a grasping, conniving little bitch,” he added pleasantly.

“And your motives are so much more honourable,” she retorted.

“Naturally,” he agreed. “I just want to stay alive long enough to be High Prince of Hythria, one day.”

“Pardon me, Your Highness.”

He laughed, which annoyed her even more, and walked to the tent flap. He stopped and turned before he left. “I sent your little Karien friend to fetch you some breakfast. He should be back soon.”

“Where are you going?”

“I'm supposed to be meeting with R'shiel and the Defenders and I'm already late.”

“Well don't try blaming your tardiness on me.”

“I wouldn't dream of it, my dear.”

“And stop calling me that! I am not your dear.”

His only answer was more laughter as he ducked through the entrance. Adrina flopped back onto the pallet angrily. When she left Cratyn, she swore she would never allow herself to be forced into marriage again; swore she would never allow a man that much control over her. She had made that promise to herself last autumn.

The winter wasn't even over and she had broken it already.

When there was still no sign of Mikel or Tamylan an hour later, Adrina gave up waiting and dressed herself, determined to give both her slave and her page a piece of her mind. Did they think that now she was married, that absolved them of their duties?

There was going to have to be a few things cleared up before too much longer, she decided. Her status, for one thing. She was a Princess in her own right, more royal than Damin in fact, who was merely the nephew of a Prince. Her father was a King. Of course, being a woman was something of a hindrance to her claim to the throne, although there were many who would be anxious to lay claim to any son that she might bear.

Except R'shiel. The demon child was impatient and had been raised in a society where women ruled. She had no time for Adrina to bear a son and raise him to manhood. She wanted to unite Hythria and Fardohnya and she wanted to do it now. She did not care about the patriarchal traditions of Fardohnya, any more than she cared whether or not Adrina wanted to marry Damin. Their union would force peace on the two southern nations and that was the only thing the demon child cared about. It did not seem to concern her that more than likely, when they reached Greenharbour, the other Warlords would hire assassins to kill either Adrina, or Damin, or both of them.

Hablet's rage on learning of her marriage did not bear thinking about.

On the other hand, if the demon child's ambitious plan succeeded, Adrina would know more power than she had ever imagined. As she thought about that possibility, Adrina began to wonder if she was going about this the wrong way. Damin seemed, if not exactly fond of her, then at least anxious to share her bed. And even Adrina was willing to admit that after a lifetime of paid court'esa and the pathetic attempts of her last husband to consummate their marriage, Damin was a pleasant change. Too pleasant, in fact. Once they reached Hythria, she would insist on her own quarters and make sure they could be locked, she decided firmly. If she couldn't keep him out of her bed by willpower alone, then perhaps a physical barrier would help.

That raised another uncomfortable thought. She had fled Karien with little more than the clothes on her back. The herbs she kept hidden in her trunk were still back in Karien and she had fallen into bed with Damin Wolfblade in a moment of blind and foolish weakness. She had done nothing since then to prevent conception and in the confusion of their escape, had lost track of the days since her last moon-time.

She would have to speak to Tamylan. Regardless of what the demon child wanted, Adrina had no intention of bringing a child into this world who could be used as a political pawn.

When Adrina finally emerged from her tent it was to discover the whole camp in turmoil. Everywhere she looked the Defenders were pulling down tents and hurrying to and fro, shouting orders and packing up their gear, obviously determined to demolish their campsite as quickly as possible. The Defenders ignored her in the confusion as she wandered through the camp, sidestepping men and piled up equipment. When she finally reached the officers' mess tent, one of the few not in danger of imminent destruction, she poked her head inside. The cooks were busy preparing lunch and paid her no attention until she addressed them directly. Even then, she had to ask twice.

“Where is Lord Wolfblade?”

The closest cook looked up and shrugged. The man beside him jerked his head in a generally northward direction. “He went off with the heathens. One of them is leaving, I think.”

The heathens, presumably, were Brak and R'shiel. She did not bother to thank the man, but followed his directions until she reached the edge of the camp. She spied Damin with Brak, then R'shiel and young Mikel, of all people, some fifty paces away. She had opened her mouth to call out to them when a remarkable thing happened.

One minute they were standing there talking, the next they were surrounded by little grey demons who seemed to pop out of thin air. There were too many to count and they clustered around Brak, vying for his attention like small children visiting with a favoured uncle. Mikel backed away from them warily, but the adults did not seem in the least concerned. Brak squatted down and spoke to one of the demons, who listened intently with big, liquid black eyes. The little creature nodded, then waddled a small distance away. Without any signal that Adrina could see, the other demons suddenly turned and ran to join the one Brak had spoken to.

Adrina blinked as the demons clustered around their leader and began to dissolve. That was the only word Adrina could think of to describe what was happening. They seemed to become fluid, as one by one they flowed together until the towering form of a dragon took shape, with metallic green scales and delicate, silver-tipped wings that glittered under the sullen sky.

When the dragon was complete, Brak reached up and scratched the bony ridge over its plate-sized eyes. With a final word to R'shiel he climbed onto the back of the magnificent beast. With a couple of powerful beats of its massive wings, the dragon was airborne, banking slowly to the left as it headed south.

Damin turned then and saw her.

“Brak asked me to say goodbye,” he told her when he reached the place where she was standing, open-mouthed, as she watched the dragon dwindle into the distance.

“That was... astonishing...” she managed to say.

“Well, let's hope your father is just as impressed,” R'shiel added as she and Mikel came up beside them.

“A dragon landing in the courtyard of the Summer Palace should get his attention,” Adrina agreed with a faint smile. Then she turned to Mikel. Even the sight of the stunning demon-melded dragon had not made her forget the boy had been lax in his duties. “Where have you been, child? Lord Wolfblade sent you to get my breakfast.”

“I —” Mikel began, but R'shiel came to his defence.

“I asked him to help me with something,” she explained. “You might have to find yourself another page for a while, Adrina.”

R'shiel took Mikel's hand and walked back towards the camp, leaving Adrina wide-eyed and more than a little put out.

“Did you have a hand in this?” she demanded of Damin.

He shrugged and looked almost as puzzled as she was. “It's the first I've heard of it. But it's not a bad idea. I'm going to have enough trouble explaining away a Fardohnyan bride when we get to Hythria, without having a Karien page to worry about.”

“I can't just abandon the child!” she protested.

“Isn't that what you were planning to do with him when you first crossed the border?”

She glared at him, annoyed that he was right, even more annoyed that he had guessed her intentions. “It's not the same thing.”

“Of course not,” he agreed drily.

“Don't you dare take that tone with me!”

“Then don't treat me like a fool,” he retorted. “Are you still hungry? You've missed breakfast, but I'm sure we could prevail upon the cooks for an early lunch.”

“I will not be patronised like a small child!”

“Stop looking for a fight, Adrina. Did you want to eat or not?”

Adrina was about to explode with fury when her stomach rumbled complainingly. Damin heard it clearly and laughed at her. “I'll take that as a yes. Come on, you'll fight better on a full stomach.”

“This is intolerable! I am not going to spend the rest of my life having you laugh at me.”

Damin's amusement faded and he looked at her closely. “Then drop this spoiled Princess act. There doesn't seem much point any more.”

“It's not an act!”

“The hell it isn't.”

“You don't know the first thing about me.”

“Don't I?”

“No!”

“Shall I tell you what I do know about you, Adrina?” he asked, suddenly more serious than she had ever seen him. “You were smart enough to keep the Karien Crown Prince out of your bed so you couldn't conceive an heir. You ordered your troops to surrender rather than see them slaughtered. You rode as hard as I ever pushed my own men without a complaint, because you knew your life depended on it.

“You are not who you pretend to be, Adrina, and it defies logic that you keep on pretending you are a fool. You're an intelligent woman, yet you insist on hiding it behind tantrums and childish, idiotic demands. I don't know why you do it. Perhaps it's because you grew up in a court where a smart woman was a dangerous one. The truth is, I don't really care. But if you want to survive as High Princess of Hythria, then you'd better learn to use that brain of yours for something other than causing mischief.”

His words stunned her into silence. She had no answer, could think of nothing to say. Never for a moment had she suspected that Damin's suspicion and mistrust was based on how clever he thought she was.

He waited for a moment, expecting her to retort with some sarcastic rejoinder. If her silence amused him, he did not let it show.

“Come on,” he said finally. “I missed breakfast too.”

CHAPTER 5

Mikel had to run to keep up with R'shiel's long-legged stride. Although she had him by the hand, she paid him no further attention as they wound through the chaotic camp. With his free hand he wiped his nose, which was tingling in the brisk wind. He was still too much in awe of the demon-melded dragon he had just witnessed to be concerned where R'shiel might be taking him.

The order to break camp had only been issued a few hours ago, but already most of the tents were packed, only the larger infirmary and mess tents and those belonging to the senior officers remained standing. The Defenders were keen to be gone from this place and anxious to avoid the approaching Kariens. Mikel had seen enough to understand that it was not fear of the Kariens that prompted the Medalonians' haste, but that they wanted to avoid the inconvenience of taking even more prisoners.

Mikel's entire system of beliefs had been stretched beyond credulity in the past few weeks. First Princess Adrina had betrayed the Prince. Then Prince Cratyn had proved to be as callous and vicious as any other man in his desire to murder his wife for her treachery. His own brother Jaymes had joined the Hythrun and his best friend Dace had turned out to be the God of Thieves. Then, with hardly any objections, Adrina had married Lord Wolfblade.

And now the fabled demon child had commandeered his services. This tall, impatient young woman whom demons followed around like puppies and whom everyone treated with a great deal of trepidation.

“My Lady?”

“Yes?”

“What did you want me to do?”

R'shiel stopped suddenly and smiled down at him. “I want you to help me with something, Mikel. Something magic.”

“Is it going to get me into trouble?”

The demon child laughed softly. “I have to convince the Kariens they want to go home, and that means turning even the priests from the Overlord's path for a time. Are you afraid?”

Mikel frowned. “I don't think so. I've turned from my God. I let you kill my Prince. I've honoured the God of Thieves. I don't think I'm much of anything, any more.”

R'shiel placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Mikel, I think you'll find that you are far more worthy than you imagine.”

Mikel wanted to believe her. She was the demon child, after all. Perhaps she knew things he did not. But it seemed unlikely.

“If you say so, my Lady.”

R'shiel smiled again but did not answer for a time.

When she spoke again, her question took him completely by surprise. “Mikel, who did the Kariens follow before Xaphista came along?”

“The priests said they worshipped false gods,” he told her, “just as Hythria and Fardohnya still do.”

“Yes, but there must have been one that was predominant. Zegarnald has a pretty firm grip on Hythria and Jelanna seems to be the most popular goddess in Fardohnya.”

“The only one I ever heard of was Leylanan,” Mikel replied after a moment's thought.

“What is he the god of?”

“She, not he. Leylanan was the Goddess of the River.”

“I thought that was Maera?” R'shiel said.

“Leylanan was the Goddess of the Ironbrook River. Maybe Maera is the Goddess of the Glass River.”

R'shiel was silent for a moment then shook her head. “No, she won't do. I need someone else.”

Mikel wasn't sure he understood, or even if R'shiel was addressing him. She sounded as if she was simply thinking aloud.

“Do you really think you can turn the priests from the Overlord, my Lady?”

“I have to.”

Mikel had the impression that once set on an idea, R'shiel was determined to make it happen. He had no idea what she was planning, and certainly no idea what his role would be.

“Lord Laetho used to say that you've more chance of making a Karien dance a heathen jig naked in the moonlight than you have of turning him from his God,” he offered helpfully.

“Maybe I should call on the God of Music, then,” R'shiel grumbled, obviously not pleased that things were not going according to plan.

“Do the Harshini have a God of Music?” he asked curiously.

“Gimlorie is the God of Music, Mikel, and he is as insubstantial and ephemeral as music itself. When I was in Sanctuary, the Harshini would call on him sometimes. His song is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. It touches men's souls...”

Mikel stared at R'shiel as a slow, devious smile crept over her face. “Music of any kind is frowned upon in Karien, my Lady. It's a sin,” Mikel added.

R'shiel looked down at him and smiled. “Not any more, it isn't.”

She grabbed his hand suddenly and led him away from the direction of the infirmary tent, leaving him even more confused.

“My Lady?” he ventured, as he hurried along beside her through the organised chaos that was all that was left of the Defenders' camp. It seemed as if most of it had vanished into the supply wagons while they were talking.

“You don't have to keep calling me that, Mikel. My name is R'shiel.”

“It wouldn't be proper, my Lady. Where are we going?”

“We're going to summon the God of Music, Mikel.”

“Why?”

R'shiel looked down at him and smiled reassuringly. “He's going to teach you how to sing.”

Mikel didn't know whether to be frightened by R'shiel or not. She had never done him any harm; in fact she had virtually ignored him up until this morning, when she suddenly decided she needed him for some yet-to-be-revealed task. She was all but dragging him towards the tents where the Hythrun Raiders were accommodated.

“Almodavar!”

The savage-looking Hythrun turned at the sound of her voice.

“Divine One?”

“Please don't call me that. Where is Mikel's brother?”

“Young Jaymes? Down with the horses helping Nercher if he knows what's good for him,” the captain replied. “Has he done something I should know about?”

“No. But I'd like to see him. Can you send him to me?”

The captain nodded and turned to give the order to fetch Jaymes. Mikel glanced at R'shiel curiously.

“What do you want with Jaymes, my Lady?”

“You're going to learn a song, Mikel. Jaymes is going to be there to make sure you don't get lost in it.”

“I see,” Mikel said, nodding sagely, although in truth he understood nothing at all.

CHAPTER 6

By early afternoon, the Defenders were ready to move out. That morning, the camp had been the size of a small town. Now there was nothing left but a large area of trampled grass to mark their passing. He knew they had been setting up and pulling down the camp each day while they travelled north from the Citadel. The late Lord Setenton enjoyed his creature comforts and would have it no other way, but in the two weeks they had spent camped on the plain they had settled in so comfortably, Damin found it hard to believe they could dismantle it all with such speed.

His own Raiders took less time to organise, but they were fewer and had been travelling much more lightly than the Defenders. Almodavar had had them ready to leave hours ago. What kept them here now were the Kariens.

His men formed a mounted ring around the captured knights, bows strung, arrows at the ready, waiting for one of them to break. Damin didn't know why they were holding the Kariens here while the Defenders went on ahead, and a part of him was afraid to ask. He knew as well as anyone the dilemma these prisoners posed. That the Defenders were leaving them behind did not augur well for their future.

Karien they might be, but Damin held no personal grudge against them. They all seemed woefully young and inexperienced to him. The oldest of them could not have been more than twenty. He prayed fervently that R'shiel did not expect him to slaughter these children in cold blood.

“What are we waiting for?”

Adrina rode up beside him with her slave close behind. She was wrapped in a warm cloak against the cold and looked anxious to get moving. She had been remarkably quiet since their conversation on the edge of the camp this morning. That worried Damin a little. She was undoubtedly plotting something and it probably involved him and a lot of blood. He should have kept his big mouth shut.

“We're waiting for R'shiel, I think. And for the Defenders to move out.”

“Where is the demon child, anyway?”

Damin shrugged. “Nobody's seen her for hours.”

Adrina looked at the nervous Kariens. They had been pushed into a tight cluster, ringed by the Raiders and to a man they wore expressions of uncertainty. Damin could imagine what was going through their minds.

“What's going to happen to them?”

“I don't know.”

“You're not going to...”

“Kill them? I wish I knew.” He turned in the saddle at the sound of hoofs and found Denjon and Linst riding towards them at a canter. The red-coated Defenders reined in when they reached them.

“We're ready to move out,” Denjon informed them.

“How's Tarja?”

“Much the same. He's in one of the wagons with a medic. We'll be setting a hard pace, I'm afraid, but it can't be avoided.”

“How long will it take you to reach the border?”

“About six weeks,” the captain replied. “We could get there sooner if we dumped the supply wagons, but I'm loath to do that, for obvious reasons. We'll only resort to that if we're being pursued.” The captain glanced meaningfully at the Karien prisoners. “I hope this works.”

“You hope what works?” Adrina asked.

“R'shiel's grandiose plan for turning the Kariens back,” he said.

“And what is that, exactly?”

“We don't know and I'm not sure we want to,” Linst remarked. “She asked that we be gone before she does it, so we can only assume it's some heathen ritual that she'd rather we didn't witness.”

“Heathen ritual or not, I can't say I'll mind missing it,” Denjon said. Then he reached forward and offered Damin his hand. “I wish you luck, Lord Wolfblade.”

“You'll need it more than I,” Damin said, accepting the handshake. “With all your troops and the Kariens concentrated in the north, weather permitting I'll have a clear run down to Hythria. You're the ones taking the long road.”

“I was thinking more of what happens when you get to Hythria,” Denjon said with a grin.

“I'll worry about that when I get there.”

“Then I'll look forward to meeting you again on your side of the border. For all our sakes I hope it goes well for you, my Lord. And for you too, Your Highness.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

Damin glanced at Adrina curiously. Her thanks sounded genuine. There was no hint of her usual sarcastic tone. Something was seriously wrong with her.

Denjon and Linst wheeled their mounts around and cantered back towards the long line of red-coated Defenders. They watched them leave in silence, watched Denjon ride to the head of the column, and heard the faint sound of the trumpet signalling their advance as it was whipped away on the icy wind.

“So what happens now?” Adrina asked after a while.

Damin shrugged. “We wait for the demon child.”

When R'shiel arrived more than an hour later, she was on foot and the two Karien boys were with her. Damin and Adrina both dismounted when they caught sight of her. She was chatting to Mikel and Jaymes as they walked across the trampled grass towards them, the three of them apparently in a fine mood and the best of friends. When she reached them, she was smiling broadly.

“The Defenders got away all right then?” she asked.

“About an hour ago,” Damin informed her. “Where have you been?”

“Communing with the gods,” she told him with a grin. “Let's do something about these Kariens, shall we?”

Damin grabbed her arm as she turned towards the prisoners. “What are you going to do, R'shiel?”

“You'll see.”

Without waiting for his reaction she pulled her arm free and taking Mikel's hand, walked towards the Kariens. Jaymes followed after them. The lad had filled out since he had been training with the Hythrun. At fifteen he was the size of a full-grown man. Any animosity that had existed between the brothers seemed to have been put to rest. That odd turn of events bothered Damin almost as much as what R'shiel might be planning.

Almodavar turned and dismounted at R'shiel's approach. Damin and Adrina threw their reins to Tamylan and hurried after her on foot. The Kariens, sensing something was about to happen, began to grow restless. Those who had tired of standing and were sitting on the cold ground climbed to their feet. The priests pushed to the front of the group, tracing the star of the Overlord on their foreheads as they regarded the demon child with intense suspicion.

“Where is Lord Drendyn?” R'shiel called to the Kariens as she stopped before them. The knight in question pushed his way through the crowd and stepped in front of her belligerently. He was sandy haired and sweating, despite the cold, and looked hardly older than Jaymes.

“I demand you release us immediately and hand over the Crown Princess Adrina so that she may be returned to Karien.”

Damin suspected the young knight's bravado was inspired by fear. His Raiders, with their loaded bows and fearsome reputation, still ringed the Kariens. He had only to raise his arm and there would be a massacre.

“As you wish,” R'shiel replied. “Lord Wolfblade, be so kind as to ask your men to withdraw. Tell them to muster over that way, upwind from us.”

At a nod from Damin, Almodavar gave the order. The Raiders lowered their weapons, replaced arrows in their quivers and wheeled their mounts around. Drendyn looked stunned by her sudden capitulation.

“Is this some sort of trick?”

“Not at all, my Lord, you are free to go. There is a party of Karien knights headed this way. They should be here in a day or two. The Defenders have confiscated your horses, unfortunately, but they have left you sufficient food and water to last until you're rescued.”

“And our Princess?”

“Ah, now that's a different matter. She's not actually your Princess any longer. Adrina is now a Princess of Hythria.”

Drendyn's eyes widened in horror. “Your Highness? Is this true?”

Damin glanced at Adrina, who looked very uncomfortable. “I'm sorry, Drendyn...” Adrina said with a helpless shrug. To Damin's surprise, she appeared genuinely upset that she had hurt the young man.

“And you can give your King a message from me, too,” he added, turning to the distraught young earl. “Any attempt to return the Princess to Karien will be taken as an act of war.”

“But they murdered Prince Cratyn!” Drendyn cried to Adrina then turned on Damin furiously, taking a step towards him, ready to fight for his Princess' honour. “What have you done to her?”

“That's far enough, my Lord,” Almodavar cut in, his sword pressing into the young earl's tabard. Drendyn halted abruptly, looked down at the blade aimed squarely at his heart and wisely took a step backward.

“Hythria will pay for the life of my Prince. And my Princess!” he shouted, albeit from a safer distance.

“Perhaps,” Damin agreed. “But not today, my young friend.”

“Enough of this,” R'shiel declared impatiently. “Damin, I suggest you move back. I have something I wish to do before we leave.”

“Something you don't want us to see?”

“Not at all. You can watch if you like, but I'd rather you didn't hear it.”

“The Overlord will protect us from your evil, demon child,” the priest Garanus warned.

Captivity had not been kind to the priest. His shaven head was covered in black stubble and his cassock was rumpled and dusty. The priests who stood behind him had fared no better. Damin considered his threat rather hollow. Without their staves the priests were simply ordinary men.

“The Overlord has abandoned you, Garanus. Why else would he let you fall prisoner?”

“We will not listen to your blasphemy!”

“Suit yourself,” R'shiel said with a shrug. “Damin, you should leave now.”

“What about Mikel and Jaymes?” Adrina asked, almost as wary as Damin about what the demon child was planning.

“They'll be fine with me.”

Damin still had no idea what she was up to. With some reluctance, he did as she asked. Taking Adrina's hand he headed back to where Tamylan was waiting with the horses. Almodavar mounted and followed them at a walk. Damin swung into the saddle and turned to watch as R'shiel stood facing the Kariens.

“What is she going to do?” Adrina asked as she settled into her saddle and gathered up her reins.

“You know as much as I do.”

“Drendyn was the only person in Karien who treated me like a human being,” she added, staring at the gathering with concern.

That explained her apology to the young knight.

“If she was planning to kill them, she would have done it by now.” It was a hollow reassurance at best. For all he knew that was exactly what R'shiel was planning.

“Or she would wait until there were no witnesses,” Almodavar pointed out.

“She said something about not listening,” Adrina said. “What could she possibly say to them —”

As if in answer to her question a voice reached them. It was high, pure and perfect and the song it sang touched the very core of Damin's soul. It took him a moment to realise that it was Mikel singing. He could not hear the words; the wind tore them away before he could make them out, but he sat there, rigid, as the lilting notes washed over him in haunting snatches. The song was both enticing and entrancing. It slithered into his brain like sweet wine being poured into an empty cup. It warmed and chilled him at the same time. Visions of a land he did not know filled his mind and he found himself yearning for it with a passion that took him by surprise. The song made him want to laugh and cry simultaneously. He wanted to hear more. It was fear and comfort on the same breath. Love and hatred intermingled. He never wanted it to end.

“Damin! We have to move! Now!”

It was Adrina who jerked him back to reality. He glanced at the prisoners and realised that whatever remarkable effect the song had on him, the effect it was having on the Kariens was a hundred times more powerful. As he turned his mount and urged him into a gallop, wisps of the song followed him with tantalising fingers.

Then the tenor of the music changed and no longer did he wish to drown in the beauty of the song. Now it was much more strident, its beauty marred by dark, shadowy images that chased him until they were far enough away that the music no longer reached them.

Once they were safely out of range, they turned and looked back at the Kariens. R'shiel stood before the captive knights, but they could not make out her expression from this distance. Mikel stood beside her, singing to the Kariens in that glorious, unnatural voice that seduced and tormented at once.

Jaymes seemed unaffected, his hand resting on his brother's shoulder, as if he was holding him down against the wind, but the rest of the Kariens were transfixed. Some men were weeping, some were frozen to the spot. The priest Garanus was on his knees, his hands over his ears. The young knight Drendyn was staring at the boy as if he was experiencing some sort of religious ecstasy. All around him, his men seemed to be in the throes of either torment or rapture.

“What was that? What is she doing?” Damin asked.

“The Song of Gimlorie,” Adrina told him, her eyes fixed on the Kariens, her voice filled with awe.

“That's simply a legend,” Almodavar scoffed.

“No. It's real enough. My father tried to get some of the priestesses to perform it in Talabar once. He thought it would guarantee him a legitimate son. None of the temples would even consider the idea, and he offered them a fortune in gold to do it. They all claimed it was too dangerous.”

“So how did Mikel learn it?”

“R'shiel obviously had a hand in that.” Adrina turned to him then, her expression thoughtful. “You know, if the legends are correct, he who sings the Song of Gimlorie is a channel for the gods.”

“I can well believe it,” Damin agreed, thinking of the effect that even catching part of the song had on him.

They waited in silence after that, until R'shiel ordered Mikel to stop singing. Mikel sagged, as if the song had drained him completely. His brother gently gathered the unconscious child up in his arms and together with R'shiel walked back across the plain towards them.

CHAPTER 7

Despite Adrina's confident assurance that landing in the main courtyard of the Summer Palace was bound to get Hablet's attention, Brak chose to make a less dramatic entrance into Talabar. He landed his demon-melded dragon some distance north of the capital on a warm, muggy afternoon three days after he left Medalon, and set out for the city on foot.

He was not well prepared for the journey, though he wasn't worried about his lack of resources. Once he shed his winter layers of clothing, he turned onto the road and began heading south towards the sprawling pink metropolis, secure in the knowledge that several hundred years of living on his wits left him well equipped to handle anything a Fardohnyan could throw at him.

Brak had eschewed his Harshini heritage for many years, but he was not averse to using a little magic when it was for a good cause. As his only cause these days seemed to be aiding the demon child, he felt justified in taking a few liberties with his power that would have horrified his full-blooded cousins.

Since he had no local currency and was not looking forward to walking all the way to Talabar, he prevailed upon the Lady Elanymire to meld herself into a large uncut ruby. He then traded the ruby to a merchant from a passing caravan, whose eyes lit up with greed when Brak offered him the gem for a horse, a saddle, some basic supplies, and a small bag of coin.

Any guilt Brak may have felt over the transaction vanished when he saw the state of the merchant's slaves. They were underfed and miserable, their bare feet blistered from trudging the gravelled road in the heat. Even the richly dressed court'esa who sat on the seat of the gaily-covered lead wagon wore a look of abject misery.

Brak rode away on his newly purchased horse content that the merchant deserved everything that was coming to him. The following morning, Lady Elanymire popped into existence on the pommel of his saddle, laughing delightedly at the expression on the avaricious merchant's face when he discovered his prized ruby had vanished.

Fardohnya had a timeless quality about it. The people were still dusky, smiling, dark-haired souls who seemed, if not content, then accepting of their lot in life. It always struck him as odd that the Fardohnyans were so cheerful. Perhaps it was because their King, while grasping, devious and deceitful, at least understood that a happy population was a quiet one. Hablet wisely confined his more outrageous excesses to his court and Fardohnya's neighbours.

Slaves waved to him as he passed them in fields of rich black loam as they planted carefully tended green shoots of altaer and filganar before the onset of the spring rains. The grains were native to Fardohnya and the staple diet of much of the population. In Brak's experience, they would grow anywhere there was enough heat and water. Famine was unheard of in Fardohnya; another reason the people didn't seem to mind what their King was up to. It is easy to be forgiving with a full belly.

Talabar came into sight the third day after Brak had traded his demon-melded ruby. Built from the pale pink stone of the neighbouring cliffs, it glittered in the afternoon sun, hugging the harbour like a woman curled into the back of her sleeping lover. Flat-roofed houses terraced the hills surrounding the bay, interspersed with palm-shaded emerald green parks and the tall edifices of the many temples that dotted the city. It was a beautiful city, not so stark and white as Greenharbour, or so grey and depressing as Yarnarrow. Only the Citadel in its heyday could rival its splendour.

It had been many years since Brak had been here. The last time he'd travelled incognito, another faceless soul in a vast city that thought his race extinct. The time before that was when Hablet's great-grandfather was King. He had been known as Lord Brakandaran in those days - feared and respected by kings and slaves alike. He hadn't much liked being known as Brakandaran the Half-Breed, but it was a useful persona at times and, he hoped, in certain circles at least, it had not been forgotten.

Brak rode through the gates of the city without being questioned. The guards were more interested in those bringing wagons, which the soldiers searched with varying degrees of enthusiasm, depending on the wealth of the merchant and the size of the bribe they would collect to turn a blind eye. Corruption was something of an institution in Fardohnya. No self-respecting merchant expected to do business without paying somebody something.

He rode through the crowded streets and let the feel of the city wash over him. One could learn much from the atmosphere of a crowded market place, a boisterous tavern or a bustling smithy. He picked his way past the glassworks, where furnaces glowed red in the dark, cavernous workshops; past the noisy meatworks where the butchers sang their thanks to the Goddess of Plenty before slashing the throats of their hapless victims with an expert flick of their wickedly sharp knives.

Talabar felt much the same as it always had. He could detect nothing out of the ordinary.

His horse shied from the smell of fresh blood that drained from the slaughterhouses into Talabar's complex underground drains. From there it ran into the sea to feed vast schools of fish, who gorged themselves on the unexpected bounty, only to head lazily back out to sea where the fishermen waited with their long hemp nets.

The streets widened as he entered the clothing district, although the traffic did not thin noticeably. The clackety-clack of the looms in the busy workhouses filled the air like a pulse. A few streets later he was forced to dismount. He smiled as he led his gelding past a heated argument between a merchant, whose wagonload of baled wool had overturned and spilled across the street, and a very large, irate seamstress who was denouncing the poor fellow and his drunken habits loud enough to be heard back in Medalon.

Brak swung back into the saddle and soon entered a relatively quiet residential area. The streets were paved and the houses, although built close together, were those of prosperous merchants. They were not quite wealthy enough to own estates close to the harbour, and preferred to live near their places of business in any case. Their houses were in good repair, and many of them had slaves sweeping the pavement in front of the houses, or beating rugs from wide balconies that looked out over the street, and were shaded by potted palms and climbing bougainvillea.

By mid-morning he reached the most salubrious part of Talabar, closest to the harbour and the Summer Palace. A hundred generations of Fardohnyan kings, anxious to curry favour with the gods, had dedicated themselves to building ever more impressive temples in this city. Jelanna was Hablet's personal favourite, so her temple had received the bulk of the King's largesse. It had been faced with marble since Brak saw it last and an impressive pair of fluted columns now supported an elaborate portico carved with cavorting demons at the entrance. It had done him little good, Brak knew. Despite almost thirty years of trying, he had yet to produce a legitimate son, although he had sired enough bastards to fill a small town.

Finally, Brak turned into a discreet, single-storey inn that sheltered almost directly under the high pink wall surrounding the Summer Palace. A slave hurried forward to take his mount in the shaded courtyard and he tipped the lad generously. There were slaves that owned more wealth than their masters in Fardohnya, and one could, if one chose to, purchase one's freedom. Many did not. There was a degree of job security in being a slave that was hard to beat in the uncertain world of the free man.

The interior of the inn was dim and cool, the entrance separated by a whitewashed trellis from the low hum of conversation emanating from the taproom. The owner hurried forward, took in Brak's travel-stained appearance, noticed the jingling purse tucked in his belt, did a quick mental calculation, then bowed obsequiously.

“My Lord.”

Brak was quite certain he looked nothing like a nobleman in his current state, but the innkeeper was covering himself against the possibility that this new arrival was a gentleman of means.

“I require rooms,” he announced.

“Certainly, my Lord. I have a vacancy in the north wing. It is closest to the palace walls. One can hear the joyous laughter of the princesses at play, if one listens closely.”

Brak thought that highly unlikely. “I also need to contact someone from the Assassins' Guild.”

“Did you want anyone in particular?”

“I need to speak with the Raven.”

The little man's eyes narrowed. “The head of the Assassins' Guild does not meet with just anybody, my Lord.”

“He'll meet with me,” Brak assured him confidently.

“You know him then?”

“That's none of your business.” Actually, Brak had no idea who now held the post, and did not particularly care. The Assassins' Guild was simply the best source of intelligence in Fardohnya.

“Of course not, my Lord!” he gushed, wringing his hands. Only the wealthiest of noblemen could afford to deal with the Assassins' Guild. Brak had just gone up considerably in the innkeeper's estimation. “Forgive me for being so forward. I will show you to your rooms at once. If there is anything I can do...”

“You could be quiet, for a start,” Brak remarked coldly, already annoyed by the man.

“Of course, my Lord! What was I thinking? Be quiet... Oh...” The innkeeper clamped his lips together when he noticed the look on Brak's face.

“That's better. Now, if you could show me the room? I want a bath too. And some lunch.”

The man nodded, wisely saying nothing further. With a snap of his fingers another slave hurried forward to show Brak to his rooms.

Much to Brak's surprise, the contact from the Assassins' Guild was a woman. Fardohnya was notoriously patriarchal and it was rare for a woman to hold any position of note. He was not even aware that they had changed the rules to admit women to the Guild. She was small and slender, the long, pale-green robe she wore concealing what Brak was certain would be a body in superb physical condition. It was hard to judge her age; she might have been twenty, or perhaps forty. Brak suspected the latter. Her eyes were too knowing, too cautious and too world-weary for her to be in the first bloom of youth.

She came to his rooms after dinner, knocking softly on the whitewashed door. He opened it cautiously and looked her up and down. On the middle finger of her left hand she wore the small gold raven ring of the Guild. While he privately considered it the height of arrogant stupidity to announce one's profession so openly, particularly for an assassin, that he recognised the ring and admitted her without question went a long way to establishing his credentials. He'd had a discussion once, with a previous Raven, about the foolishness of wearing something so obvious, but humans liked their symbols and apparently the custom was as strong as ever. Foolish humans.

“What do you want with the Raven?” the woman asked, without preamble, looking around the room.

“I wish to speak to him.”

“The Raven doesn't speak to anyone.”

“He'll speak to me.”

She finished her inspection of the room and turned to look at him. “So Gernard said.”

“Gernard?”

“The innkeeper.”

“Ah... can I offer you some wine?”

“No.”

She walked across the room and threw open the doors that led to the gardens, taking a deep breath of the fragrant air from the riot of flowering greenery. Brak was sure she was more interested in making certain they were not overheard, than she was in botany.

“So, tell me,” she demanded, turning back to him as she stepped away from the open doorway, “what is so special about you that the Raven would grant you an audience?”

“I am Brakandaran.”

She studied him for a moment in the twilight then laughed. “Brakandaran the Half-Breed? I doubt that.”

“You require proof?”

“Oh, I'm certain you have proof,” she chuckled. “Some mirrors and wires rigged to convince me of your magical powers. You have, however, neglected one minor point.”

“And what is that?”

“Brakandaran, if he was still alive, would be in his dotage now. It's been what... fifty years since he was here last? You can't be more than thirty-five. Forty at the most.”

“I'm half-Harshini,” he pointed out. “I don't age like a human.”

She smiled. “Very good! You even have an answer for that one. I still don't believe you, but I do appreciate attention to detail.”

Brak found himself warming to the woman. She was sharp and not at all unattractive. But he was going to have to convince her, and probably the hard way.

“Very well, then,” he shrugged. “You name the proof. Something I cannot possibly have anticipated. We can even go somewhere else, so that you can be assured I'm not using - what did you call them - mirrors and wires?”

“I really don't see why I should bother.”

“Can you afford to be wrong?”

She thought on that for a moment, then shook her head. She turned away from him, as if in thought, reaching into her robe. “Proof, you say? Something unexpected?” She spun around, raising her arm. “Try this!”

The quarrel from the small crossbow took Brak by surprise. He had guessed she was up to something, but had no time to react. Elanymire saved him. She popped into existence in front of him and snatched the missile from the air, chittering angrily at the woman.

The assassin dropped the weapon in surprise at the appearance of the little demon. “How... ?”

“The demons live to protect the Harshini,” he pointed out with a shrug. He bent down and picked the demon up, stroking her leathery skin, trying to calm her. She took a very dim view of anyone trying to hurt a member of her clan and was all for vaporising the woman where she stood.

The assassin stared at him for a moment, as he stood there soothing the angry demon and then dropped to one knee. “Divine One.”

Brak rolled his eyes. “Oh, get up! I am not divine. But I do want to see the Raven. Now that we've established who I am, do you think we could arrange it?”

She stood up and met his eyes.

“See her,” she corrected. “The Raven is a woman. Her name is Teriahna.”

“Fine,” Brak agreed impatiently. “Let's go see her, then.”

“You have seen her already, my Lord. I am Teriahna. I am the Raven.”

CHAPTER 8

The first thing Tarja remembered on waking was that R'shiel was in danger. The thought hit him like a body blow and he jerked upright, only to discover he was tied to the wagon bed on which he lay. He could not understand how he came to be there. Nor did it make any sense that he was obviously moving. The wagon jolted beneath him, hitting a bump in the road and he cried out as his head slammed into the wagon bed.

“I think he's awake.”

Tarja was confronted by the odd spectre of a strange bearded face he did not recognise, which stared at him from the wagon seat. He struggled to sit up, but the ropes hampered his movement. The wagon halted and the man swung his legs around and squatted down beside Tarja, staring at him with concern.

“Captain? Sir? Do you know where you are?”

“Of course I don't know where I am,” Tarja croaked. All he could see was a leaden sky, the sides of the wagon and the face of the Defender bending over him. His voice was hoarse and he was thirsty enough to drink a well dry. “Water. Get me water.”

The trooper hurried to fetch a water skin. Tarja coughed as cold water spilled down his parched throat.

“Am I a prisoner?” he asked.

“Not that they've told me, sir.”

“Then why the ropes?”

“Oh! Them? That was to stop you hurting yourself, sir. Soon as Cap'n Denjon gets here, we can untie you.”

“Denjon? Denjon is here?”

“Yes, he's here.” Tarja turned to the new voice and peered at the familiar face studying him over the side of the wagon. Denjon grinned at him. “Welcome back.”

“What's happened? Where are we? Where's —”

“Slow down, Tarja,” Denjon cut in. “Untie him, Corporal.”

The trooper did as he was ordered and quickly released the ropes that bound him. Tarja tried to sit up, appalled at the effort it took. He glanced around and was astonished to discover himself in the midst of a Defender column that snaked in front and behind the wagon as far as he could see. He did not recognise the countryside around him. They were no longer on the undulating grasslands of the north, but advancing through the lightly wooded plateau of central Medalon. The Sanctuary Mountains loomed too close to the west. Tarja shook his head in confusion.

“How are you feeling?”

“Weak as a kitten,” Tarja confessed. “And completely lost. What's happened?”

“I'll explain what I can, but one thing at a time. We're about to make camp for the night. I'll fill you in over dinner.”

“Where's R'shiel?”

Denjon shrugged. “On her way to Hythria, as are we, my friend. Which reminds me. She gave me this before she left.” He reached into his red jacket and withdrew a sealed letter. “She said I should give it to you when you woke up. It might explain a few things.”

He handed the letter to Tarja and remounted his horse, shouting an order to make camp as he cantered off. Tarja broke the seal on the letter anxiously, hoping the contents would throw some light on the confusion that was threatening to overwhelm him. He vaguely remembered a battle. He must have dreamt he had taken a sword in the belly, but nothing explained what he was doing tied to a wagon under an open sky, surrounded by Defenders.

The letter was written in R'shiel's impatient scrawl.

R'shiel had killed the Karien Crown Prince? Had she learnt nothing since their days in the rebellion? He read the letter again, wishing he could recall something - anything - of the past weeks. But Tarja's memories stopped abruptly at the point where he had fallen in battle and there was nothing in the intervening period but a black, featureless abyss.

Sitting around a small fire later that evening, Tarja got the rest of the story from Denjon and Linst. His head was reeling by the time they finished telling him of R'shiel's confrontation with the Karien priests, of her abrupt decision to accept the legacy of her Harshini blood and everything else that had happened since then.

They told him of the wound that almost killed him but could not explain either the absence of any evidence of the wound, or why he had lain unconscious for so long, other than they had instructions from R'shiel to restrain him for his own protection. Denjon spoke with awe of the demon-melded dragon that had taken Brak south, and of his uneasiness over the unknown fate of the Karien prisoners they had left behind.

“So that's about all there is to tell,” Denjon concluded with a shrug. “When Lord Wolfblade told us that Lord Jenga had ordered you to mount a resistance against the Kariens, and with Lord Terbolt and the Karien Prince dead, it seemed prudent to follow the Lord Defender's orders.”

Tarja studied Denjon in the firelight. “I'm not sure he planned for us to flee to Hythria.”

“We're risking our necks for you, Tarja. A bit of gratitude wouldn't go astray,” Linst grumbled.

“You don't sound very happy about this, Linst.”

“Happy? Of course I'm not happy about it. But I'm even less happy about taking orders from those Karien bastards, so here I am, ready to fight alongside a thousand other deserters. You know, Tarja, until you came along, nobody even thought of breaking their Defenders' oath. Now it's a bloody epidemic.” He threw the remains of his stew onto the fire and stood up. “I have to check the sentries, although why we cling to Defender discipline is beyond me. It's not as if we're ever likely to be welcomed back into the Corps, is it?”

He stalked off into the darkness, leaving Tarja and Denjon staring after him.

“He always was a stickler for the rules,” Denjon remarked in the uncomfortable silence that followed.

“How many of the others feel like him?”

“Quite a few,” Denjon replied. “He's right about one thing, though. It isn't easy for a Defender to walk away from his oath.”

“I never asked you to follow me, Denjon.”

The captain laughed humourlessly. “No, you didn't. But R'shiel set half the camp on fire just by waving her arm around, then turned on us, bursting with Harshini power and asked us what we were planning to do. Taking your side seemed the prudent thing to do at the time.”

He frowned. Something else bothered him about R'shiel, some feeling or emotion he could not place. A vague uneasiness that lingered on the edge of his mind, just out of reach.

“So, how far are we from Testra? That is where you're planning to cross the river, isn't it?”

Denjon nodded. “Less than a week. Now you're up and about, we can make better time. Do you think you can sit on a horse?”

“I'm damned if I'm going to spend any more time in that wagon. I can ride.”

“Good. We've picked up quite a few of the Defenders you left the border with along the way. We number close to thirteen hundred now.”

“Thirteen hundred against the Karien host isn't many.”

“I know,” Denjon agreed. “But that's where your Hythrun friends come in. With their help, we might have a chance.”

Sleep eluded Tarja for a long time that night. Waking from weeks of unconsciousness to find everything so radically changed was extremely disconcerting. He tossed and turned on the cold ground as the stars dwindled into dawn, trying to pin down the uneasiness that niggled at him like a tiny burr. Everything Denjon had told him, he reviewed over and over in his mind. But what bothered him came from another source. Something else was wrong... or different. Something that he could not define.

All he knew for certain was that it centred on R'shiel.

After a full day in the saddle, Tarja realised how weak he was, but he was consumed by a restless energy that made it impossible for him to take the rest he needed. He could not understand the reason for his restive mood and the blank, dark hole in his memory unsettled him more than he was willing to admit.

All he could think of was getting to Hythria. His mind raced, making plans and rejecting them as he tried to figure the best way to hamper the Karien occupation force. The fact that he had no idea what sort of assistance they would receive from the Hythrun once they crossed the border made his task almost impossible. Damin might only be able to spare him a few centuries of Raiders, or he might be able to bring the full weight of the massive Hythrun war machine to his aid. There was simply no way to tell.

He drove Denjon mad when the other captain gave the order to make camp each evening, insisting they had at least another hour of daylight. Denjon was amused the first night, patient the second, and told him bluntly to mind his own business the third.

But Tarja's recovery seemed to bolster the morale of the men. He had been a popular officer once, known as a promising officer, a fair man and tipped to be the next Lord Defender. To see him back among them, wearing his red jacket and brimming with nervous energy, revived the spirits of men who up until then had had little more to do than contemplate their new status as outlaws.

Five days after Tarja woke, they were within sight of Testra. Tarja suggested sending an advance party forward to reconnoitre in the town, while the bulk of their force waited out of sight to avoid drawing attention to their number, although Denjon seemed certain that news of their desertion could not have reached this far south yet.

“We can't risk riding into Testra in force,” Tarja insisted.

“Yesterday you were all for riding through the night to get here. Now you want to add another day to the trip while you go sightseeing,” Linst complained.

“I don't want to wait,” Tarja corrected. “I just think it would be stupid to reveal ourselves until we know we're in the clear. Besides, there's still a garrison in Testra. If they've heard of the surrender, they might want to join us.”

“Reluctant as I am to spend another day on this side of the river,” Denjon said, “I'm afraid I agree with Tarja.”

Linst glared at both of them for a moment then shrugged. “As you wish.”

When he left them, Denjon turned to Tarja. “Do you think he's having second thoughts?”

“You can count on it,” Tarja agreed. “Who's in command in Testra?”

“Antwon, I think.”

“I know him. He won't like the idea of surrender.”

“Not liking the idea of surrender is not the same as being willing to desert,” Denjon pointed out.

“Still, it's worth sounding him out. Every Defender we get out of Medalon now is another man we can put into the field later on.”

“Aye. And you'd best get some rest. You look ready to drop.”

“I'm fine.”

The practised lie came easily to him now. It was much simpler than trying to explain that he couldn't sleep, couldn't stop his mind from running around in circles, or prevent the confused images that flashed in front of his eyes, catching him unawares.

Something had happened to him. Something to do with R'shiel and her damned Harshini healing. But whenever he thought of R'shiel, a myriad conflicting and seemingly impossible memories surfaced. Some of them were real memories, he was certain of that. Others were like a nightmare. They were the ones where he imagined R'shiel in his arms. The ones where he loved her - not like the sister he had grown up believing her to be - but as her lover.

The absolute certainty that he would never feel that way towards his sister was the only thing that kept him sane.

CHAPTER 9

“The main wharf looks new.”

Teriahna chuckled softly at Brak's comment. They were walking along the waterfront of Talabar amidst the morning bustle of the busy port, for no better reason than the privacy such a public place offered. The sun beat down on them and the wharves were crowded with frazzled-looking merchants and bare-chested, sweat-sheened sailors shouting boisterously at each other as they unloaded their cargoes.

“Ah, now there's a story behind that,” she told him as they sidestepped a gilded litter carried by four muscular slaves. “The Princess Adrina tried her hand at sailing Hablet's flagship, the Wave Warrior, so the story goes, and ended up ramming the dock. If you believe the rumours that's why Hablet packed her off to Karien.”

“And if you don't believe the rumours?”

“Then he married her to Cratyn because Adrina, more than any of his children, is cast in the same mould as her father. If he was up to something nasty and needed an ally in Karien, Adrina would be the one for the job.”

Brak did not offer any further comment on Adrina. He had not told Teriahna the news he carried from Medalon. As far as anyone in Fardohnya knew, Adrina was still in the north. That Cratyn was dead, Adrina now married to Lord Wolfblade and that Hablet's eldest baseborn son was a casualty of the Karien-Medalonian war, was news he would prefer not to break until Adrina was safely across the border into Hythria, where Damin could protect her from her father's wrath.

“So, what do you know to be fact about Hablet's treaty with Karien?”

“Not much more than anyone else, I'm afraid,” she admitted. “He gave them the Isle of Slarn, we know that for certain, and there's been no shortage of timber for shipbuilding since the Princess left. According to the treaty, he's supposed to attack Medalon from the south come the northern spring, and he's certainly mustering his army for an invasion.”

“But?” Brak asked, sensing there was more she had not told him.

“But he's got his officers studying Hythria, not Medalon.”

“You think he seriously intends to invade Hythria?”

“He's never likely to have a better chance. He can't go over the Sunrise Mountains - Tejay Lionsclaw makes certain of that. The Hythrun defend their ports too well to risk a naval invasion, and until the Kariens declared war on their neighbour, Medalon had the Defenders to deter him from taking that route. But with the Defenders tied up on their northern border, and the Warlord of Krakandar up there with them, Hythria is wide open.”

Brak nodded. Adrina had said almost the same thing.

“Why is Hablet so determined to invade Hythria?” Brak asked. “It can't just be greed. He's richer than any man alive.”

Teriahna seemed amused by the question. “Don't you know? It isn't wealth that drives Hablet, it's fear.”

“Of what?”

“He doesn't have a legitimate heir.”

“That's not a reason to invade Hythria.”

“It is if you're afraid that your next heir is likely to be Hythrun.”

Brak stopped and stared at her, afraid she had already heard about Damin and Adrina, but then he realised that even if she had, Hablet had been planning this invasion long before the two of them met. “How could that be?”

“Hythria and Fardohnya have not always been separate nations, Brak. You should know that.”

“Fardohnya split from Hythria before I was born,” Brak pointed out. “And believe me, I was born a very long time ago.”

“They formally became separate nations during the reign of Greneth the Older Twin,” she reminded him. “That was about twelve hundred years ago.”

Brak nodded. “Greneth was the twin brother of Doranda Wolfblade, as I recall.”

“Ah, you do know your history then. Well, the split was quite amicable by all accounts. Greater Fardohnya, as it was known then, was a huge country; much too vast to govern effectively. Hythria was the largest province, governed by the Wolfblade family. Greneth married his sister Doranda to Jaycon Wolfblade, gave them Hythria to rule as the High Prince and Princess.”

Brak found himself impressed by Teriahna's knowledge, but no closer to the knowledge he sought. “I still don't see...”

“Then let me finish,” she chided. “As part of the agreement to separate the two nations, Greneth signed a pledge that in the absence of a male heir to the Fardohnyan throne, the eldest living Wolfblade would automatically inherit the crown. The agreement has never been revoked.”

“I've never heard of it before.”

“Well, until now, there's been no need to worry about it. Hablet is the first Fardohnyan King in twelve hundred years who's failed to get a son.”

“How many others know about it?”

“Enough that Hablet is worried. When your King keeps producing daughters, people start going through the archives. We only stumbled across it recently ourselves. Like you, we were curious about Hablet's obvious obsession with Hythria.”

“I'm still not certain I understand what he hopes to achieve by invading Hythria.”

“He needs to destroy the Wolfblade line. If there is no living Wolfblade, there is no heir. If there is no heir he can legitimise one of his bastards.”

“Wouldn't it be simpler, not to mention cheaper, to hire one of your assassins?”

“Are you kidding? Do you have any idea what we charge for assassinating a High Prince? Trust me, an invasion, even a prolonged one, would be cheaper.”

Brak smiled, not entirely certain she was joking.

“Anyway,” Teriahna continued, “he tried that, and we refused. Call it professional ethics, but we draw the line at kings and princes. The death of a ruling monarch tends to create unrest and draws unnecessary attention to the Guild and that's bad for business. We are strictly apolitical.”

“What a comforting thought,” he remarked wryly.

She smiled. “I forget you are Harshini, sometimes, my Lord. Does all this talk of killing distress you?”

“Not as much as it should,” he admitted. “So how long has Hablet known about this forgotten law?”

“A long time, I think. He made Lernen Wolfblade an offer for his sister Princess Marla when he first took the throne. You can imagine Lernen's reaction. He refused the offer then married Marla to some rustic Warlord from the north of Hythria, just to add to the insult. Hablet has never forgiven him for that either.”

“So, for the sake of a forgotten law and a thirty-five-year-old insult, Hablet is going to invade Hythria?”

“That's about the strength of it,” she agreed. “If Damin Wolfblade and Narvell Hawksword are killed protecting Hythria, which is a real possibility, and Lernen dies, which is also likely to happen sooner rather than later, according to my sources, there are no more male Wolfblades and Greneth's pledge is void.”

“Marla has other sons.”

“Stepsons,” Teriahna corrected. “She has only two natural-born sons and neither of them has an heir. If they die, the Wolfblade line is at an end.”

“And if her daughters have sons?”

“Then they'd have as much claim as Hablet's daughters, no more. The pledge specifies a Wolfblade male and even Narvell's claim is tenuous, because he took his father's name when he became the Warlord of Elasapine.”

“You seem remarkably well informed on the matter of Hythrun bloodlines.”

“It's my job. Besides, I've been looking into the matter lately. The Guild might be apolitical, but we are hardly politically naive. The machinations of kings and princes affect us closely. We have a vested interest in keeping things stable.”

“Hence your reluctance to assassinate them.”

“I see you understand our position.”

Brak nodded, wondering how much he should tell Teriahna. For that matter, it would not be long before she learnt of it anyway. Once Damin reached Hythria, the news would spread like a grass fire.

They had reached the end of the wharf and took the carved stone steps up to the paved road that circled the harbour. Brak glanced over his shoulder, surprised at the distance they had covered. He had been so engrossed in the conversation he had not noticed.

“Are you hungry? There's a tavern not far from here that serves the best oysters in Fardohnya.”

Brak nodded his agreement distractedly. The Raven led the way a little further up the road to a small tavern with an arched entrance, over which was carved the words “The Pearl of Talabar”. The tavern was cramped, but clean and cool and Teriahna was obviously well known. The owner hurried forward to greet them and showed them to a private booth in the back that gave them a clear view of the rest of the room.

“Now,” she said decisively, once they were seated. “I have answered your questions. I think it's time you answered a few of mine.”

“If I can.”

“What are you doing in Talabar?”

“I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said I was sightseeing?” he asked with a faint smile.

“No, I don't suppose I would. Nor do I think you sought out the Guild to kill someone for you. So there has to be another reason.”

“There is.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Well? Do I have to drag it from you?”

He smiled. “I've come from Medalon.”

“Medalon? That's an odd place for a Harshini to be.”

“Not really. The Harshini who survived the Sisterhood's purges still live in Medalon.”

“Everyone believes the Harshini are extinct. Except you, of course. You are thought to be the last. And we all thought you long dead.”

“The Harshini are not dead.”

“So where are they?”

“I like you, Teriahna, but I don't trust you that much.”

She nodded, her eyes glittering mischievously in the gloom. “I didn't seriously think you'd tell me, but it was worth a try.”

The conversation stopped as the tavern keeper arrived with two platters of chilled oysters. Teriahna tucked into her meal with gusto, slurping the oysters from their shells with obvious relish. The tavern keeper left with a small, indulgent smile at the Raven. She caught his look and smiled.

“I grew up around here. Mornt is an old friend,” she explained, wiping her chin.

Brak picked up a shell and tipped the juicy contents down his throat. Teriahna was right. Seasoned with something he could not identify, it was delicious.

“Rumour has it the taste is the result of the oyster beds being in a direct line of Talabar's sewage outlet.”

Brak almost choked on the oyster as she burst out laughing.

“I'm kidding, Brak. Mornt has a secret recipe that he guards with his life. We've been offered a small fortune to torture the information out of him. We refused, naturally, and let Mornt learn of our refusal. Now we eat here for free.”

“A small price to pay for your life. I never realised the tavern business was so cutthroat.”

“You'd be surprised what we get asked to do.”

“No doubt.”

She swallowed another oyster. “So, you come from Medalon and the first thing you do is seek out the Assassins' Guild. Why?”

“You're the best source of intelligence in Talabar.”

“Flattery is not an answer. Just where were you in Medalon exactly?”

“The northern border.”

“So how goes the war? Are the Defenders winning? They ought to. They deserve their reputation, by all accounts.”

“Medalon has surrendered, Teriahna.”

She made no attempt to hide her shock. “What? Why would they surrender?”

“It's a long story, and one I have no intention of trying to explain. But the fact is, Medalon has surrendered and is now in the hands of the Kariens.”

“Gods!” she muttered with concern. “I knew I should have kept some people in the north. Hablet's not going to be happy when he learns of this. He was hoping the Kariens would keep the Defenders occupied for years.”

“I've other news that's going to please him even less. Tristan is dead. He was killed in the only major confrontation between the two armies.”

She shook her head. “Now that's bad news. He would have made a good King if Hablet could have found a way to legitimise him.”

“It's not the worst of it,” he warned.

“You mean there's more? I can't think of anything that would upset Hablet more.”

“Prince Cratyn is dead too.”

“I doubt he'll lose much sleep over that news.” Then she frowned. “So Adrina is a widow now?”

“Not exactly.”

“Gods, Brak! Getting anything out of you is like pulling teeth! What do you mean, not exactly?”

“She's remarried,” he said, keeping his voice deliberately emotionless. “To Damin Wolfblade.”

Teriahna laughed. “Is this your idea of getting even for that comment about the sewage pipes?”

He did not answer. The silence was heavy as Teriahna realised that he was serious.

“Dear gods! How did that come about?”

“The demon child ordered it.”

“The demon child? Now I know you're joking.”

Once again, he let the silence speak for him. The Raven studied him closely for a moment, then pushed her platter away. “This is no joke, is it? There really is a demon child? Who is he?”

“She. Her name is R'shiel.”

“That's a Medalonian name.”

“That's right.”

“The demon child is Medalonian? Gods! That's a strange turn of events - an atheist who's descended from the gods. So, what gives the demon child the right to interfere in something that is likely to destabilise every nation on the continent?”

“She's on a mission from the gods - quite literally. I believe her eventual plan is to bring peace to every nation on the continent, not destabilise them.”

“Then she has an odd way of going about it.”

“You think so? If what you've told me is true, it seems the perfect solution. Hablet has no son, which makes a Wolfblade his heir. That heir is now married to his eldest daughter.”

“Oh, I agree, it's a solution none of us would have imagined, but how do you think Hablet is going to take the news? He wants to obliterate the Wolfblade line, not welcome their favourite son into his family.”

“Well, he's going to have to get used to the idea. Can you get me into the palace to see him?”

“Probably, although I don't suggest you use your real name. Hablet is no more likely to believe Brakandaran the Half-Breed still lives than I did.” Her expression grew serious as she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You have to understand, Brak: it suits a lot of people to believe the Harshini are gone. They represented a way of life that is long past, and while kings publicly lament their passing, privately they are rather pleased the Harshini aren't around to act as their conscience any more. Especially kings like Hablet.”

“Then perhaps,” Brak suggested ominously as he finished the last of his oysters, “it's time Hablet acquired a conscience.”

CHAPTER 10

The storm was loud outside, battering against the walls of the tavern where Mikel and Jaymes were staying with R'shiel. Although the low-ceilinged taproom was warm, the fire smoked badly. Their new Medalonian mistress did not seem to notice the choking haze, the bad food, or the watery ale. She was deep in conversation with another young woman she had arranged to meet here, who she had introduced earlier as Mandah. The two of them had their heads close together as they talked, although Mikel sensed there was little friendship between the women. Mandah was a year or two older than R'shiel, with long blonde hair, pretty eyes and an air of calm serenity about her that Mikel had never encountered before.

They had been on the road for weeks now, pushing hard to cross the Hythrun border before word of their flight reached the Citadel - or worse, the Kariens. This night, in a run-down tavern in the small, poor village of Roan Vale, was the first break in their relentless journey. R'shiel had come here to meet with Mandah, to organise the remainder of the pagan rebels to join them in Krakandar. At least, that's what he'd heard her telling Lord Wolfblade. The rest of their party was camped several leagues from the town, sheltering around an isolated farmhouse they had commandeered.

“My Lady?”

R'shiel looked up from the mug of ale she was nursing. “Yes, Jaymes?”

“The innkeeper says your rooms are ready. Shall I take your saddlebags up?”

“If you like.”

Jaymes glanced across at Mikel, then picked up R'shiel's bags and headed for the staircase at the back of the room. Mikel ate the strange-looking stew the inn provided, and listened as one of Mandah's men came in to report.

“The road to Bordertown is blocked by a rockslide,” the man said. “You can either winter here in Roan Vale, or attempt to go further east, through Lodanville, and cross the border there.”

“Winter here? I don't think so. How long will it take if we go through Lodanville?” R'shiel asked with a frown.

“It will add at least a week, my Lady.”

“It can't be helped, I suppose. I'll have to speak with Lord Wolfblade, but I think we'll have no choice but to turn east in the morning.”

The rebel bowed and crossed to a table on the other side of the room, where he joined his companions and gave them the news. They did not look happy. One of them complained that the demon child was going to lead them through every village in Medalon before they reached the border. But it was a half-hearted complaint. They knew as well as anyone that the weather was to blame for their delay.

Mikel swallowed the last of his stew and moved around to the other side of the hearth, where the smoke seemed less suffocating, wondering why these rebels seemed so ambivalent. He always imagined that the Medalonians were like the Kariens - united under one purpose. In reality, there were more factions than he could count. There were the Defenders, and the Sisterhood, and the pacifist pagans, and the pagan rebels... and somewhere in amongst all that was the rest of the population, caught in the middle of the power struggle.

“Psst!”

Mikel jumped at the sound and looked behind him. In the darkness beside the hearth, under the woodpile, two large, liquid black eyes stared out at him.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed. “Go away!”

The demon blinked, but did not move.

“Begone!” Mikel commanded in a firm whisper. That was what R'shiel said when she wanted the demons to leave. It must have something to do with her being Harshini. It had absolutely no effect when Mikel tried it. The demon simply cocked its head to one side with a look of blank incomprehension on its leathery face.

Mikel looked around nervously. Although the tavern was full of pagan rebels, Mikel did not know them well enough to trust their reaction if they spied the creature. “You have to leave!” he insisted, this time speaking Medalonian, hoping the demon might understand that language. “Go back to R'shiel!”

At the mention of R'shiel, the demon began to chitter excitedly.

“Be quiet!”

“Who are you talking to, Mikel?”

Mikel spun around guiltily. “No one, my Lady. I - I thought I heard something in the woodpile.”

“Probably rats,” R'shiel murmured. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Then go and get some sleep, Mikel. We're leaving at first light.”

He climbed to his feet without looking back at the woodpile and crossed the room until he was standing before R'shiel. “Do you mind if I check the horses first, my Lady?”

R'shiel smiled at him distractedly. “If you like.”

Mikel let himself out into the battering rain and ran the short distance to the stables. Lightning streaked the sky as the rain hammered down. He was shivering and soaked to the skin by the time he pushed the large wooden stable door shut behind him.

“It's a sour night to be out and about, lad.”

Mikel started at the voice and spun around, squinting in the darkness. The voice belonged to an old man sitting on a haybale. He was wrapped in a tattered dark cloak, smoking a long pipe that gave off a sweet-smelling and vaguely familiar scent. Mikel studied him suspiciously. He looked like some sort of vagabond who had taken shelter from the storm, too poor to afford the inn.

“Who are you?”

“A friend.”

“I don't know you.”

“Oh, yes, you know me, Mikel.”

“How do you know my name?”

The old man smiled and rose to his feet with a grace that belied his age. He stepped closer to Mikel, his long white hair flowing over his shoulders like a silken waterfall. His eyes were piercingly bright in the gloomy stable.

“No matter, lad. I merely wanted to see that you are well.”

“Why would you care?”

“I care about all my people,” the old man said with a smile.

Despite his suspicions, Mikel found himself drawn to the man. There was something about him, some seductive quality he could not define, which made him want to throw himself into the old man's arms and lose himself to the security and warmth of his presence.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing,” the old man shrugged. “A moment of your time perhaps. A chance to talk. You travel with the demon child, I see.”

“Who told you that?” Mikel demanded.

He smiled. “Nobody told me, Mikel. I can feel her presence. You are very privileged to be counted among her friends.”

Mikel's chest swelled a little at the compliment. “R'shiel trusts me.”

“I'm sure she does. It is a rare honour indeed. But don't you worry that she is leading you into danger?”

“R'shiel is just trying to...” His voice trailed off, as he realised that he actually had no idea what R'shiel was trying to do.

Smiling, the old man sucked on his pipe for a moment.

“She's helping her people,” Mikel said with determination.

“She is trying to destroy your God.”

“Which god?”

The old man sighed. “It is a sad world indeed if you have to ask that question, Mikel. R'shiel is trying to destroy the Overlord. She was created for that purpose.”

“Why would she want to do that?”

“That is not important,” the old man shrugged. “Merely that you are aiding her. Don't you worry for your eternal soul?”

“But the other gods said —”

“Ah, yes. The other gods. Well, who am I to deny what the other gods have said? All I can do is warn you, I suppose.”

“Warn me about what?”

“You are aiding the demon child. When the time for retribution comes, your God will remember that you turned on him.”

Mikel opened his mouth to object, but the words would not come. He had turned on his God. He had honoured Dacendaran, the God of Thieves, and was personally acquainted with Kalianah, the Goddess of Love. And Gimlorie, the God of Music, had taught him how to sing.

“I didn't mean to,” Mikel said in a small voice that was almost drowned out by the storm.

The old man smiled and opened his arms wide. “Xaphista forgives you, my son.”

Mikel ran to him, sobbing. Wrapped in the warm embrace of the old man, he felt such an overwhelming love for his God that everything he had done in the past seemed insignificant. The Overlord was the one true God - the only God. He could not understand how he had ever lost sight of that fact.

After a long while, his tears ran out and he looked up into the eyes of the old man.

“What must I do?” he asked.

Mikel returned to the tavern in a state of elation. His whole being was filled with love for his God, his mind focused only on the task before him. The rain had eased as he let himself into the smoky taproom, and his small hand clutched his dagger. He was filled with purpose and the secure knowledge that this was right.

R'shiel still sat at the table talking with Mandah, although they had been joined by another man. He could hear what they were saying, but the voices were muffled as if he was listening through a waterfall.

“The Defenders are planning to cross the Glass River at Testra,” R'shiel was telling them. “If you meet them on this side at Vanahiem, you can tell them which way we went. Hopefully, by the time they cross the river, the roads will be clear and they can get straight through to Hythria.”

The innkeeper must have overheard them. He hurried forward, pushed Mikel out of the way and bowed to R'shiel, his expression horrified.

“Forgive me, my Lady, if I misunderstood you, but surely you're not planning to bring these men through here?”

“Why not?”

“But the Kariens will be pursuing them! We'll be slaughtered if they think we were harbouring traitors.”

Mandah looked up at the overwrought tavern keeper with a smile. “Woran, you've been harbouring rebels here since before I was born.”

“That's not true! This is a respectable establishment.”

“This is a flea-ridden, rat-infested hovel,” the man at the table laughed.

“But if the Karien priests should hear of it... And what of the other people here in Roan Vale? Can't you send the Defenders by another route?”

“It will be all right, Woran,” Mandah assured him.

Mikel moved closer to the table. The dagger felt warm and comforting in his hand. Mandah spied him and frowned. “Look at you, child, you're drenched!”

R'shiel looked up at him with a shake of her head. “Go stand by the fire, Mikel. You'll catch your death if you sleep in those wet clothes.”

Mikel did not answer. He stared at the demon child, seeing nothing but the woman who was destined to destroy his God.

“Mikel? What happened to you?”

He turned slightly to find Jaymes standing behind him. His brother seemed a stranger. Everyone in the room seemed to be a stranger.

“Come on,” Jaymes said. “Let's go dry you out.”

Mikel let Jaymes lead him to the fire without resisting. He looked over his shoulder at R'shiel, but she had resumed her conversation with Mandah and the other rebel. The dagger burned with unfulfilled longing in his grasp.

“What were you thinking?” Jaymes asked as he peeled Mikel's sodden cloak from his shoulder. “Look at you! You're blue with cold and stiff as a board.”

The demon who had been hiding in the woodpile chittered at him in concern as Jaymes shook out his dripping cloak. Mikel stared at the creature for a moment in confusion. Its appearance made him lose his train of thought and he suddenly began to notice how cold and wet he was. He moved closer to the fire and glanced across the room at R'shiel. She caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye and smiled.

He smiled back with the odd feeling that he had meant to do something important, but could not for the life of him remember what it was. He realised then that his hand was still clutched around the hilt of his dagger, his grip so tight that his fingers were cramping.

Mikel let it go, wondering why he was holding it.