Treason Keep

Chapter 1

It took a conscious effort of will for Brak to take the final step across the threshold of Sanctuary.

The gates stood wide open, tall and impossibly white in the thin, chill mountain air. Sanctuary’s tall spires reached elegantly for the scudding clouds, shadowing the Gateway and offering him one last moment of anonymity.

He had turned his back on this place more than two decades ago and, despite the loneliness, the guilt, and the hunger for his own kind, he still found it harder than he thought possible to return.

He was not unexpected. That would have been too much to hope for. As he trekked through the mountains he had clung to the idle hope that the demons would not betray his approach. It was the reason he had come on foot – this journey of months could have been accomplished in hours had he asked the demons for help.

As he contemplated that final, irrevocable step, a figure appeared on the other side of the Gateway. Tall, white-robed and smiling, Jerandenan had been the Gatekeeper for as long as Brak could remember – and that was almost a millennium. The Harshini’s totally black eyes were moist, and his whole being radiated the warmth of his welcome.

The Gatekeeper opened his arms wide. “Welcome home, Brakandaran.”

Still Brak hesitated. “You remember me then?”

Jerandenan laughed softly. “I remember every soul who has entered my Gate, as well you know. And you, more than most, I would not forget. Come, Brakandaran. Your family awaits you. The demons miss you, and...” The Gatekeeper’s voice trailed off with a shrug, and he smiled that infuriating, calm smile that was already beginning to annoy Brak. And he had not even crossed Sanctuary’s threshold yet.

“And Korandellan wants to see me?” Brak guessed.

Jerandenan nodded. “Did you expect anything less from your King?”

Before Brak could answer, several grey missiles launched at him through the tingling barrier of the Gateway. The demons jumped on him gleefully, chattering to each other incomprehensibly, so delighted by his return that they almost knocked him off his feet. He recognised a few of the creatures as he tried to shake free of them, but there were youngsters in the group he did not know. They knew him, though. His blood called to them more clearly than any words were capable of.

Jerandenan smiled indulgently as the demons pushed and pulled Brak until he was through the Gateway, ignoring both his protests and his greetings, which he seemed to be handing out in equal measure.

“You can deny yourself, Brak, but you cannot deny the brethren. They are as glad to see you as we all are.”

Brak frowned, and peeled a little demon from around his neck who was hugging him so tightly he could barely breathe. No sooner had he removed one, than another tried to take its place. He pushed it away sternly.

“Begone!”

The demons fell back at his sharp tone, looking mightily offended. He immediately felt guilty for being so abrupt, a fact which the demons were probably counting on. At the first sign of his resolve wavering they were on him again, although this time they gave him room to breathe. Brak turned to Jerandenan helplessly.

“And you wonder why I haven’t been back in more than twenty years.”

“You are as hungry for the demons as they are for you, Brakandaran,” the Gatekeeper said with an indulgent smile. “Don’t deny them, or us, the joy of your return.”

By the time Brak had disentangled himself from the demons a second time, other white robed figures had appeared, attracted to the Gateway by the unusual commotion. The Harshini rarely, if ever, left Sanctuary these days – not since the Sisterhood had come to power two centuries ago – and few had entered the magical Gateway in that time. The Keep was outside of normal time and space, in a dimension uniquely its own. No one but a Harshini, or those born within the walls of Sanctuary, could find it when it was warded.

The curious arrived first, to see what all the fuss was about, wandering towards the Gateway with a leisurely stride. Behind those came others, some at a run. These Harshini were té Carn, his family, alerted by the demons’ joy at the return of their lost cousin.

He almost fled at that point. Seeing the faces of his family made him shrivel up a little inside. They had done nothing but try to make him feel as if he belonged here; and he had repaid their kindness with blood... this shame, this unbearable remorse, was the reason he had never come home.

“Brakandaran!”

A fair-haired woman pushed through the crowd and ran to him, twisting the knife of his guilt even harder into his soul.

“Samaranan.”

She stopped a few paces from him and examined him with a critical eye.

“You’re too thin.”

Brak was expecting almost anything but that. Trust Samaranan to say the one thing guaranteed to ease his tension. He smiled at her blunt criticism.

“I’ve been living on nothing but...” he stopped himself before he could upset the Harshini with his carnivorous diet. “I’ve been living off the land. It’s a long walk.”

“It was also an unnecessary one,” she scolded. “The demons would have brought you home. All you had to do was ask.”

“I like walking.”

“Actually, I think you like suffering. But you got here. Finally. Welcome home, brother.” She hugged him tightly, pushing demons out of the way to reach him. He had almost forgotten how forgiving the Harshini were – how incapable of anger or resentment. His elder half-sister did not seem to care that he had not contacted her for two decades. Nor did she seem to hold against him the crime that had driven him from this place. “Come, you must pay your respects to Korandellan. He knew you would come.”

Brak nodded, but did not bother to add that the King had left him little choice in the matter. Samaranan took his hand and led him forward, the demons skipping in his wake. The Harshini parted for them, some simply smiling their welcome, others nodding to him with genuine pleasure at his return. Some even reached out to touch his travel-stained clothes, to assure themselves that he was real. Brak tried to return the warmth of their welcome, but his guilt and his human blood, as always, made him feel like an outsider.

Sanctuary was like no other place on this world, and at first glance, seemed unchanged since Brak had last walked these halls. The Harshini settlement sat within a valley; the Keep tunnelled into the hills, its broad, open archways looking down to the valley floor. The air was sweet and moist from the constant mist created by the rainbow-tinted cascade that supplied the settlement with water and tumbled down toward the pool on the western edge of the valley. Although autumn was beginning to turn the mountains red, here in Sanctuary the temperature never varied a great deal. The God of Storms was solicitous of Harshini comfort.

The long, tiled walkways echoed his booted footsteps as Samaranan led Brak toward Korandellan’s apartments. Everywhere they went people turned and waved to him, delighted to see him. It was as though he brought them hope rather than pain, and the reaction puzzled him a little. It was true that the Harshini were incapable of anger or violence, but even that could not explain their obvious joy. Many of them would have been glad to see the back of him, he thought. Then another thought occurred to him as he realised what else seemed strange.

“Where are the children?”

“There are none, Brak.”

“Why?”

Samaranan slowed her pace and glanced at him. “It’s the wards on Sanctuary. They remove us from the real world. We do not age, but neither do we conceive.”

“But you don’t stay out of time constantly. Korandellan used to bring Sanctuary back every spring to allow time to catch up.” As far as Brak remembered, the settlement had reappeared every spring for the past two centuries. Such a return was vital for their survival.

“We’ve been warded now for nearly twenty years, brother,” she told him. “After you left, after the demon child was born, Xaphista redoubled his efforts to find us. We could not risk exposing ourselves, and Sanctuary would flare like a beacon to a Karien priest. Every time we return to real time, Death is waiting to claim those who have cheated him. There are no children to replace those who are lost.” She seemed to understand his confusion. “In case you’re wondering, that’s why everyone is so happy to see you. You will aid the demon child and she will remove the threat of Xaphista. Then we will be free once more.”

“Remove the threat of Xaphista? You mean kill him.”

Samaranan frowned. “Please don’t say it like that, Brak.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

“You know what I mean. You’ve been back for little more than a heartbeat. You could at least try to be sensitive.”

“Forgive me,” he snapped. “I’ll try very hard not to mention the fact that Korandellan has brought me back to train Zegarnald’s pet assassin.”

She stopped and glared at him, her black eyes as close to anger as they were capable of getting. “Stop it! This is not easy for any of us. There is no need for you to make it even harder.”

“You think this is easy for me?”

Samaranan’s eyes softened and she reached out to touch his face. “I’m sorry, little brother. I forget sometimes what it must be like for you.”

“Don’t apologise, Sam. I shouldn’t be heaping all my anger on you. There’s a god or two I’d like to throttle, but it’s not your fault.” Brak smiled wanly. “I promise I’ll try to be as Harshini as I can while I’m here.”

Her relief was evident. “Thank you.”

They resumed their slow pace through the broad halls. Brak listened idly as Samaranan filled him in on the family happenings, which, considering how much time Sanctuary had spent removed from reality, was a fairly short list. There were no new nieces or nephews or cousins to celebrate. Only the demons, who could flit between dimensions at will, were able to reproduce – but even their numbers were starting to dwindle in the face of the Harshini’s prolonged withdrawal. The Harshini and the demons were interdependent, and the creatures could not sustain an increase in their numbers that the Harshini were unable to match. It occurred to Brak that if something were not done soon, the Harshini would no longer be simply hiding. Their current state of limbo would eventually prove fatal. The knowledge was an added burden he did not want or need.

They reached Korandellan’s chambers eventually, and the tall, delicately carved doors swung open at their approach. The King was waiting for them, his smile benign, his arms outstretched in welcome. The resemblance between him and the demon child took Brak by surprise. Korandellan was tall and lean and impossibly beautiful, as all the Harshini were. With the demons clustered behind Samaranan’s long skirts, Brak fell to his knees and lowered his head, surprised at his need for Korandellan’s benediction.

“You have no need to kneel before me, Brakandaran. It is I who should bow to you. You have suffered much on our behalf.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he retorted without thinking.

“Brak!” Samaranan gasped. Even the demons seemed appalled by his disrespect.

But the King laughed. “Oh, how I’ve missed you, Brakandaran! You are like a breath of fresh air. Come, get off your knees and let us talk as friends. Samaranan, tell your family to prepare a feast. Tonight we will welcome your lost brother home.”

“There’s really no need...” Brak began as he climbed to his feet. The King ignored his objections.

“Leave us now. Your brother and I have much to discuss.”

Samaranan bowed gracefully and backed out of the room. The demons followed her, subdued in the presence of the King. The doors swung shut silently as they departed. The King turned to Brak and his smile faded.

“What news have you of the outside world?”

“Nothing that is likely to bring you joy,” Brak warned. “The Defenders were in Testra when I left. They were making plans to move north, to protect their border from the Kariens.”

“Shananara tells me you went to Hythria.”

“I indulged in a bit of theatrics, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “The Defenders needed help and I had to stop them killing the demon child. I made a rather dramatic appearance in Krakandar and convinced Damin Wolfblade to form an alliance with them.”

“The High Prince’s heir?” Korandellan shook his head with a faint smile. “You never did listen to me when I told you about the dangers of interfering with mortal politics. But... perhaps such an alliance might eventually bring peace between Medalon and Hythria, so in this case, I will forgive you.”

“You always forgive me, your Majesty. It’s your one fault.”

“I have more than one, I fear. And what news of the Kariens?”

“As soon as word reaches them about the death of their Envoy, they’ll have the excuse they’ve been looking for to invade Medalon.”

“Then war is unavoidable?” The King looked pained even contemplating such an idea.

“I’m afraid so.”

“And Fardohnya? What is Hablet doing? It is unlike him to let such momentous events take shape without him trying to turn it to his advantage.”

“I wish I knew,” Brak told him with a shrug. “A couple of years ago he was making overtures toward Hythria. He sent one of his daughters to meet with Lernen Wolfblade, but I don’t know that anything came of it. It’s hard to tell with Hablet. He makes and breaks treaties as if they were piecrusts. You should think about sending someone to his court, now that the word is out that the Harshini still live.”

The King shook his head. “I risked much in letting Shananara aid you, and I cannot sleep for fear of the danger Glenanaran and the few others who have returned to the outside might be in. The High Arrion has promised me that the Sorcerer’s Collective will protect our people in Greenharbour, but we are not revered in the manner we once were. Our seclusion appears to have left us unprepared for the human world. Her assistance will come with a price, I suspect. Besides, Fardohnya is too close to Karien. I would not put it past Hablet to see some advantage in dealing with the Kariens, and I would not willingly give him a hostage.” Korandellan walked to the balcony that overlooked the broad, sun-kissed valley. He studied it for a long moment before he spoke again. “A part of me rejoices to see you again, Brakandaran. Another part of me fears what your appearance heralds.”

“And just exactly what does my appearance herald?”

Korandellan did not answer immediately. When he did, he completely changed the subject. “The demon child lives.”

“Cheltaran healed her, then?” It was a relief to learn that his journey had not been in vain.

“Yes... and no.”

The vague reply surprised Brak, and worried him. “What do you mean?”

“When the demons brought R’shiel here she was on the brink of death. No, even more than that, Death had her by the hand and was leading her away. Cheltaran healed her wounds, but Death does not like to be cheated, particularly by the God of Healing. They are having something of a... disagreement... over the demon child’s fate.”

“That sounds ominous. Where does that leave R’shiel?”

“She lives, but only just. Death holds one hand, Cheltaran the other.”

Brak sagged against the balcony. “But it’s been months!”

“I know. But now that you are here, we should be able to resolve the conflict.”

“You want me to step into an argument between Death and a god? Thanks for the vote of confidence, your Majesty, but I think you vastly overrate my powers of persuasion.”

The King turned to him, his expression serious. “I overrate nothing, Brakandaran. A compromise of sorts has been worked out to solve the problem. Unfortunately, none of us is capable of carrying it out.”

“Compromise? What compromise?”

“A life for a life,” Korandellan told him heavily. “Death will relinquish his claim on R’shiel, if another life is given in her place.”

Brak closed his eyes for a moment as the weight of the task Korandellan asked of him pressed on him like a falling building.

“You want me to choose?”

“I do not ask this of you lightly, Brakandaran, but I have no choice. I cannot take a life, even indirectly. You are the only one who can make the decision.”

“And to think I used to imagine my human blood would never be an asset to the Harshini,” Brak remarked sourly. “Fine. I’ll go out and pick some helpless, worthless human. That should satisfy Death.”

Korandellan’s golden skin paled at his callousness. “It is not that simple. Death demands a soul of equal value.”

“Then I’ll make sure I pick an obnoxious brat. That should even things up.”

“A soul of equal value, Brakandaran. Death drives a hard bargain. He wants a soul whose loss will mean as much to the demon child as her loss will mean to us.”

“Is there a time limit on this absurd bargain, or will the poor sod drop dead the moment I name him?”

Korandellan shook his head in despair. “I cannot comprehend your ability to make light of this, Brakandaran.”

“I’m not making light of anything. I might be capable of making such a decision, Korandellan, but I certainly don’t find it easy. It’s an eminently reasonable question.”

“And one I cannot answer. You will have to ask Death yourself. I’m sure he will be reasonable.”

“Oh! You think so?”

“Please, Brakandaran! Do not think to approach Death with such an attitude.”

As a race, the Harshini were a bridge between the gods and mortal man, but it was Korandellan who carried the full weight of that bridge on his shoulders. Brak appreciated his predicament, but found it hard to sympathise, given the burden the King had just handed him.

“Don’t worry. Even I am not that stupid. Can I see R’shiel?”

“Of course.” The King smiled faintly and placed his hand on Brak’s shoulder. “You did well to find her, Brak. I know the remorse that fills you seems hard to live with, but ultimately, if she succeeds, R’shiel will free the Harshini. Your actions will have saved your people.”

“All but one,” Brak reminded him grimly.

R’shiel té Ortyn, the demon child who had caused Brak so much anguish – even before she was born – lay not far from Korandellan’s chambers. The room was large and airy, filled with flowers and scented candles, as if the cheery atmosphere could somehow compensate for the battle being waged over her life. Two Harshini sat with her, watching the faint rise and fall of her chest, as if waiting for something to happen. As Brak approached they bowed silently and withdrew, the expectant joy in their black eyes at his coming making him feel unworthy.

She lay on the crisp white sheets wearing a simple robe of pale blue. Her dark red hair had been braided with care and lay coiled on the pillow. She appeared whole and unmarked. As unnaturally perfect as any Harshini.

She was breathing, but barely. Brak watched her for a time then turned to Korandellan.

“You’ve not spoken to her yet?”

“She’s been unconscious since she arrived. Once the... decision is made, Death will release her.”

Brak considered his next words carefully before he spoke. “Korandellan, have you considered the possibility that it might be better if you let Death have her?”

The King’s head snapped up in shock. “Of course not! Why would I do that?”

“She may look Harshini, your Majesty, but this girl is not what she seems. She was raised by the Sisterhood. She is spoilt, manipulative and can be utterly ruthless when she’s in the mood. And those are her good points.”

“If Xaphista prevails, the Harshini will be destroyed.”

“You’ve no guarantee that won’t happen, even if she lives. You don’t know her like I do. Believe me, she’s not the stuff saviours are made of.”

“You don’t like her?”

“I don’t trust her,” he corrected.

The King studied R’shiel for a moment and then looked at Brak. His expression was troubled. “Be that as it may, I cannot let her die. We will not survive long enough for another demon child to reach maturity, even if such a child was born tomorrow. I have no choice.”

“Then the gods help us all,” Brak muttered to himself.

Chapter 2

Her Most Serene Highness, Princess Adrina of Fardohnya, took special care with her appearance this morning. There wasn’t much she could do about the black eye, but she could disguise the rest of her bruises. Her slaves fussed over her nervously, as wary of her foul mood as they were of their uncertain future. Their mistress had done many things in the past to incur the wrath of the King, but last night’s escapade was spectacular, even for Adrina.

“Has anybody seen Tristan?” she snapped, pushing away the young, dark-haired slave who was trying to fix a diaphanous veil to her head with jewelled pins and trembling fingers.

“No, your Highness,” Tamylan replied calmly, relieving the girl of the task. With a firm hand she pinned on the veil. Adrina yelped impatiently.

“Be careful! Where in the Seven Hells is he? I’ll be damned if I’ll take the blame for this alone.”

“I believe Tristan was last seen beating a hasty retreat towards the South Gate, your Highness,” the slave told her, barely able to conceal her amusement. Adrina glared at her in the mirror. Tamylan had been her constant companion since they were children. She had a bad habit of forgetting her place. “I imagine your brother was seized by an overwhelming desire to rejoin his regiment at Lander’s Crossing.”

“Coward,” Adrina muttered. “When I get my hands on him...” She pushed Tamylan away, stood up and glanced at her reflection, satisfied that she had done her best under the circumstances. Her skirt was green, Hablet’s favourite colour, and the deep emerald shade brought out the green in her kohl-darkened eyes, even with the unbecoming bruise. The bodice was a shade or two lighter and edged with delicate pearls, exactly matching the larger pearl that nested in her bare navel. She could do little about her pounding head but she had gargled half a bottle of cologne to rid herself of the sour aftertaste of mead. She smoothed down the skirts nervously and turned to Tamylan. “How do I look?”

“As lovely as ever, your Highness,” the slave assured her. “I’m sure the King will be so overcome by your radiant beauty that he’ll completely overlook the fact that you ran his flagship into the main wharf last night.”

“Tamylan, have I told you that you’re dangerously close to pushing me too far?” She was no mood for Tamylan’s eternal good humour. She wasn’t in the mood for much of anything. She just wanted to crawl back into her bed and hide under the covers until her father forgot about her.

“Not for an hour, at least, your Highness.”

A knock at the door saved Tamylan from a tongue-lashing. Gretta, the slave who had been so carefully trying to fix her hair, answered it hastily. The young girl bowed low as Lecter Turon, the King’s Chamberlain, entered, scurrying out of his way as he waddled into the room.

The Chamberlain mopped his perpetually sweating bald head and bowed to Adrina. “The King is waiting for you, your Highness,” the eunuch announced in his gratingly high-pitched voice. “I have come to escort you.”

“I know the way, Turon. I hardly need an obsequious little toad like you to guide me.”

“Your Serene Highness, I speak the truth when I say that never have I looked forward to a duty more.” He was positively beaming at the prospect of her trying to explain her way out of this one.

Adrina decided not to dignify his jibe with a reply. She flounced past him in a swirl of emerald skirts and marched into the hall, snapping her head up haughtily. That was a mistake. The hangover she was trying to ignore objected violently to the sudden movement and sent a wave of blinding pain across her forehead. She strode ahead; not waiting for Turon, deliberately taking long strides, knowing the tubby little eunuch would have to run to catch up. It was petty, but he deserved it for taking so much pleasure in her misfortune. Servants and slaves scurried out of her path as she marched through the long black and white tiled halls of the Summer Palace.

It took nearly twenty minutes to reach her father’s reception room, and Turon panted heavily in her wake. There were a disconcerting number of lords and ladies in attendance in the vast outer chamber, standing around the tall, potted palms in jewelled clusters like beetles around scattered honey drops. They stared at her as she strode past, their expressions ranging from smug humour to simmering anger. Even the slaves wore expressions of intense interest, as they manned the large fans that moved the humid air around, but did little to cool the oppressive heat.

She did not wait for permission to enter, but marched straight up to the delicately carved sandalwood doors of her father’s office. The guards opened them as she approached. Turon was forced into an undignified run to catch her so that he could enter the chamber first to announce her arrival. Two steps ahead of the Chamberlain, she ordered the guards to close the doors behind her, and was gratified to hear Turon’s indignant yelp as the obliging guards slammed the doors in his face.

Hablet looked up as she entered and smiled. That was not a good sign. The King was prone to violent outbursts when enraged, which usually dissipated as quickly as they started. But he was beyond anger now and into a quiet rage that manifested itself in a deceptively calm demeanour.

She had only ever seen him this angry once before. That time, her bastard half-brothers Tristan and Gaffen had stolen the statue of Jelanna, the Goddess of Fertility from the Goddess’ Temple and mounted it on the roof of the most notorious brothel in Talabar. She had half-expected Hablet to kill them when he learnt of their escapade. Her father was sly, dishonest and opportunistic, but he was very devout. He was also desperate for a legitimate son, certain that his baseborn sons’ jests would make Jelanna strike him impotent as a punishment for their disrespect. He need not have worried. Hablet had sired another half-dozen or more children since then, although he still did not have the legitimate son he craved. Maybe that was Jelanna’s revenge.

“Adrina,” Hablet said through his dangerous smile.

“Daddy...”

“Don’t you ‘daddy’ me, young lady.” This was worse than she thought.

“I can explain...”

“You can explain, can you?” Hablet asked, picking up a sheath of parchment from his gilded desk. The sunlight streamed in from the tall open windows, catching the gilt and reflecting it painfully back in her eyes. There were no chairs in the room other than the seat that the King occupied, so she had no choice but to stand in front of him like an errant slave. “Explain what exactly, my dear? How do you explain this bill I have from Lord Hergelat for seven hundred gold lucats? It seems you sank his yacht. Or this one?” he added, holding up another leaf from the pile on the desk in front of him. “Lord Brendle claims you ran his dhow aground, too. He wants twelve hundred lucats. And then of course, Lady Pralton wants compensation because Lord Brendle’s dhow was carrying a load of her vintage wine, which is now sitting at the bottom of the harbour, making a lot of fish rather happy, I imagine. Not to mention the twenty-eight injured slaves manning the oars of the Wave Warrior when you rammed the dock. Captain Wendele estimates the damage to the Wave Warrior to be between five and six thousand lucats.”

He threw the bills on the desk. “As for the dock, it will take the engineers a week or more to work out what that will cost to repair, assuming they can find a way to get the Wave Warrior off it, without dismantling the whole damned structure! Would you care to hear what the Merchant Guilds are claiming they’ll lose with the main wharf out of commission?” Hablet’s voice had been growing steadily louder as he spoke, until he was shouting at her. She cringed, although more from the effect it had on her hangover, than for fear of him.

“But Daddy —”

“A party!” he yelled. “It’s the Feast of Kaelarn, Daddy, and we want to have a party! I said you could have a damned party, Adrina. I didn’t say you could ruin me!”

Now he was exaggerating. Even the staggering cost of her escapade would not dent Hablet’s enormous wealth. “I haven’t ruined you, Father, I–”

“As if I don’t have enough problems! I’ve got the damned Hythrun allying with Medalon. I’m at an extremely delicate point in my negotiations with the Karien Crown Prince...”

Now that’s a lie, Adrina thought impatiently. The Kariens wanted Hablet’s cannon, and access to the Fardohnyan Gulf through the port at Solanndy Bay, which her father controlled. They were prepared to put up with quite a bit to get what they wanted. What Hablet really meant was that he had just raised the price again.

With the unexpected alliance of Hythria and Medalon, and the certain invasion of Medalon by the Kariens to avenge the death of their Envoy, Hablet’s eyes had lit up with glee, thinking of the profit to be made. The Karien army was vast and even with the aid of the Warlord of Krakandar, the Defenders were sadly outnumbered. With the promise of the new weapons from Fardohnya – Adrina doubted her father had any intention of actually delivering them – Karien would be invincible. That left Hablet with two almost unheard-of opportunities. Not only could he demand vast amounts of timber from the Kariens to sustain his fleets, but while Medalon was occupied with the Kariens, Hythria lay open – all but undefended along its northern border.

Hablet cared nothing for Medalon, but the prospect of taking on the Hythrun was very tempting. The origins of the feud between Fardohnya and Hythria were lost in antiquity, but in recent years had much to do with the fact that the vast majority of the Fardohnyan fleet was engaged in acts of piracy, and the rich Hythrun traders were their favourite targets.

This latest, ill-advised deal with the Kariens was doomed to failure, Adrina thought. No amount of tall timber, iron ore, gold, or anything else the resource-rich Kariens could offer made it worth dealing with a nation of mindless fanatics. The Hythrun might be arrogant and belligerent, their High Prince might be a degenerate old pervert, but at least they believed in the same gods.

“... and now, thanks to your irresponsible recklessness, I have half the nobles in Talabar asking for your head! What possessed you to think you knew how to sail my flagship!”

Adrina realised with a start that she had not been listening to him.

“I didn’t think...”

“Well that’s pretty bloody obvious!” Hablet sagged back in his chair, as if his tirade had exhausted him. He scratched at his beard and glared at her. “Who else was involved in this fiasco?”

For a moment, Adrina nobly considered taking the entire blame for this disaster upon her own shoulders. It had been her idea, after all. She quickly decided against it. From his expression, she could tell that her father probably knew everything and lying would simply make things worse.

“Tristan,” she admitted, albeit reluctantly, even though the miserable coward deserved to be implicated for abandoning her.

“And...?” Hablet prompted impatiently.

“And Cassandra.”

“Ah, Cassandra,” Hablet repeated with a dangerous smile. “I was wondering when we’d get around to her.”

“She wasn’t on the boat when it... when the accident occurred,” Adrina pointed out cautiously. Cassie had been a reluctant accomplice to the caper, and Adrina felt honour bound to defend her younger sister.

“I’m aware of that,” Hablet said evenly. “Do you know where she was?”

“She came back to the Palace.” Adrina wondered if Cassie had actually done what she promised, or had found further mischief out of sight of her older siblings.

“Oh, Cassandra came back to the Palace, all right,” Hablet agreed. “In fact, Cassandra was so drunk that she decided it would be a good idea to find out what sort of lover her fiancé was. She sneaked into his rooms and tried to seduce him like an alley whore and now the whole damned Karien delegation is threatening to call off the deal. How could you do this to me?”

The news did not surprise Adrina. Cassandra was a passionate young woman who had been talking about nothing else but the visiting Karien Prince all week.

“Cassie didn’t mean any harm...”

“I don’t care if she was on a mission from the gods!” Hablet shouted. “The Kariens are mortified. They think I’m trying to foist a whore on them. I offered them my most beautiful daughter as a bride and now they think I’m trying to get rid of a wanton hussy. They’re ready to set sail on the next tide.”

Adrina glared at her father impatiently. “Well, what did you expect, Father? Cassie was never cut out to be the bride of a Karien Prince. She doesn’t have any interest in politics; she’s far too self-indulgent. You should have thought about that before you arranged the marriage.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“You know as well as I do that Cassie would have gotten herself into serious trouble within months of marrying Craytn. She doesn’t think beyond her next meal, most of the time. I can’t believe you were fool enough to think such an arrangement would work in the first place.”

“Is that right?”

Deciding attack was the best form of defence, Adrina carried on recklessly. “Of course, I’m right. Whoever you send north has to have their wits about them. Cassie wouldn’t seal a treaty, she’d cause a war.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Hablet said, his eyes narrowed. “Because the only way to redeem this situation was to offer another daughter as a bride and hope the Kariens would accept her.”

“Well, Lissie is probably the prettiest,” Adrina noted thoughtfully. “But Herena has the better head on her shoulders, although she’s still quite young...”

“So I offered them you.”

“You what?”

“As you so rightly pointed out, my petal, whoever I send to the Kariens needs to have their wits about them. They are mightily offended at the moment. The only way to appease them was to offer them the jewel in my crown. My eldest legitimate daughter.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Would dare and have dared,” Hablet announced with an evil grin. “I offered the Kariens a bride, and a bride they shall have. Fortunately, Craytn has only met you once and he doesn’t speak Fardohnyan, so I can still hope your reputation hasn’t preceded you. I can blame Tristan for the fiasco at the wharf easily enough.” He chuckled softly. “Seems they thought I should have offered them my eldest daughter in the first place. It may even work out better than my original plan.”

“You can’t do this to me!”

“Care to wager on that?”

“I won’t do it!”

“Oh yes you will! You’ll marry the Karien Crown Prince and make him as happy as a pig in a wallow.”

“I refuse!”

“Suit yourself,” her father said, his voice dangerously calm. “In that case, I’ll be forced to deduct the cost of your little escapade from your allowance. And while I’m at it, I’ll see that your half-brother is demoted to a common foot soldier and I’ll transfer him to watching the eastern passes, where he’ll more than likely be killed fighting bandits in the Sunrise Mountains. Of course, should you agree to marry Craytn, then I could probably force myself to assign him to the regiment I’m sending north to King Jasnoff. That would get him out of my sight while I recover from this disaster...”

“That’s blackmail!”

Hablet sighed happily. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Daddy...” she pleaded, hoping to appeal to his softer side. Hablet was a scoundrel, but he loved his children, all thirty-seven of them. He made no distinction normally, between his legitimate daughters and the sons he had fathered on countless court’esa. “You don’t want to send me away...”

“I can’t afford to keep you,” Hablet snapped. “If I didn’t love you more than life itself, I’d have you whipped.”

“I’d rather be whipped than marry that pious idiot!” Realising anger would get her nowhere she smiled sweetly. “I’m sorry, daddy. I promise never to...”

“Promise! Hah!” Hablet scoffed. “You promised me you’d marry well and you’ve rejected every suitor I’ve ever proposed.”

“Well, what did you expect? All you’ve ever offered me were simpering boys or scabby old men!”

“That’s beside the point!” he retorted. Then he sighed heavily, as if he could not understand where he went wrong. “Haven’t I given you everything you ever wanted, Adrina? Haven’t I indulged your every whim?”

“Yes, but...”

“There are no buts, this time,” Hablet announced decisively. “This time you have gone too far and you can only redeem yourself by doing as I wish. And I wish you to marry the Karien Prince.”

“But he’s a child...”

“He’s twenty-three,” Hablet pointed out, unconcerned. “And at twenty-seven, you’re an old maid. Just be grateful you still have your looks, otherwise I’d have no hope of pulling this off.”

“Daddy...” she tried, one more time.

“Don’t bother, Adrina. Your charms won’t work on me. You are going to marry the Karien Prince and that is final. They’re leaving in a few days so you’d better get packing.”

If appealing to his better nature wasn’t going to work, then she might as well try appealing to the politician.

“I can’t marry him. It’s far too dangerous.”

“What nonsense! How could it be dangerous?”

“I might have a son. The Kariens might expect you to name him your heir.”

“Bah! I’ve got plenty of sons. I don’t need any whelp of yours.”

“They’re bastards, father.”

“Then I’ll legitimise one of them!”

“Which one?”

“Whichever one I choose!” he snapped. “Stop trying to defy me! You’re going to marry Cratyn and that’s final!”

Adrina scowled at her father. “I’ll find a way out of this, I swear. I’m not going to spend my life bowing and scraping to that obnoxious little Karien worm.”

“You do that. In the meantime, you have a trousseau to pack.”

Adrina turned on her heel and left the room in a rage. As she stepped into the outer chamber, she passed Lecter Turon, and suddenly knew who had planted the absurd idea that she should marry the Karien Prince in her father’s head. The little toad would pay for that one day, she decided.

As for the boy prince of Karien, he’d live to regret the day he ever set foot in Fardohnya.

Chapter 3

“Her Most Serene Highness took the news well?” Lecter inquired cautiously of the King as he slipped through the door.

Hablet glared at the eunuch. “Of course she didn’t take it well. She’s livid.”

“In time she will adjust to the idea.”

“She’d better,” the King grumbled. He pushed himself to his feet and walked to the window. The gardens below were a riot of colour and the faint sounds of children’s laughter drifted up from the fountain in the centre court. The sound soothed him. He wondered what it was about his children that meant he only seemed to like them before they reached puberty. Once they grew up, they were no fun at all. They learnt to manipulate and grew greedy and caused him no end of trouble. But the little ones – ah, now they were his true joy in life. He had adored Adrina when she was ten. Now he was almost frightened of her.

“Might I suggest you place a guard on the princess? She could decide to defy you.”

“She won’t defy me,” Hablet assured him. “It will occur to her soon enough that she’ll be the Karien Queen one day. Adrina isn’t stupid, Lecter. She’ll do what I want, but not because it pleases me. She’ll do it because it pleases her.”

“I hope your trust in her is not misplaced, your Majesty.”

“Trust has nothing to do with it. She’s been dying to escape the palace, and I’ve just given her a crown.”

“A crown she could turn on you one day?” Lecter suggested tentatively.

“Hah! Adrina? And that simpering, Karien Prince? I don’t think so! Adrina might have it in her to commit such treachery, but Cratyn is as spineless as a jellyfish. Did you see what they’ve agreed to? How much timber they’re willing to part with, just to get access to Solanndy Bay and the Gulf? They’re idiots!”

“You control the only access to their holiest shrine, your Majesty, not to mention any chance they have of sea-going trade. You didn’t really leave them much choice.”

“They want the secret of my cannon,” Hablet added. “They want that even more than they want trade or access to that miserable Isle of Slarn. What sort of god chooses a lump of rock like Slarn to make his home, anyway?”

“The same sort of god who will demand your daughter convert to his worship. Your grandchildren will be followers of Xaphista.”

“Adrina pointed out the same thing,” the King mused, walking back to his desk. “Odd to hear you two in agreement on any point. Still, Laryssa is due to whelp any day now. She’ll give me a son and it won’t matter how many Karien bastards Adrina has.”

“Of course, your Majesty.” It was clear Lecter was as doubtful of the possibility as everyone else was. But surely Jelanna would not deny him again. Laryssa, the eighth woman he had taken to wife, had proved her fertility. She’d already given him two healthy bastard sons. Hablet had decided he would not marry any woman who could not produce sons and it was perfectly reasonable to assume that she would not let him down this time. The thought warmed him, almost making him forget his anger at Adrina. A legitimate son. Nothing would make him happier.

It wasn’t that Hablet didn’t love his baseborn sons. On the contrary, he adored them. But naming one his heir would cause problems. The throne needed a clear line of succession, and the law was clear, although not well known: either he sired a son himself, or the crown would go to Hythria, thanks to an almost forgotten twelve hundred-year-old agreement that Hablet had been trying to find a way around for thirty years. As he would rather fall on a rusty blade than see that happen, the only solution, if he did not have a legitimate son of his own, was to name one of his bastards heir. But he could not do that until he had removed the threat of any Hythrun heirs to his throne, a situation he planned to see to personally once he was across the border into Hythria. Then, if Laryssa failed to whelp a boy, he could legitimise one of his baseborn sons, probably Tristan, and not just because he was the eldest. Tristan was the brightest, the most personable, and the least likely to allow Adrina to control him. Although, given last night’s disastrous escapade, Hablet was beginning to wonder about that. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to send him north with Adrina...

Hablet sighed. It was a moot point. Laryssa would give him a son. Adrina would be off his hands, out of sight and out of mind in Karien. Let her play Queen of the Realm in the north. He had their timber, their gold and their iron. In return they were getting his most troublesome daughter and a promise he had no intention of keeping.

All in all, Hablet decided, looking down at the pile of debts Adrina had accumulated last night, it was a good bargain.

“So how are our Karien guests this morning?” he asked, pushing the pile to one side of the gilded desk. “Have they calmed down?”

“The prince was somewhat mollified by your generous offer.”

“So he damned well should be!”

“I noted,” Lecter continued, mopping his brow, “that the Kariens showed an unnatural interest in your offer to send a regiment with Adrina as her personal guard.”

“I trust Adrina to keep them out of harm’s way. She was right about one thing. I’d never have risked sending them with Cassandra.”

“If I may be so bold as to offer my opinion, your Majesty, one wonders if it is a good idea to send any troops north at all.”

“What do you mean? If I don’t send her to Karien in a manner befitting her station, they’ll know something is going on.”

“I agree, your Majesty, but I have received more than one report that the Harshini have returned. There have been sightings in Greenharbour, at the Sorcerer’s Collective, and even as far away as Testra, in Medalon.”

“So? What has that got to do with us?”

“The Kariens are dedicated to the destruction of the Harshini, your Majesty. Marrying your daughter to their Crown Prince, and sending her north with your soldiers might be... misconstrued.”

“You mean I might offend the Harshini?” Hablet scratched his beard as he sank down into his chair. “If the Harshini have returned, Lecter, and I seriously doubt they have, then why are they not here? I am the King of Fardohnya! If they were back the first thing they would do is send an Emissary to my court. Instead, all you can offer me are unfounded rumours about Harshini in Hythria. I have served the gods faithfully. Why would they send their people to that degenerate in Greenharbour, when they could come here?”

“High Prince Lernen has always supported the Sorcerer’s Collective and the temples most generously.”

“Lernen doesn’t support anyone but himself,” Hablet scoffed. “If the Harshini had returned, I would know about it. They are dead and gone, Lecter, so we will just have to stumble on without them as we have done for the past two hundred years.”

“Of course, your Majesty.”

Lecter mopped his brow again, looking rather uncomfortable. On days like this he annoyed Hablet. His grovelling manner was intolerable at times, but he had a sharp political mind and no scruples at all, that Hablet could discern. It made him an excellent chamberlain, if a tiresome one.

“What else, Lecter? I can tell there’s something bothering you.”

“It’s a small matter, your Majesty. One that hardly needs your attention.”

“Out with it, Lecter! I don’t have time for your games this morning. Cratyn will be here at any moment.”

“There have been other rumours, Sire, particularly in Medalon. About the demon child.”

“Lorandranek’s legendary half-human child? Those rumours have been around ever since the Harshini disappeared. Surely you don’t believe them?”

“I don’t believe anything, your Majesty, until I have proof. However, I feel they might be worthy of investigation. I could send...”

“No,” Hablet declared bluntly. “I’ll not have you wasting time and money chasing fairytales. The Harshini are extinct and there is no fabled demon child. I would much rather you spent your time fruitfully. Like finding out why the High Prince of Hythria sent his nephew to Medalon to fight with the Defenders.”

“My sources tell me Lernen has little or no control over his nephew. I doubt he sent him anywhere.”

“Then find out why young Wolfblade went north. I want a free path into Hythria, Lecter. I don’t want a battalion of Defenders on my back, and Wolfblade needs to die.”

“The Kariens will keep the Defenders off your back, Sire, and I am sure they can be prevailed upon to dispose of the Hythrun Prince. Why else would we support their coming war with Medalon?”

“I hope you’re right, Lecter, because I’ll be very put out if this doesn’t work.”

Before Lecter could offer another obsequious reply, the doors opened and the Karien Prince strode in, accompanied by his retinue. Hablet greeted them expansively and ordered the guards to bring chairs for the new arrivals.

Lecter bowed low, mopped his brow and backed out of the room, leaving the King to his guests.

Chapter 4

Everyone’s eyes were on Adrina as she strode down the long hall. As if to mock her, at the end of the hall, the princeling in question was heading toward her, with his gaggle of priests in tow.

Except for the ball held in his honour the day of his arrival a week ago, Adrina had not seen the young Prince, and counted herself lucky. He had spent the entire ball blushing an interesting shade of pink every time he caught sight of a Fardohnyan woman’s bare midriff. As every one of the two hundred or so women present had been dressed in a similar fashion, he was damned near apoplectic by the end of the evening. For a fleeting moment, she debated doing something truly outrageous, right here in the Hall, which would ensure the Kariens would reject her as a potential bride. But she had caught the expectant look on Lecter Turon’s smug, fat face as he slipped through the door to attend the King, and thought better of it. He would keep.

She stopped and waited as the young prince approached. Tall, serious and boring did not particularly appeal to Adrina, but he was civilised enough, she supposed. He was a little taller than her, with unremarkable brown hair, and eyes the colour of dried mud. At least he knew how to chew with his mouth closed.

“Prince Cretin,” she said, offering him her hand. The older man on Cratyn’s right looked a little put out that she had greeted his prince as an equal, but Cratyn did not appear to notice. He was too busy staring at the pearl in her navel. “My father has just informed me that we are to be married.”

Cratyn dropped her hand, jerked his head up and met her eye. He looked at her black eye curiously for a moment, but made no comment about it. Instead, he nodded – rather miserably, she noted with interest.

“Karien welcomes Fardohnya’s favourite daughter, your Serene Highness,” he said in his clipped Karien. “We look forward to a new era of prosperity and friendship between our two great nations.”

Someone sniggered in the background at the idea. Adrina looked at Cratyn curiously, wondering if he was really as naive as he sounded.

“I look forward to serving Fardohnya and Karien, your Highness,” she replied graciously, in heavily accented Karien. Two could play this game, and Adrina could mouth meaningless platitudes in any number of languages, when the mood took her. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have arrangements to make for my journey.”

Cratyn stepped aside for her, forcing the rest of his party to do the same.

Adrina continued regally on through the hall. Until she came up with a way to escape her father’s decree, she had no choice but to play along with it.

At least the meeting with the young Karien Prince had not gone too badly. She had made it clear to the Kariens that she held a rank equal to their prince, and Cratyn had been rather overawed by her, she decided with satisfaction. But he wasn’t very happy with the idea of an arranged marriage. That much was obvious. It could simply be his distaste for a foreign bride – or perhaps he was smarter than he looked, and had some idea of how treacherous and unreliable her father was. She was almost back to her rooms, and still trying to puzzle it out, when a rather shamefaced Tristan caught up with her.

“The last I heard, you were running away like a cur with its tail between its legs,” she snapped as he fell into step beside her.

Tristan was younger than Adrina by two days, and until an hour ago, she had considered him her best friend. Tristan’s mother was a Hythrun court’esa, one of Hablet’s favourites, who still lived in the palace harem, even though she no longer took the King’s fancy. She had been a beautiful woman in her youth and Tristan had inherited most of her charm, as well as her fair hair and golden eyes. He turned all of that charm on his half-sister now, to absolutely no effect.

“Would I desert you in your hour of need?”

“I didn’t happen to notice you helping me when I needed you, just now.”

“I was busy,” he shrugged, with an apologetic smile.

“Do you know what he’s done?” There was no need to elaborate on who he was.

“Married you off to the Karien Prince and ordered me north with the regiment?”

She turned on him furiously. “You knew!”

“My orders were waiting for me at the South Gate. The ink wasn’t even dry. You really pushed him too far this time, Adrina.”

“You were there, too! I only tried docking the damned boat because you dared me...”

“It’s a ship, not a boat,” he corrected. “Anyway, this might be fun.”

“Fun? I have to marry that snivelling, pious little cretin.”

“And one day that snivelling, pious little cretin will be the Karien King. That’s more than you’ll ever get here, Adrina. You might be the eldest legitimate child, but Hablet will turn atheist before he lets a woman inherit the Fardohnyan crown. You’ve always known he’d sell you to the highest bidder. At least, this way, you get to be a queen.”

Adrina listened to her brother thoughtfully, as she considered possibilities that had not had time to register.

“And what about you?” she asked. “He’s banished you north as well.”

Tristan shrugged. “I’ve got fourteen half-brothers, Adrina. When Hablet tires of trying to get a legitimate son on one of his wives, there’ll be a rather spirited competition for our father’s favour. That’s a bloodbath I’ll be more than happy to miss.”

“This does present some interesting opportunities, doesn’t it?” she agreed.

Tristan laughed. “You know, sometimes, you’re so like Hablet it’s scary.”

Adrina stopped and looked up at him. “The regiment that’s going north, what’s its function?”

“They’ll be the Princess’s Guard,” Tristan told her. “Under your command, to use as you see fit.”

“And you are the Captain of the Guard?”

“Naturally,” he said with a smug grin.

“Is Father sending any cannon with you?”

Tristan’s grin vanished. He glanced up and down the hall before answering in a low voice. “No, and I’m not certain the Kariens will ever see any artillery.”

“But he’s promised them!”

“You know as well as I do how much Father’s promises are worth. He’ll take their gold and their timber and happily send his daughter to Karien as a bride to prove his good intentions, but he really doesn’t want to hand the Kariens anything as dangerous as a cannon. He’s had every man in Talabar who even thinks he knows how to make gunpowder taken into custody.”

“He could be doing that just to drive up the price.”

“I suppose.”

“So the regiment going north are just light cavalry then?”

Tristan nodded warily. “For the most part. What are you up to, Adrina?”

“Nothing,” she replied. “Not yet, anyway. Can you get me that list? Before we sail? And I want to know who Hablet arrested, too.”

“Why?”

She ignored the question. “And I want you to do something else for me. Find out why Cratyn is so unhappy about this marriage.”

“He’s probably heard about you,” Tristan suggested.

Adrina frowned at him, but did not rise to the bait. “Maybe, but I’ve got a feeling there’s more to it than that. I want to know what it is.”

“As you command, your Serene Highness,” Tristan said with a mocking bow.

“One other thing,” she added as she turned to walk away. “Do any of the regiment speak Karien?”

“Most of them, as far I as know,” Tristan said.

“Then the first order you are to give them is to conceal that knowledge,” Adrina told him. “The men are to act dumb. I want the Kariens to think they don’t understand any orders but mine. Including you. If I have to go through with this, I’ll do it on my terms.”

Tristan was as good as his word, and by early afternoon Adrina had the names of every man in her regiment, and every man and woman rounded up by Hablet prior to the arrival of the Karien Prince, to prevent the secret of gunpowder falling into the wrong hands. She studied both lists carefully. The names on the first list, for the most part, meant nothing to her. She was not permitted to socialise with Tristan’s fellow officers, although a few of the names she had heard spoken in court. The second list was much more interesting. She studied it carefully, delighted when one name appeared that she knew – by reputation at least.

Adrina spent the rest of the day driving her slaves mad as she made them drag the entire contents of her wardrobe out, so that she could decide what she should take with her on her journey north. By the end of the afternoon, the floor of her chamber was littered with discarded outfits. At that point, Adrina loudly announced that she simply had nothing to wear, and certainly nothing suitable for a future queen. She threw a rather impressive tantrum that had the entire palace scurrying out of her way. Just on dusk, Hablet sent word that she could send for the tailor of her choice and order whatever she liked.

The following morning Mhergon, the palace tailor, arrived, nervously clutching a bundle of cloth swatches. Adrina refused to see him and demanded to see Japinel instead. He was the only tailor in Talabar worthy of such a task, she declared. Nobody else would do. She threw another tantrum, just to make her point, and then sat back and waited.

She did not have to wait long. Less than an hour after Mhergon had fled her chambers, Lecter Turon arrived. Adrina, draped over the chaise in her morning room, graciously granted him an audience.

“Where is Japinel?”

“He is unavailable, your Highness. Your father, his Majesty the King —”

“I know who my father is, Turon. Get to the point.”

“Mhergon is eminently qualified as a master tailor, your Highness.”

“Mhergon couldn’t make a sack out of homespun,” Adrina scoffed. “My father said the tailor of my choice. I want Japinel.”

“Japinel dabbles, your Highness, in tailoring as he does in everything else. The last I heard he was calling himself an alchemist. I cannot see why —”

“You don’t have to, Turon. Get me Japinel or I will come to dinner tonight naked. We’ll see what his Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Karien thinks of that!”

Lecter Turon waddled off in a foul mood, but Adrina knew she had won. Just on sunset a very pale and confused-looking Japinel was ushered into her chambers. He seemed stunned that the Princess Adrina had even heard of him, let alone wanted him to design her trousseau. Adrina ordered her slaves out and waited until they were alone, before she allowed him to speak.

“Your Serene Highness!” Japinel cried as he prostrated himself at her feet.

“Oh, do get up! I don’t have time for that!”

Japinel was a weedy little man with eyes set too close together. He scrambled to his feet, managing to bow at least half a dozen times on the way up.

“I am honoured, your Highness. I will design you a trousseau that the gods will envy. I will create —”

“Shut up, fool! I wouldn’t wear something designed by you if my life depended on it.”

“But your Highness! Chamberlain Turon said —”

“I have gowns enough to sink my father’s flagship,” she told him. It was a poor analogy under the circumstances. “I want something else from you, Japinel. If you do as I say, you’ll be rewarded as if you really did create my trousseau. If you don’t, I’ll make sure you never see the light of day again.”

Japinel might have been a scoundrel, but he wasn’t stupid. His eyes narrowed greedily.

“What is it you want, your Highness?”

“I want to know how to make gunpowder,”

Japinel’s eyes widened. “But I’m a tailor, your Highness. What would I know about such things?”

“My father is currently holding you in custody because you claimed you did know.”

Japinel wrung his hands and shrugged helplessly. “A mistake, your Highness. I had thought to try a different career... I boasted unwisely...”

Adrina could have strangled the little worm. “Where are they holding you and the others?”

“In the slave quarters, your Highness.”

“Then that’s where you will return. I will see you again tomorrow. I suggest you get the formula from one of your cell mates. I leave Talabar in three days, Japinel. If I don’t have what I want by then, I will have you sent to the salt mines in Parkinoor and you won’t see Talabar until your grandsons are old men.”

After he left, Adrina cursed for a full ten minutes. She was still cursing when Tamylan arrived to help her dress for dinner.

Chapter 5

Captain Wain Loclon was forced to wait for almost an hour outside the Lord Defender’s office before Garet Warner arrived. In that hour he had rehearsed, over and over again, what he planned to say. It sounded reasonable and logical and he was certain of success – right up until the moment the commandant appeared.

The commandant glanced at him briefly as he opened the door, his expression more put-upon than welcoming. Loclon followed him into the office, taking a deep breath. Although of lesser rank than the Lord Defender, Loclon wished it were Jenga, not Garet Warner, that he was forced to confront. The Lord Defender was predictable, and much easier to read than the enigmatic commander of Defender Intelligence.

“I see you’ve recovered,” Garet remarked as Loclon closed the door behind them.

Garet lit the lantern on the Lord Defender’s desk and studied the younger man in the flickering light for a moment, before seating himself in the padded leather chair behind the heavy wooden desk.

“I was released from the infirmary this morning,” Loclon confirmed.

Garet nodded. “And you are ready to return to your duties?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Report to Commandant Arkin. He’ll find you something useful to do. Sergeant Jocan will arrange for you to be accommodated in the Officers’ Barracks, unless you prefer to make your own arrangements.”

“I have rooms near the main gate, sir. I was planning to return there.”

“As you wish. Was there anything else?”

Loclon swallowed before answering. “Actually, I was hoping I could request an assignment, sir.”

Garet looked up curiously. “Request away, Captain, although I’ve no guarantee you’ll get what you ask for.”

“I want to be part of the detail assigned to hunting down Tarja Tenragan.”

Garet Warner smiled briefly. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Captain, but there are no details hunting Tarja down. The First Sister has pardoned him.”

“Sir?” Loclon thought he was hearing things. He had been out of touch for the past few months as he recovered from the wounds inflicted on him by R’shiel and Tarja, but he could not imagine any circumstance that could have arisen in that time that would give the First Sister reason to pardon her wayward son.

“You heard correctly, Captain. Tarja has been pardoned and restored to the Defenders.”

“But after all that he’s done...”

“All of which has been forgiven. Was there anything else?”

“Sir, I cannot believe that the First Sister would simply pardon him! What of the Defenders he killed? The heathen rebellion he led? What of his desertion? And what of his sister?”

“R’shiel? She has also been the recipient of the First Sister’s mercy.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Believe what you will, Captain. The fact is they have been pardoned. While I can understand your distress, considering the circumstances, there is nothing you or I can do about it.”

Loclon refused to accept Garet Warner’s calm assurances. “Sir, I believe I have the right to insist that charges be pressed. After what they did to me...”

“Ah, yes, I read your report. You allege R’shiel used heathen magic on you.”

“I do not allege, sir, I know she did. It was she who gave me this.” Loclon pulled down the collar of his high-necked red Defender’s jacket to reveal a savage pink scar that ran from one side of his throat to the other. It made an interesting counterpoint to the puckered scar that ran from the corner of his left eye to his mouth. His misshapen nose was the final touch on his ruined – but once handsome – face.

“Quite an impressive collection of scars,” Garet noted. “But hardly proof that R’shiel is a heathen.”

“I know what I saw, sir,” he insisted. They can’t do this to me, not now. Not when he was finally ready to seek revenge.

“Just exactly what were you doing when R’shiel revealed this unexpected talent for wielding heathen magic, Captain? Your report was rather vague on that point.”

Loclon hesitated as images filled his mind of R’shiel, naked to the waist, her pale breasts stark in the jagged lightning, her eyes glittering and totally black, filled with forbidden heathen power. He could still taste her lips and the raindrops on her skin. He could still feel the blade she had used to cut his throat. Hatred burned through his veins like acid.

“She was attempting to escape, sir.”

“And succeeded, as I understand it,” Garet pointed out. “This entire episode is something of a blemish on your record, Captain. I would have thought you’d be anxious to let the matter drop.”

“She is dangerous, sir, and so is Tarja. They must be punished.”

Garet shook his head. “Unfortunately, the First Sister does not agree with you. Report to Commandant Arkin for reassignment and let the matter drop.”

“May I ask where they are now?” It took all he had to ask the question calmly.

“Tarja is with the Lord Defender and the First Sister is on the northern border. As for R’shiel, I assume she is with them, although I cannot say for certain. I’m leaving for the northern border in the morning. I’ll give Tarja your regards, shall I?”

Garet Warner was mocking him, but there was nothing he could do about it. “Permission to accompany you, Commandant!”

“Denied. Arkin will be in charge until the Lord Defender or I return. You are dismissed.”

“But sir —”

“I said you are dismissed, Captain.”

Loclon saluted sharply, rage burning in the depths of his blue eyes, the scar on his face a livid reflection of his mood. He slammed the door behind him, thinking that if Garet Warner thought that he would so easily forget the pair who had tried to destroy him, then he was sadly mistaken.

Later that evening, after he had reclaimed his rooms in Mistress Longeaves’ Boarding House, Loclon made his way through the torchlit streets of the Citadel to the eastern side of the city. An earlier shower of rain made the cobbles glisten and the footing treacherous as he neared the seedier part of town. Passers-by became more rare, then stopped completely, as he walked through the darkened warehouse district. Only the sudden harsh bark of an alert watchdog and the scurrying feet of rats disturbed the night. He had not been here in almost a year, but the route was familiar enough that he walked with assurance; unafraid of anything he might meet, as the streets narrowed into shadowed pockets of darkness. The cutpurses of the Citadel would be plying their trade along Tavern Street, where the pickings were more fruitful.

When he reached his destination, he knocked on the dilapidated door that was squeezed into a laneway between two warehouses. When he received no response to his summons, he pounded louder and was rewarded by a metallic screech, as the spy-hole in the door was forced open. A pair of suspicious dark eyes glared at him, taking in his red uniform with a frown.

“What d’ya want?”

“I want to come in. Mistress Heaner knows me.”

“Yeah? What’s her cat’s name then?”

“Fluffy,” he replied, hoping the scabby creature had not died in the past year. Mistress Heaner was fond of her cat and it amused her to use his name as a password.

“Hang on.”

Loclon tapped his foot impatiently as the locks were drawn back. The door opened just enough for him to squeeze through. He waited as the man pushed the door shut and bolted it after them. The narrow alley was littered with garbage, and Loclon covered his nose against the smell as the hunched little man led him forward toward a square of light at the end of the lane. When they reached it, the man stepped back to let Loclon enter, then turned and disappeared into the darkness, presumably back to his post by the door.

The main room was sumptuous and belied the paltriness of the exterior. Cut crystal lanterns lit the soft draperies, and carpet thick enough to hide in stretched the full length of the room. Comfortable sofas were scattered through the room, each in its own private alcove, separated by diaphanous curtains that revealed as much as they concealed. Mistress Heaner’s House was exclusive; known only to a few and only those who could afford the unique entertainments she provided. A captain’s pay was not usually enough to allow one the funds to patronise Mistress Heaner’s, but Loclon had just received several months’ backpay and he intended to treat himself, this one night at least. Back in the days when he had been the champion of the Arena, his winnings had assured him a place here any time he wanted it.

“Captain.”

Mistress Heaner glided toward him with a smile. Her gown was simple, black and plainly cut, although the material was expensive and the emerald necklace that circled her wrinkled throat was worth more than he could earn in a lifetime as an officer.

“Mistress,” Loclon replied, with a low bow. She insisted on courtesy. One could do whatever they wished to the young men and women she employed, but the slightest hint of bad manners would see one banned for life.

“We’ve not had the pleasure of your company for some time, sir.”

“I’ve been away.”

“Then you must be looking for some... special... entertainment?” she suggested, with an elegantly raised brow. “I’ve several new girls that might interest you. Even a young man or two that might tempt a jaded palate.”

“I’ve no interest in your fancy boys, Mistress. I want a woman. A redhead.”

“Not an easy request, Captain.” Mistress Heaner appeared to think for a moment, as if she did not know the physical characteristics of every soul in her employ. “Red is an unusual colour. Is there anything else that might tempt you?”

“No. She must be a redhead. And tall. Preferably slim.”

“Such specific requirements can be expensive, Captain.”

“How much?”

“Fifty rivets.”

Loclon almost baulked at that point. Fifty rivets would leave him almost penniless until his next pay. It would mean eating in the barracks and avoiding his landlady.

“Fifty rivets, then.”

Mistress Heaner watched carefully as he counted out the coins into her arthritic hand.

“You may use the Blue Room,” she said, as her claw-like fingers closed over the money. “I will send Peny to you.”

Loclon nodded and pushed his way past a flimsy curtain hanging over a couch, where a middle-aged man was fondling the breast of a girl young enough to be his granddaughter. He stepped into the hall and walked the short distance to the Blue Room, named for the colour of its door. The Red Room beside it was reserved for those whose tastes ran to multiple partners and boasted a bed large enough for six. The Green Room further down the hall, housed a bath the size of a large pool. The Yellow Room at the end was the domain of those who got pleasure from their own pain, and was better equipped than the cell where the Defenders carried out their more “persuasive” interrogations. The Blue Room was reserved for less exotic pleasures, and Loclon was not surprised to find it unchanged since his last visit.

The room was lavishly furnished, with a carved four-poster, whose woodwork glowed softly in the lamplight. White sheets peeked out from under the blue quilt on the bed, and a pitcher of chilled wine with two glasses waited on the side table. Satisfied with the room, Loclon turned as the door opened and a woman stepped through. She was older than he would have liked, thirty-five perhaps – or maybe the life she led had aged her faster than normal. Her hair was carrot-red, obviously died, and her body was too full under the thin shift she wore. Disappointed, Loclon ignored her welcoming smile and turned to the wine pitcher. He poured himself a good measure and swallowed it in a gulp.

“My name is Peny,” she said.

Loclon turned to her, his eyes cold. “No. Tonight your name is R’shiel.”

The woman shrugged. “If you wish.”

“Come here.”

She complied willingly enough, and began to unlace her shift as she approached.

“No. Leave it.”

“What would you like me to do, then?” she asked.

“Beg for mercy,” he replied and then he hit her. She cried out, but nobody would come to her rescue. Fifty rivets bought silence along with Mistress Heaner’s whores. He hit her again, in the face this time, throwing her back against the carved bedpost. She cracked her head and slumped on the expensive blue quilt, too stunned to protect herself from his blows.

“Beg for mercy, R’shiel!”

If she replied he didn’t notice. His rage consumed him as he took out his frustration on the hapless court’esa. The desire to beat her into submission left no room for any other thought.

Chapter 6

Damin Wolfblade was drunk. He knew he was drunk because the walls of the tent were starting to spin, and he could no longer feel his toes. Tarja Tenragan was even drunker. He had been at this longer, and was drinking to drown his sorrows. Damin, on the other hand, was simply drinking to be sociable.

“A toast,” he declared, as Tarja uncorked another bottle. The floor of the tent was littered with empty flagons – an impressive testament to the amount of alcohol they had consumed. “To... to your horse. What’s his name?”

“Her name is Shadow,” Tarja corrected. He wasn’t even slurring his words. Damin was impressed. The man must have a stomach lined with lead.

“To Shadow, then,” Damin declared, raising his cup. “May she carry you safely into battle.”

“I’d be happier if she carried me safely out of it,” Tarja remarked, taking a long swig from the newly uncorked flagon.

Damin laughed and downed the contents of his cup in a swallow. He held out his cup and Tarja refilled it with a surprisingly steady hand.

“I’ll drink to that, too! May she see you safely home again.”

“You’ll drink to anything. I’m surprised you haven’t started toasting the gods.”

“The night is young, my friend,” Damin laughed, relieved to see that Tarja appeared to be coming out of the deep melancholy that had possessed him all day. The Medalonian captain had good days and bad days. Today had been particularly bad. “And when we run out of gods, we can always start on my brothers and sisters.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather we stuck to the gods,” Tarja said, taking another mouthful. “You’ve enough of them to keep us going for days.”

“True, true,” Damin agreed, silently cursing himself for bringing up the topic of brothers and sisters. Tarja’s grief was centred on the woman he once believed was his sister. Reminding him of that was the last thing Damin wanted at this point. “To the gods, then!”

He downed his cup and glanced at Tarja in concern. The man had not touched the flagon, but was staring at him thoughtfully.

“What?”

“Your gods. They’d know if she’s still alive, wouldn’t they?”

Damin shrugged uncomfortably. “I suppose.”

“How do we ask them?” Tarja demanded.

He shook his head. “It’s not so simple, my friend. The gods do not speak directly to the likes of you and me. Perhaps, if Brak were here...”

“Well, he’s not here!”

Brak had vanished only days after the Hythrun had ridden into Testra, some five months ago. Nobody had seen or heard of him since.

“Hey, isn’t Dace a god? He spoke to us. Hell, he travelled with us. Can’t we contact him?”

“If you have a reliable way of contacting the gods, then enlighten me, Tarja. Dacendaran appears when the mood takes him, as does any other god. I doubt if putting the mind of a non-believer at ease about whether the demon child lives or dies is enough to warrant even the fleeting attention of the God of Thieves.” He placed his cup on the small table next to the guttering candle. “If R’shiel is still alive, she’ll be back some day. If not, do your grieving and be done with it. Either way, you can’t spend the rest of your life moping about the girl.”

“When I need sanctimonious advice from you, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, mind your own damned business.”

“It is my business,” Damin replied, “when your misery affects the decisions you make. Particularly when it concerns the safety of my Raiders.”

“Your Raiders?” Damin could see the anger, the pain in the other man’s eyes. “Your damned Raiders are nothing but a bunch of cutthroat mercenaries. And I’ve done nothing to endanger anybody.”

“That’s for certain,” Damin retorted, deliberately goading him. “You’ve done nothing at all but sit here on the border and lament your great and tragic loss. Well, I have news for you, Captain. There’s a Karien army heading this way and they don’t give a pinch of pig-shit about your tender sensibilities. Dead or alive, R’shiel is gone, and you can’t afford to sit here wallowing in self-pity.”

The punch came out of nowhere as Tarja threw himself across the table, sending Damin backward off his stool. He rolled to the side as Tarja lunged for him, tangling himself in the tent as their brawl spilled outside. The candle fell from the overturned table and landed in a puddle of spilled wine, where it quickly caught and began lapping at the canvas tent walls. By the time they staggered to their feet in the clearing, the blazing tent provided a ruddy backdrop to their fight.

They were both drunk, so the blows they traded lacked the strength or accuracy of sobriety, but Damin was still surprised at the force behind Tarja’s fist. Damin had time to wonder if it was guilt, even more than grief, which was eating up Tarja, before the Medalonian charged him with a wordless cry.

By now their altercation had drawn the attention of the other men occupying the surrounding tents, who quickly formed a cheering circle of red-coated Defenders, brown-shirted rebels, and leather-clad Hythrun Raiders, cheering on their officers as they brawled liked a couple of drunken sailors.

Damin didn’t know who was getting the better of the fight. Tarja was a professional soldier, but he was operating on instinct as much as anything. Damin knew his own battle-trained reflexes were the only thing saving him from serious injury. His mind was too wine-muddled to think anything through, other than trading hit and miss blows with his equally inebriated adversary. He felt his bottom lip split as Tarja’s fist connected with his face, snapping his head back, but he blocked the next blow with his left arm and slammed his fist into Tarja’s gut. The other man grunted in pain, but kept his feet and came at him again, a feral grin on his face that looked all the more evil for being blood-streaked and illuminated by the blazing firelight from the tent. He ducked another blow and landed a glancing hit on Tarja’s jaw, as the breathtaking shock of icy water brought the conflict to an abrupt halt.

Damin staggered backwards, shaking the water from his drenched fair hair, as Tarja did the same, looking about for the source of the interruption. Mahina Cortanen stood not two paces from them, empty bucket in hand, her expression thunderous. Lord Jenga stood just behind her, and a pace or so behind Jenga stood the suddenly quiet spectators, their faces ruddy in the flickering light of the burning tent.

“Is this something you gentlemen need to discuss privately?” she asked, with a voice that was colder than the water she had thrown on them.

Damin glanced at Tarja, whose grin was now rather more sheepish than feral. Both of his eyes were beginning to blacken, and blood streamed from his nose and the corner of his mouth. His normally immaculate uniform was torn and muddied. Damin had no doubt that he looked just as bad.

“We were discussing... the differences in Medalonian and Hythrun... hand-to-hand combat, my Lady,” Damin explained, as he gasped for air, with a quick grin in Tarja’s direction. “We had just moved... from a theoretical discussion to a more... practical demonstration of the techniques involved. A... most useful exercise, I must say.” With the back of his tender hand, he wiped the blood from his mouth, and smiled ingenuously at Mahina. The spectators, Defender, rebel and Hythrun alike, nodded their agreement.

Mahina glared at him then turned on Tarja. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

Tarja hesitated for a moment, his chest heaving, before he straightened up and smiled through his split lip at the former First Sister. “I’d say... both techniques were useful, given... the right circumstances, however —”

“Oh, spare me!” Mahina cried. “Perhaps now that you’ve finished your discussion, you might attend me and the Lord Defender in the Keep? A matter of some urgency has arisen that requires your attention, gentlemen. If you can find the time, of course.”

Damin rubbed his tender jaw and glanced at Tarja, who seemed the better for their fight, despite his physical condition. Damin made a mental note to make certain that the next time Tarja felt the need to hit something, he arranged for somebody else to be the target.

“I believe we can accommodate you, my Lady,” Damin said, as if accepting a dinner invitation. “Shall we, Captain?”

“Certainly.” He looked around at the gathered spectators, suddenly noticing them for the first time. “Did you men want something to do?”

Several Defenders had taken it upon themselves to douse the blazing tent. The rest of the Defenders and rebels faded into the darkness with impressive speed. One look in the direction of his Raiders was enough to have the same effect on them. Looking idle was a thing to be avoided at all costs; every soldier in the camp knew that. Lord Jenga stood behind Mahina, a rare smile on his contour-map face as he watched the troops vanish back into their tents. Mahina glanced over her shoulder at him. He quickly wiped the smile off his face.

“Something amuses you, my Lord?”

“Youthful high spirits always amuse me, my Lady,” he replied evenly.

“Is that what you call it? I can think of a better description.” She turned back to the two combatants with a frown. “Clean yourselves up, then meet me in the Keep.” She turned on her heel, still clutching the wooden bucket, and stormed off into the darkness.

“Has something happened?” Damin asked the Lord Defender. Mahina was fairly even tempered as a rule. Anger seemed strange in a woman who looked like somebody’s grandmother.

“We have a visitor from the Citadel,” Jenga told them.

“Who?” Tarja asked. The shock from Mahina’s bucket of water seemed to have sobered him. Damin wished he could recover so quickly.

“Garet Warner.”

Damin turned to him, trying to think of an intelligent question. It was quite depressing to be drunk under the table by a Medalonian. He had to give at least give the impression that he could think straight. “Is he on our side, this Garet Warner?”

Tarja shrugged. “That remains to be seen.”

Garet Warner proved to be a nondescript-looking man of average height, who wore the red jacket of a Defender and the rank insignia of a commandant. He had a balding head, a deceptively quiet voice and a piercing mind. The Warlord studied him by the torchlight of the hastily reconstructed great hall of Treason Keep. Damin was unsure where the name had come from. It certainly wasn’t officially named that, and one referred to the ruin as “Treason Keep” in the Lord Defender’s hearing at their peril. It seemed fitting, though. The Defenders were here to protect their nation from invasion, but they had broken any number of oaths to get here.

The ruin was deserted when they arrived some months ago, and a much sturdier and strategically more useful keep, closer to the northern border, would soon replace it. In the interim, Treason Keep was the closest thing to a permanent structure on the open, grassy plains of northern Medalon.

The commandant’s expression gave away nothing as Tarja and Damin entered the hall. Garet Warner stood in front of the huge fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back as they walked toward him. Mahina sat in a chair on his right; Jenga in another chair opposite the former First Sister.

Tarja nodded warily to Garet when they reached the hearth. “Garet.”

“Tarja,” Garet acknowledged. “You’ve a knack for keeping your head on your shoulders, I’ll grant you that.”

Tarja smiled faintly, which made Damin rest a little easier. There was something about this visitor that marked him as dangerous, although Damin wasn’t thinking clearly enough to define the feeling exactly. He hoped this man was on their side. He would be a bad enemy.

“I can’t help being hard to kill. Commandant Warner, this is the Warlord of Krakandar, Damin Wolfblade.”

“Our new and somewhat unexpected ally. My Lord.”

“Commandant,” Damin greeted him. “You come from the Citadel, I hear. Do you have news?”

“Questions, more than news,” Garet replied, his glance taking in all of them. “The Quorum is understandably suspicious about the First Sister’s extended absence from the Citadel. The orders arriving at the Citadel, under her seal, seem rather at odds with her... previous decisions.”

“The First Sister has had a change of heart in recent months,” Tarja said.

“Is she still alive?”

“Of course, she’s alive,” Jenga declared. “Do you think I would be a party to murder?”

“I’m not here to give my opinion, my Lord,” Garet told him with a shrug. “I am here to investigate the issues raised by the Quorum. And there is plenty of reason to be suspicious. You left the Citadel with an army to capture and execute an escaped convict. Six months later, here you are, sitting on the northern border with that same escaped convict pardoned and a member of your staff, a foreign warlord, as your ally, preparing to fight a nation we very recently considered our friend. All with the approval of the First Sister, who, it is widely acknowledged, was in complete disagreement with you on all of those matters. The remarkable thing about all this is that they haven’t sent someone to investigate sooner.”

“There’s a perfectly logical explanation,” Damin offered helpfully.

“And I look forward to hearing it,” Garet told him. “It will be fascinating, I’m sure. But first, I must insist on seeing Sister Joyhinia.”

“You doubt my word, Garet?” Jenga asked.

“Not at all, my Lord. But I have my orders.”

“Very well,” Jenga agreed, with some reluctance. “You shall see her. Perhaps once you have, things will make a little more sense.”

“I hope so, my Lord.”

“Sister Mahina? Would you be so kind as escort Commandant Warner to the First Sister’s quarters?”

Mahina frowned. “I don’t like to disturb her this late at night.”

“It cannot be avoided, I fear. I doubt the commandant wants to wait until morning.”

“Very well,” Mahina agreed. She stood up and pointed toward the narrow staircase that led to the upper level. “If you will follow me, Commandant.”

Damin and Tarja stood back to let them pass, watching the old woman and the Defender until they vanished into the gloom. Once he was certain they were out of earshot, Tarja turned to Jenga with concern.

“This could be awkward,” Tarja said, leaning on the long table for support. The movement heartened Damin. Tarja was not nearly as sober as he pretended.

“Awkward? This is bloody impossible! I have never been happy with this subterfuge! Something like this was bound to happen, sooner or later.”

“Do you have a better alternative?”

“But to send orders to the Citadel? Under Joyhinia’s seal? Orders that anybody in their right mind would know did not come from her?”

Damin found himself stepping between the two men, and between an argument that had been unresolved for months. “With all due respect, my Lord, the orders have come from Joyhinia. She has signed and sealed everyone of them.”

“She has the mind of a child,” Jenga retorted. “You could place an order for her own hanging in front of her and she’d sign it with a giggle. I’m not as adept as you and Tarja at twisting the truth to placate my honour, Lord Wolfblade. What we have done is tantamount to treason.”

“Refusing to slaughter three hundred innocent men was treason, Jenga,” Tarja pointed out. “Everything flowing from that action is merely consequences. The treason is done and past. Our duty now is to protect Medalon.”

“And the end justifies the means?” Jenga asked bitterly. “I wish I had your ability to see the world so... conveniently.”

“I wish I had your ability to argue the same point endlessly,” Damin added impatiently. “You Medalonians have a bad habit of not knowing when it’s time to let a matter rest. What I want to know is who this Garet Warner is, and why you’re all so afraid of him?”

Both Tarja and Jenga looked at him in surprise.

“Afraid of him?” Jenga asked.

“Afraid is not the right word, but it pays to be wary of him,” Tarja said. “Garet Warner is the head of Defender Intelligence. And a loyal officer.”

“Loyal to whom, exactly?”

“We’ll find that out soon enough,” Jenga predicted grimly.

Chapter 7

Consciousness was a long time coming to R’shiel, but it pulled at her relentlessly, forcing her to acknowledge her existence. She did not want to awaken. She was perfectly content where she was, lost in a warm nothingness where no pain, no misery, no fear could intrude. The silence was complete, the darkness total. Were it not for the annoying, insistent voice calling her name, she could happily have stayed here forever. She had no sense of time in this place, no way to judge how long she had been here. All she knew was that she had no great desire to leave.

Yet the voice called to her and she was unable to resist it.

“Welcome back.”

She stared at the man who spoke for a long time before she remembered who he was. His faded blue eyes were full of concern. And something else. Suspicion, perhaps?

“Brak.”

“No, don’t try to sit up. You’ve been unconscious for quite a while. It’ll take a little time to get your strength back.”

R’shiel let her head flop back onto the pillow, and contented herself with simply moving her head to study her surroundings. The room was large and lit by streaming sunlight; the air was heavy with the scent of wildflowers.

“Where am I?”

“Sanctuary.”

She turned her head to look at him. “How did I get here? I don’t remember anything. We were in Testra, I think...”

“Don’t worry, it’ll come back to you, and sooner than you want. You’ve been very sick, R’shiel. Cheltaran himself had to heal you.”

“Who’s Cheltaran?”

“The God of Healing. You should feel honoured. He doesn’t often interfere directly with anyone, human or Harshini.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, wondering why the knowledge did not surprise or frighten her. They seemed to be emotions that for the moment were out of reach.

“Tarja...?”

“He’s fine. He’s up north, on the border.”

Even that news failed to ignite much more than a small sense of relief in her. She wondered if she should feel something more. Perhaps she was simply too lethargic to care. Later, when she gained her strength, she could worry about such things.

“What are you doing here?”

“This is my home, R’shiel. It’s your home too.”

“Is it?”

Brak smiled, as if her vagueness amused him. “Go back to sleep, R’shiel. When you wake up the Harshini will attend you. They are a gentle people, so mind your manners. And try not to scream when you see their eyes. I didn’t bring you all this way so you could embarrass me.”

R’shiel smiled vacantly. “I’ll be a good girl.”

He nodded and moved away from the bed.

“Brak.”

“What?”

“I owe you my life, don’t I?”

“In ways you can’t imagine,” he replied.

When R’shiel woke the next time, she felt much better. The weakness that had gripped her was replaced with a sort of restless energy that did not take well to being bedridden. Her Harshini attendants, who introduced themselves as Boborderen and Janarerek, smiled at her constantly while they firmly refused to let her out of bed. She found it too difficult to pronounce their names, so she called them Bob and Jan, which made them laugh delightedly. Her one attempt to defy them was met with even more smiles, as they simply pushed her back down using magic. R’shiel felt the now-familiar prickle against her skin and could not move a muscle. The Harshini fussed over her and scolded her gently, but they were not to be denied. She gave up and did as she was told.

Brak visited her again the following day, and brought with him a tall Harshini with hair almost as red as her own. He wore a simple white robe, the same as the other Harshini, but his bearing set him apart. He was regal, in a manner that R’shiel had rarely before encountered, and too perfectly handsome to be human – even if his black-on-black eyes had not betrayed his true race.

Freed from the magical bondage of her attendants, who had finally believed her when she agreed to behave, it was all R’shiel could do not to bow in his presence.

“Your Majesty, may I present your cousin, R’shiel té Ortyn,” Brak said with uncharacteristic formality.

So this was the Harshini King. “Your Majesty.”

“It fills my heart with joy to see you recovered, R’shiel,” Korandellan said. He meant it, too. R’shiel had never met any group of people so free of guile; so genuine in their concern for her well-being. “But please, we are cousins. There is no need for such formality. You may call me Korandellan.”

Mindful of her promise to watch her manners, she politely thanked the King. Brak gave her a small nod, and she amused herself with the thought that this was probably the first time in her life she had done something he approved of.

“When you are fully recovered, I will be delighted to show you Sanctuary,” Korandellan added. “And we must see to your education. There is much for you to learn, young cousin. Shananara tells me you have some minor control over your power, but you have missed a great deal being raised among humans.”

“I’ll look forward to that,” R’shiel replied, a little surprised to discover that she really was looking forward to it.

The King smiled at her – these people seemed to smile at everything – then withdrew, leaving Brak and R’shiel alone. Once the door had closed behind him, Brak turned to her.

“See, you can be civil when you try.”

“Why would I be rude to your king? He seems very... nice.”

“He is, so watch yourself. I brought you here to help you R’shiel, but if I think for a moment that you might hurt these people, I’ll throw you out of Sanctuary myself.”

“Why do you always assume the worst about me?”

He shrugged and sat down beside her on the bed. “I’ve seen what you’re capable of. Remember the rebels?”

She remembered, but only just. “I suppose I was rather... difficult. But it all seems so distant. I remember things sometimes that seem like they happened to somebody else. Other times it’s as if I never even existed until I woke up in this place.”

“Sanctuary is a magical place, R’shiel. You’re bound to feel different here. The strangeness will pass.”

It was then that she noticed he was dressed in leather trousers and a linen shirt – human attire rather than the Harshini robe he had worn the last time she saw him. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes. Back out into the big bad world, I’m afraid. Between you and Tarja, you managed to turn the whole damned world on its ear. I have to find out what’s happening.”

The thought of Tarja left R’shiel with a warm glow of affection, but little else. “Will you see Tarja?”

“No, I’m heading south. I want to see what the Fardohnyans are up to.”

“Oh.”

He smiled at her expression. Even Brak smiled in this place. “Is there anything you want?”

“Meat,” she said, without hesitation. “I would kill for a haunch of venison this big, smothered in gravy.”

Brak’s smile faded. “Don’t use that word in Sanctuary, R’shiel.”

“What? Venison?”

“Kill. The Harshini cannot abide violence. Even the thought distresses them. As for the meat, I’ll see what I can do, but don’t go asking for it. The Harshini don’t eat meat and it upsets them to be reminded that humans do. It will also upset them if they think you’re not happy. Besides, it won’t hurt you to eat like a Harshini for a while.”

“They eat like rabbits,” she complained, but her smile took the sting from her words.

“Then you’ll just have to learn to like rabbit food.”

Another thought occurred to her then. “So if they can’t kill anything, where does all the leather come from?”

“It’s a gift.”

“From whom?”

“The animals who inhabit the mountains. When they die, they allow the Harshini to take their skins.”

“How do the Harshini know that?” she scoffed.

“They are Harshini, R’shiel. They communicate with animals just as easily as they do with humans. In fact they prefer it, I think. Animals haven’t invented war yet.”

“You know, I almost like you here, Brak. Why did you ever leave?”

But he refused to answer her and something about his eyes warned her not to inquire too closely.

Chapter 8

“How long has she been like this?” Garet asked.

They had settled in around the fire in the crumbling great hall, Garet in the chair that had been occupied by Mahina the previous evening. Tarja sat on the edge of the hearth near Jenga, who had taken the only other chair.

“Since Testra,” Jenga told him, staring into the flames, not meeting the eye of the other officer.

Damin stood leaning against the mantle, stoking the inadequate fire with an iron poker. Fuel was a major problem on this treeless plain, and a sizeable number of their force had been occupied gathering enough wood to see them through the coming winter. Were it not for the vast number of horses here, many of the camp’s fires would be sorry affairs indeed. It was a small extravagance to burn the wood, but Damin was grateful to be spared the sting of burning dung in the Hall.

“How did it happen?”

“I’m not certain.”

Damin laughed softly at the Lord Defender’s discomfort. “Dacendaran, the God of Thieves, stole her intellect, Commandant. The Lord Defender has some difficulty dealing with the concept.”

“A difficulty I share, my Lord. We do not believe in your gods.”

“Believe in them or not,” Damin shrugged. “It’s the truth. Ask Tarja.”

Garet turned his gaze on the younger man. “Tarja?”

“Somebody told me once that he believed in the gods, he just didn’t know if they were worthy of adoration. That sums it up fairly well, I think. The gods exist, Garet, and they took a hand in our conflict, as Joyhinia’s condition proves.”

“And you’ve been issuing orders in her name ever since?” It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking. He was a master in the art of inscrutability, Damin decided. He would have made a brilliant Fardohnyan merchant.

“Once the Karien Envoy was murdered on Medalon soil, the threat of a Karien invasion moved from a theory to a certainty,” Tarja explained. “Had Jenga returned to the Citadel with Joyhinia, the Quorum would still be in session, arguing about what to do next. At least this way preparations could be made.”

“Did you kill him?” he asked.

“No, but I led the raid. I suppose I’m responsible.”

Garet shook his head wearily and turned his attention back to Jenga. “I’ve known you a long time, Jenga. I’m trying to imagine what finally pushed you into this. By any definition, this is treason.”

The Lord Defender nodded heavily. “We discussed this once, you and I. I asked you what you would do if faced with an order you found morally reprehensible. I recall you said you would refuse it, and the consequences be damned. I find myself in that position now.”

Garet leaned back in his seat and studied the three men before him. “Knowing Joyhinia, I find that easy enough to believe, but how long do you think you can get away with this? The First Sister’s absence from the Citadel is causing a great deal of unrest. And the orders she’s sending are too strange to be accepted without question. You’ve pardoned Tarja. You’ve ordered an end to the Purge and freed half the prisoners in the Grimfield. You’ve ordered troops north. You’re spending money like the treasury is a bottomless pit and you’ve signed a treaty with a Hythrun Warlord. Joyhinia would never be a willing party to any of these actions.”

“The next Gathering is only months away,” Tarja pointed out. “Joyhinia will send a letter to the Quorum announcing her retirement and nominating Mahina in her place. With her vote, and the votes of Jacomina and Louhina, who will automatically vote for anything Joyhinia suggests, we should be safe.”

Garet shook his head. “It will never work, Tarja.”

“It has to work,” he insisted. “The alternative is a civil war, and that would leave us wide open to a Karien invasion.”

“We’re not trying to bring down the Sisterhood, Garet,” Jenga added, a little defensively. “Merely bring some sanity to it.”

“Sanity? That’s a strange word coming from men who think they can fool the world into believing that Joyhinia Tenragan is alive and well, when in fact she’s a babbling idiot.”

Damin listened to the discussion with interest. He was a Warlord and therefore absolute ruler of his province. He never had to justify anything he did to anybody, and it fascinated him, watching the Medalonians trying to convince themselves and each other that their actions were either honourable or necessary, or both.

“The fact is, my friends, you can argue the rights and wrongs of this until you’re old men,” he interjected. “What I’d really like to know is what you are planning to do about it, Commandant?”

Garet Warner looked up at him. “I have two choices that I can see. I can go along with this farce, or I can return to the Citadel and tell the Quorum what’s really going on up here.”

“No, you have one choice, Commandant. You can go along with this farce, or I’ll kill you.”

“Damin!”

“Be realistic, Tarja. If you let him go, he’ll be back here in a month with a full force of Defenders, and you’ll have the very civil war you’re trying so hard to avoid. Killing one Defender now may save you from having to kill a damn sight more of them later on. I’ll do it, if it bothers you.”

Garet stared at the Warlord for a moment. “A pragmatist, I see. Not a quality I expected to find in a heathen who believes in the Primal gods.”

“Then you sorely underestimate me, Commandant,” Damin warned.

“I fear I’ve sorely underestimated a lot of things in my life, but I manage to get by.” He turned back to Tarja, giving no indication that Damin’s threat bothered him. “The Quorum will not accept Joyhinia’s resignation without seeing her. How, in the name of the Founders, do you expect to pull this off?”

“I have no idea, Garet,” Tarja admitted. “But we have to. Somehow.”

“Who else knows of her true condition?”

“The three of us,” Jenga told him. “Draco, of course. Mahina and Affiana know for certain. The Defenders and the heathens who were in Testra when it happened don’t fully comprehend the full extent of her... condition, and we’ve kept up the illusion that she is in command, so far.”

“Who is this Affiana?”

“A friend,” Tarja said. “She takes care of Joyhinia most of the time.”

“I see,” Garet said. He steepled his fingers under his chin and stared into the fire for a long moment. Damin wondered what he was thinking, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. Garet Warner would not leave this room alive if Damin doubted him for a moment. “Let’s put aside the issue of Joyhinia, for the moment. What of the rumours that the Harshini have returned? You’ve made no mention of them.”

“They, at least, are true. We’ve seen a few of them,” Tarja told him. “But not for months. I’ve no idea what they’re planning, or where they are. Believe me, if I could find them, I would have.”

“To what purpose?” Garet asked. “You’ve acquired enough strange allies as it is,” he added, looking pointedly at Damin.

“They have R’shiel,” Tarja explained, his voice remarkably unemotional under the circumstances. “The Harshini believe she is the demon child.”

Even Garet Warner could not hide his surprise at the news. “R’shiel? The demon child? Why in the name of the Founders would they think that?”

“They don’t think she’s the demon child, Commandant, they know she is. If she is still alive, the Harshini have her and I imagine they won’t let her go until she has performed the task for which she was created.”

“What task?”

“They want her to destroy Xaphista,” Tarja said.

“The Karien god?” Garet shook his head in disbelief. “If this is some sort of joke, then you have me, Tarja. I’m afraid I —”

“My Lords?” the urgent voice rang out from the shadows near the door. “I seek Lord Wolfblade.”

“Come in, Almodavar,” Damin called, recognising the voice of his captain. “What is it?”

“You’d better come see, my Lord,” Almodavar said in Hythrun, as he materialised out of the shadows. “The western patrol is bringing in two spies they captured.”

There had been a number of forays across the border by the half-a-thousand knights camped north of the border for most of the summer, although rarely did a knight sully his hands with anything so demeaning as reconnaissance. It was always some hapless page or squire, attempting to breach the border. It was an ambitious undertaking, particularly for city-bred youths who thought Xaphista’s blessing was all the protection they needed on their journey. It had taken Damin quite some time to accept that the forays were genuine, not merely a feint to disguise a more effective attack. He had trouble believing that anybody could be that stupid.

“Can’t you deal with it, Captain?” he asked in Hythrun. It was an advantage, sometimes, speaking a language his allies did not understand. Tarja was attempting to learn Hythrun, be he could not follow such a rapid exchange yet.

“They have news, my Lord.”

Damin frowned and turned to the Defenders. “I’d better see to this,” he told them. “I’ll be back in a while.” He followed Almodavar out of the Hall and into the night, to the curious stares of his companions.

The two spies proved to be boys, frightened and defiant. Both had mousy brown hair and freckled skin, and they were enough alike to be brothers. The older of the two wore a sullen expression and the evidence of a beating. The younger was more defiant, angry and belligerent. He wore a pendant with the five-pointed star and lightning bolt of Xaphista, and leapt to his feet when Damin entered the tent. The older brother did not rise from the floor. Perhaps he could not. Almodavar was not renowned for his tender interrogation techniques.

“Hythrun dog!” the younger boy cried, spitting on the ground in front of Damin. Almodavar stepped forward and slapped the boy down with the back of his gauntleted hand. The lad fell backwards, landing on his backside.

“That’s Lord Hythrun Dog, to you boy,” Damin told him, placing his hands on his hips and glaring at the youth. The boy cowered under his gaze.

“They are Jaymes and Mikel of Kirkland,” Almodavar told him. “From Lord Laetho’s duchy in Northern Karien.”

Duke Laetho’s banner had been identified months ago. He was a rich man with a large retinue, but rumour had it he was more bluster than bravery, a fact borne out by the presence of these two boys. Who but a fool would send children to do his reconnaissance for him?

“Almodavar says you have interesting news, boy. Tell me now, and I might let you live.”

“We would give our lives for the Overlord,” the older brother snarled from the floor. “Tell him nothing, Mikel.”

“No, I’ll tell him, Jaymes. I want to see the Hythrun quivering in their boots when they learn what is coming.”

“Then out with it, boy,” Damin said. “It would be most unfortunate if I have you put to death for the glory of the Overlord before you get the chance to see me quivering, won’t it?”

“Your day of reckoning is coming. Even now, the Karien knights advance on you.”

“They’ve been doing that for months. I’m scared witless at the mere thought.”

“You should be,” Mikel spat. “When our Fardohnyan allies join with us to overrun this pitiful nation of atheists, we will descend on Hythria and you will be knee-deep in pagan blood.”

Damin glanced at Almodavar questioningly before turning his attention back to the boy. “Fardohnyan allies?”

“Prince Cratyn is to marry Princess Cassandra of Fardohnya,” Mikel announced triumphantly. “You cannot defeat the might of two such great nations.”

“You’re lying. You’re a frightened child making up wild stories. Kill them, Almodavar – just don’t leave the corpses where I can smell them.” He turned his back on the youths and pushed back the flap of the tent.

“I do not lie!” the boy yelled after him. “Our father is the Duke Laetho’s Third Steward in Yarnarrow, and he was there when the King received the offer from King Hablet.”

That had the ring of truth to it, Damin decided, although he did not stop or turn back. Once they were clear of the tent, he turned to his captain, his face reflecting concern and firelight in almost equal measure.

“You think he speaks the truth?”

“Aye, he’s too scared to think up a convincing lie.”

“This changes the rules of engagement somewhat,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps our visitor from the Citadel can shed some light on the news. He’s supposed to be in Intelligence, after all.”

“And the boys? Did you really want me to kill them?”

“Of course not. They’re children. Put them to work some place they can’t cause any trouble. I believe the Kariens think hard work is good for the soul.”

The captain smiled wickedly. “And deny them a chance to die as martyrs for the Overlord? You’re a cruel man, my Lord.”

Chapter 9

Adrina’s departure from Talabar was an occasion of some note, and Hablet was determined to see his daughter off in style. The hastily repaired wharf was lined with soldiers in their white dress uniforms, a band played merry tunes to keep the spectators entertained, and even Bhren, the God of Storms, was smiling on Fardohnya this day. The weather was perfect – a flawless sky, a calm sea. The sprawling city of Talabar glowed pink in the warm sunlight; the flat-roofed houses closest to the docks were lined with curious Fardohnyans come to see the last of their princess.

Hablet stepped down from his litter and looked around with satisfaction, waving to his people and accepting their cheers with a wave of his bear-like arms. He had just about everything he wanted from this treaty and was feeling unusually magnanimous. He had secured enough of the tall, straight Karien lumber to build the ships he wanted, enough gold to pay for their construction and, in a few months, with the Kariens and the Defenders embroiled in a war in the north, he would have a clear run across the southern plains of Medalon into Hythria. Best of all, he would finally destroy Lernen Wolfblade, the Hythrun High Prince – and his heirs – for an insult over thirty years old that very few people even remembered.

Hablet never forgot an insult.

He had conceded surprisingly little to the Kariens in return. True, he had agreed to allow Karien ships unhindered access to Solanndy Bay, where the Ironbrook River met the ocean, but they would pay dearly for the privilege. He had granted the Kariens sovereignty over the Isle of Slarn too, but that measly lump of rock perched in the Gulf was hardly a prime piece of real estate and it had no value to anyone but the Kariens. Of course, the casual observer would never have guessed how little the island meant to him. But he had the Kariens believing it was as dear to him as one of his limbs, and had made them pay accordingly.

As for the secret of gunpowder, he had promised that, too, but had wisely proposed sending an expert in the science to Karien to suggest an appropriate location for a mill, before divulging the formula. When Hablet finally got around to sending someone, it was a foregone conclusion that the search for such a location would take years. A lot could happen in that time.

But the unexpected bonus was that he had finally found a way to get rid of Adrina.

He loved his eldest child, it was true. In fact he had often lamented the twist of fate that had seen her born a girl. She would have made a fine son. Unfortunately, that fiery spirit, that biting wit, that piercing intelligence, was positively dangerous in a woman. Adrina was, to put it bluntly, a troublesome, spoilt little bitch. Hablet was quite certain he would find it much easier to dote on his daughter from a distance.

His previous efforts to find Adrina a husband had all failed miserably. The last potential suitor, Lord Dundrake, had even suggested that he would rather face a century of Hythrun Raiders, alone and unarmed, than spend one night with Her Most Serene Highness. He claimed he would have a better chance of survival. Adrina had despised the man on sight, declaring she would never marry a man who couldn’t tell the difference between a dinner fork and his fingers. Dundrake was a little rough around the edges, certainly. Hablet had hoped his provincial charm would entice her. It had proved an idle hope. Adrina was attracted to power, and there was no way that Hablet would allow her to wed a powerful man. She needed a husband who would hold her back. There were other men who would have married her gladly, and she them – not for love, but the power they brought each other. Hablet had refused all such offers out of hand.

The Karien Prince had turned out to be the perfect solution. He was a meek boy, so constrained by the edicts of his religion that Adrina would never be able to cajole him into anything. He was so inhibited by his religious distaste of all matters sexual, that even her legendary powers of seduction would be wasted. He believed in his God and little else. Poor Adrina. She would be the Karien Queen one day; she had agreed to go north for no other reason than the power it might eventually bring her. She was going to be very disappointed.

The band finished their tune and struck up a dour Karien number, heralding the arrival of Prince Cratyn and his party. The brightly painted Karien brigantine was tied up at the end of the wharf, awaiting her prince. Hablet frowned at the ship and decided he probably had no one but himself to blame for its hideous design. Fardohnyan ship builders were the best in the world, but their secrets were guarded more closely than his treasury. The Kariens built poor copies that were vastly inferior to their Fardohnyan originals. The irony was, Fardohnya had little in the way of timber for shipbuilding. It all had to be imported from Karien. What the Kariens did not have, besides generations of skilled craftsman, was the Fardohnyan secret of hardening and waterproofing the timber.

The King turned his attention back to the ceremony, smiling expansively at the young prince. For a moment, as Hablet studied his solemn face, he felt sorry for the boy. He was stuck with Adrina for life. The sorry fool was not even able to take a lover to console him. Ah well, that was the price one paid for being a Karien Prince. Cratyn bowed politely to the King and began a rather long-winded speech, thanking the King for his generosity, his kindness, his hospitality, and so on – in the Karien language, as the prince did not speak Fardohnyan. Hablet only half listened to the young man, thinking that he looked a little inbred. They were always marrying their cousins up north. The Karien Royal Family would benefit from a bit of fresh blood.

“Her Most Serene Highness, Princess Adrina!”

The fanfare that accompanied Adrina’s arrival was not on the program that Hablet had approved. He smiled at her audacity, and she was handed down from her open litter by a handsome young slave wearing nothing but a white loin cloth and a great deal of oil on his well-formed muscles. She was planning to make her departure memorable, it seemed.

A number of white-robed young girls hurried to assemble in front of the princess and proceeded to scatter petals on the ground before her, so that her feet would not have to touch the grubby docks. Hablet considered that the ultimate irony, considering a week ago she thought she could sail a damned warship. He glanced at Cratyn’s disapproving frown and forcibly swallowed his laughter. The boy was only just beginning to discover what he was marrying.

Adrina trod the flower-strewn path regally until she reached her father and curtsied gracefully. She was a beautiful woman, and in her prime. Although she was not particularly tall, and lacked Cassandra’s delicate perfection, she had outgrown her sister’s awkwardness of youth and had blossomed into a stunning creature. Her eyes were her best feature: emerald green and wide set. Her body was voluptuous and well-toned, rather than the slender gawkiness of a teenager. Cratyn would be a lucky young man if he had the sense to appreciate what he was getting. Provided Adrina kept her mouth shut.

Lecter Turon waddled forward and presented Hablet with a slender blade wrapped in a jewelled sheath. He took the dagger and held it out to Adrina.

“This is the Bride’s Blade your mother carried.”

“I hope it brings me better luck,” Adrina replied, accepting the gift. Adrina’s mother was not a topic discussed at court.

“It breaks my heart to lose you, my petal,” he declared, almost, but not quite believing it.

Adrina’s eyes glittered dangerously. “It’s not too late to change your mind, Father.”

He knew that look. She had learnt it at his knee.

“Oh yes it is, my petal.”

“Then you will just have to live with the consequences, won’t you?”

Hablet smiled. Only Adrina would dare threaten him. He swept her up into a bear hug and the crowd cheered at this obvious display of affection between the King and the princess.

“If you cross me, I’ll personally see to it that you spend the rest of your life suffering in the coldest, most miserable place I can imagine,” he whispered affectionately as he held her.

“Think up a better threat, Daddy,” she whispered back. “You’ve already done that.”

He let her go and held her at arm’s length for a moment. She met his gaze evenly. Her mother had been like that. Fearless and ambitious. It was such a pity her ambition had run away with her. Had she learnt to control it, she might not have lost her head... But Adrina was everything her mother was and more. He felt overcome with love for his child. Hopefully, the feeling would soon pass.

He took her hand and ceremoniously placed it in Cratyn’s hand. The crowd went wild. Hablet suspected it had more to do with the idea of Adrina finally getting married than any affection for the Karien groom.

“May the gods bless this great union!” Hablet boomed. “May Fardohnya and Karien, from this day forward, live in peace!”

The crowd cheered, although most of them knew Hablet’s declaration had little to do with his own feelings. By law, no Fardohnyan could declare war on the house of a family united by marriage. That law included the King. The Kariens knew about it too, which was no doubt why they had put aside their prejudice and accepted a foreign bride. A Fardohnyan queen was a small price to pay for the guarantee that Hablet was unable to make war on them.

Cratyn squirmed a little as he stood there holding Adrina’s hand. His daughter smiled and waved to the people. They liked the princess. She was an astute politician and had made a point of being generous to those lesser creatures outside the palace. She was a tyrant around anyone else, but the people remembered her small kindnesses and were probably genuinely sorry to see her go.

The guard snapped to attention as the Karien Prince and Adrina walked down the dock towards the ship. Hablet watched them leaving with some relief. As they boarded the gangway, he waved his hand to the Captain of the Guard. Tristan dismissed his men and came to stand before his father.

“You can come back next winter,” he told the young man brusquely. “I should have forgiven you by then.”

Tristan grinned. “You are too kind, Sire.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, boy. You’re lucky I didn’t send you to the eastern passes.”

“To be honest, Father, I would have preferred that you did. I’d rather fight Hythrun bandits than play toy soldiers in Karien.”

“I need you to look after Adrina.”

“Adrina doesn’t need looking after.”

“Well, keep an eye on her, then. And don’t get mixed up in her schemes. I want you back in year, boy. I expect you to stay out of trouble.” He hugged his eldest bastard with genuine affection. “I’ll have a legitimate son by then.”

Tristan shook his head wryly. “Father, don’t you worry sometimes that one of us might want the throne for himself?”

“There’s none of you strong enough to challenge me, Tristan.”

“But if you were to die before you name your heir...”

Hablet laughed. “Then you’ll have Adrina to contend with, my boy, and I’m damned certain none of you are strong enough to challenge her.”

Chapter 10

“Knights. About five hundred of them.”

Damin handed Tarja the small hollow tube he was using to examine the golden plain below. It had taken them most of the morning to climb up to this vantage on the side of the mountain that overlooked the border. Although rocky, the ledge was comfortably wide and he, Garet and Damin were stretched out on their bellies as they watched the tents of the enemy below, occasionally brushing away curious insects come to investigate the intruders.

Tarja put the tube to his eye and was enthralled to see the distant figures of the knights, their white circular tents and impressive entourage, grow larger through the lens. Damin called it a looking glass.

The knights camped on the Karien side of the border did not bother Tarja nearly so much as the infantry Jasnoff could throw against them. The knights were impressive, but they would be a minority in the final battle. More worrisome were the countless foot soldiers that the Kariens could muster. They had yet to arrive at the front. The knights below were as much an intimidating show of force as a serious vanguard of any incursion over the border. With a sigh, he moved the looking glass around to examine the fortifications on their side of the border.

The Defenders only hope to keep the conflict manageable was to force the Kariens to attack down a path chosen by the Medalonians. Trenches filled with sharpened stakes scored the plain like sword cuts in the red earth. The ground was pockmarked with holes dug to hamper the movement of the heavy Karien destriers. Mangonels, protected by earth mounds, stood silently out of Karien bow range, waiting for the coming battle like giant insects. But they had a vast front to cover and their defences looked woefully inadequate from this height.

“I thought there’d be more of them,” Garet remarked as he took the looking glass from Tarja to study the Kariens.

“Ah, now that’s the problem with a feudal government,” Damin remarked sagely. “You have to waste an awful lot of time getting your army together. You have to call in favours, bribe people, marry off your children, and convince your Dukes that there’s a profit in your war. Monumental waste of time and money, if you ask me. Standing armies are much more efficient.” The fair-haired Hythrun frowned at Garet’s surprised expression. It was obvious that Damin neither liked nor trusted Garet Warner. “I’m not a complete barbarian, you know, Commandant. Even Warlords need an education. What were you expecting my tactical assessment to be? Me Warlord. Me kill Kariens.”

Garet smiled thinly. “Not exactly.”

Damin grinned suddenly and pushed himself backward along the ledge. He sat against the cliff, leaning comfortably in the shade, with his long legs stretched out in front. He crossed his booted feet at the ankles as he took a long swig from his waterskin.

“You underestimate me again, Commandant,” he said, offering Tarja the waterskin as Garet turned to face him. “But, for your information, I was educated by the finest tutors in Hythria. And I’m right. The Kariens don’t keep a standing army, for all that they can field a huge one, once they finally get organised. It’s a fatal flaw. Jasnoff’s vassals owe him sixty days each a year, which means that by the time they get here, it will almost be time to go home again, but they’re stuck here while the Church supports the war. Even fighting for the glory of the Overlord starts to pale when it’s costing you money and there’s no plunder in sight.” He swatted idly at an annoying insect. “You Medalonians have the right idea. Toss the nobility, promote on merit and keep a standing army.”

“Toss the nobility? If Hythria adopted that policy, you’d be out of a job.”

Tarja wondered if he should warn Garet about the inadvisability of getting into a discussion about the merits of various systems of government with this man.

“Worse, Commandant, I’d be the first in line to be beheaded. My uncle is the High Prince of Hythria. I’m his heir, unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?” Tarja asked.

“Taking the Hythrun throne isn’t going to be easy, and keeping it will be even harder. The other Warlords think I’m a bit... precocious. There may come a time when I call on Medalon for assistance. Assuming the Kariens and their Fardohnyan allies don’t come pouring over your border to wipe us all out.”

Tarja had wondered what the price of Damin’s assistance would be. “I’m sure Medalon will remember your aid when the time comes.”

“You’re very free with your promises, Tarja,” Garet remarked. “You’re not the Lord Defender yet.”

Tarja glanced at the commandant, but did not answer him.

“Well, for the time being, I think we’re safe enough,” Damin said. “Jasnoff can order his knights to the border with little ceremony, but we’ve time yet before the bulk of his army arrives. Although if they don’t get here soon, winter will be on us.”

“That would be too much to hope for,” Tarja remarked. “The Kariens must know how hard a winter campaign will be.”

“Lord Setenton is Jasnoff’s Commander-in-Chief,” Damin agreed. “He’s too experienced to try campaigning in the snow.”

“You need to train your men to deal with armoured knights, too,” Garet added. “A man encased in armour can be hard to kill, and neither the Defenders nor the Hythrun have much experience fighting them.”

“But he’s easy enough to disable. Just knock him of his horse and jump up and down on him for a while. That’ll knock the fight out him.”

Tarja smiled. “I’ll let you inform the troops of that sage piece of tactical advice.”

Damin shrugged. “It sounds silly, but it works. Have you any idea how hard it is to get up wearing a suit of armour? Hell, they can’t even mount their horses without a block and tackle rig. Knock them on their backs and thrust your sword through the eye slit. Works like a treat. But the knights aren’t our problem. The true problem lies with Hablet and the Fardohnyans if he puts his artillery at Jasnoff’s disposal.”

“Cannon, you mean?”

Damin nodded. “I’ve never seen one myself, but I’ve spoken to a few who have. The only thing in our favour is that Hablet guards the secret of what makes them work as if it’s more precious to him than all his children put together. I suspect he’ll find it a lot easier to give away his daughter than his precious cannon.”

“I’d heard rumours of an alliance,” Garet added, taking the waterskin from Tarja. “But nothing substantial. I’ve also heard rumours that the reason Hablet guards the secret so closely is because his cannon are notoriously unreliable, inaccurate, and just as likely to kill the cannoneers as they are the enemy. Hablet’s weapon is his enemies’ fear of the cannon, not the cannon themselves.”

“Even if that’s true, I don’t want to face cannon fire with swords and arrows.”

“Even without cannon, if there is an alliance, Fardohnya could attack from the south,” Garet pointed out. “We can’t afford to split our forces.”

He said our forces, not your forces. Tarja wondered if the slip was accidental, or if it meant Garet had finally chosen which side he was on.

“We’ll need time,” Tarja agreed with a frown. “Until we gain control of the Citadel, the Defenders we can put in the field are barely half the number we need.”

Damin nodded in agreement. “I can spare another three centuries of Raiders, but any more than that and Krakandar Province will begin to look a little bit too inviting to my neighbours. I can always send to Elasapine, if worst comes to worst. Narvell would send me five centuries of his Raiders if I asked him nicely. I imagine that many Hythrun troops garrisoned in Bordertown would make Hablet think twice about sailing up the Glass River.”

“Narvell?” Tarja asked.

“Narvell Hawksword, the Warlord of Elasapine,” Damin explained. “He’s my half-brother. My mother’s second husband was his father.”

“How many husbands has your mother had?” Tarja asked.

“Five, the last time I counted,” Garet remarked, obviously surprising Damin with his knowledge. He looked at the Warlord and shrugged. “I run the Defender Intelligence Corps, my Lord. I’m supposed to know these things.”

“Then you should know she might have married again, by now. She had her eye on a very rich Greenharbour gem merchant when I saw her last.”

Tarja shook his head in amazement. It was rare for Sisters of the Blade to marry or have more than one or two children. Only the farmers of Medalon, for whom children were a convenient source of cheap labour, tended towards large families.

“But even with a thousand Hythrun raiders, we still need the Defenders in full force,” Tarja pointed out with a frown, getting back to the problem at hand. “At the moment, we’ve got your seven hundred Raiders and about six thousand Defenders here, and that’s less than half.”

“How many longbowmen do you have?”

“Five hundred. The rest are still at the Citadel. Why?”

“I’ve been watching them train. I doubt if I could draw one of those damned bows.”

“We train them from boyhood,” Tarja told him. “They’re selected from the cadets and they grow up with their bows. As they get stronger, the bows get longer, until they can draw a full-sized weapon. They’re very good, I’ll grant you, but they’re irreplaceable. You can’t just hand the bow along to the next man in line when a longbowman falls. And even with the others still at the Citadel, they number less than fifteen hundred.”

“We can use them to our advantage. Assuming Hablet doesn’t arm the Kariens with cannon, your longbows out-range any weapon they can bring to bear against you. Kariens consider the bow and arrow a peasant weapon. They have archers, but nothing of the calibre of your longbows. If we concentrate on protecting them, you could cut down any advance like a farmer mowing hay with a scythe.”

“And your mounted archers?” Garet asked.

“We’re hit-and-run specialists,” Damin shrugged. “Any man of mine can fire three arrows into a target the size of an apple at a gallop in under a minute, but our bows are short-range weapons. There are too many Kariens for that sort of tactic.”

“What about the rebels?”

Tarja shrugged. “Another thousand at the most. Most of them have never held a weapon. Jasnoff can field an army of over a hundred thousand with the Church supporting him. With the Fardohnyans as allies... I’m not sure I can count that high. I suppose they could pray for us.”

“Never underestimate the power of prayer,” Damin warned. “If Zegarnald, the God of War, takes our side, we should do well. And we’ve yet to hear from the Harshini.”

Tarja did not argue the point. He had no faith in Damin’s gods.

“I thought the Harshini were incapable of killing?” Garet asked.

“There’s plenty of ways to frustrate the enemy without killing him.”

“I suppose,” Tarja agreed, a little doubtfully. “Maybe they could bring their demons and scare the Kariens to death.”

“If the Kariens bring their priests with them, we will need the protection of the Harshini and their magic,” Damin warned. “When Lord Brakandaran returns, we will know more.”

Tarja frowned at the mention of Brak. “He’s been gone more than five months. What makes you think he’s planning to return at all?”

“He’ll be back,” Damin assured him.

“I wish I shared your confidence.”

The fact was he wanted to see the Harshini rebel very badly – and not simply because he needed to know what help the Harshini could offer in the coming battle. Brak would know if R’shiel lived. Months had passed since she had vanished, quite literally, but he had seen enough wounds in his time to know that hers was fatal. Yet the Harshini were magical creatures and R’shiel was half-Harshini. A small spark of hope still burned in him that she had somehow survived Joyhinia’s sword thrust, but as the days, weeks and then months passed with no word from her, his hope was fading.

“Is something wrong?”

Tarja shook his head. “I was just thinking of someone, that’s all.”

“The demon child.”

“I wasn’t thinking of her in those terms,” Tarja said wryly. “But I was thinking of R’shiel, yes.”

“Her fate is in the hands of the gods, my friend,” Damin reminded him. “There is nothing you can do about her. On the other hand, there is something we can do about those damned knights.”

“What did you have in mind?” Garet asked, a little suspiciously.

“They’re looking a bit too comfortable for my liking. I think we should wake them up.”

“What does that mean exactly?”

Damin laughed. “It means putting aside your damnable Defender’s honour for a time and learning to be sneaky.” He climbed to his feet and dusted off his trousers. “We need to do something about their supply lines, for one thing. What about it, Commandant? Are you with us?”

Tarja glanced at Garet curiously, knowing there was much more to Damin’s simple question than whether or not he wanted to attack the Karien camp. The older man studied them both in silence for a moment.

“I’ll not be a party to anything thing that reeks of stupidity,” he warned, climbing to his feet and handing the looking glass back to Damin. “That also includes your ludicrous scheme for replacing Joyhinia, Tarja. Come up with something workable, and I’ll back you to the hilt. But what you are planning is insane. And I plan to die in my bed a very old man.”

“That’s the most uncommitted excuse for an agreement I’ve ever heard.”

“Be satisfied with it. It’s the best you’re likely to get until you show me something devised by brains, not wishful thinking.”

Damin glanced at the two of them and shook his head. “Let’s just push him off the cliff and be done with it, Tarja,” he suggested.

“I hear you have a reputation as a cunning warrior, Lord Wolfblade. I can’t for the life of me imagine how you came about it.” He pushed past Damin on the ledge and began to climb down to the narrow trail where their horses were tethered below.

“If this man was not your friend, Tarja...” Damin began.

“He’s just testing you. We need him.”

“No, you need him. I’d just as soon see him dead. And I warn you, every moment I spend in his company, the idea becomes more attractive.”

Damin slammed the delicate looking glass back into its leather case and began to follow the path that Garet had taken.

Tarja shook his head. The last thing they needed was Damin Wolfblade threatening to kill Garet Warner. With Garet’s assistance, it would be far easier to fool the Quorum into believing all was well with the First Sister and his help was essential if they were to eventually replace her. And if the Kariens really had allied with Fardohnya, their only hope of preventing a southern incursion was Damin’s Hythrun Raiders.

Not for the first time since Joyhinia had won the First Sister’s mantle, Tarja wished he had let her hang him. He would never have become involved in the rebellion. He would never have led the raid to rescue R’shiel that resulted in the death of the Karien Envoy, and they would not be facing an invasion. But what hurt most, when he let himself think on it, was R’shiel. If not for him, she would be alive and probably in blissful ignorance of what she really was.

But then again, maybe nothing would be different, even if he had died. The Harshini had known all along what R’shiel was and had sent Brak to find her. Garet and he had identified the Karien threat long before any of these other events took shape. Whichever way he looked at it, he was caught in circumstances that seemed to be constantly spiralling out of control. He remembered thinking, more than a year ago, when he was riding toward capture in Testra at the hands of Lord Draco, the man who turned out to be his father, that life was no longer certain.

He was starting to wryly think of those times as the good old days.

The ride back to the Defender’s camp was tense. Damin was angry and Garet silent. Tarja wished he could think of something to say that would bring some sanity to the situation. He had always liked and respected Garet Warner, yet he had found a rare friendship with Damin Wolfblade – ironically, a man he had spent four years on the southern border trying to kill.

It was late afternoon when Treason Keep appeared on the horizon. Although the engineers had done their best, it was unlikely the Keep would ever be useful as anything but a temporary headquarters. Tarja wondered what had happened to Bereth and her orphans. There was no sign of them at the Keep. Had they survived? Or had Bereth found a safer place for her brood? Tarja wished he had the time to discover their fate.

The tents of their army covered a vast area surrounding the old ruin. The Hythrun were camped on the western side of the plain, and as they neared the sea of tents, Damin reined in his mount and studied the camp thoughtfully. Tarja stopped beside him. Garet rode on, not interested in the view.

The Defender’s tents were laid out in precise lines, each housing four men, with spears and pikes stacked in neat piles between them. Their camp was as neat and orderly as Defender discipline demanded. The much smaller Hythrun camp looked like a motley collection of warriors out on a hunting expedition. No two tents were alike, and they had been erected anywhere the Raiders felt like making camp. A pall of smoke hung over the camp from the cook fires and the huge open-air forge built against the southern wall of the Keep. Even from this distance, Tarja could faintly hear the rhythmic ringing of the smiths’ hammers as they pounded the metal into shape. The need for additional swords, pikes and arrowheads was urgent. Jenga had decided that making them on site was preferable to shipping them from the Citadel, although the lack of fuel for the hungry fires almost outweighed the advantages of being able to make and repair their weapons at the front.

North of the camp lay the training grounds, marked by a vast expanse of scuffed ground and lines of tall hay bales, to which rough outlines of man-shapes had been secured to give the trainees something to aim at. Mounted, red-coated sentries patrolled the camp perimeter in pairs. The Hythrun sentries were out of sight, hidden by the long grass.

To the south was the sprawling tent city that housed the rebels, the camp followers and anyone else in Medalon who thought there was a quick fortune to be made in a war. Jenga had given up trying to make them leave.

“The Fardohnyans have me worried,” Damin admitted eventually, once Garet was out of their hearing. “Karien knights are fools. They expect everyone to play by the same rules as they do, and are therefore predictable.”

“And the Fardohnyans?” Tarja had never fought them. In his experience they preferred trade to conflict. But an enemy that caused the Hythrun Warlord concern was an enemy to fear.

“Hablet keeps a huge standing army. His troops are well trained and they think on the run,” Damin warned. “They won’t play by the same rules as the Kariens. It’s one of the reasons Hythria has avoided an open conflict with Fardohnya. And then there’s Hablet’s cannon...”

“What do you suggest?”

Damin shrugged. “I think we need help.”

“Point me at it,” Tarja said wearily.

Damin glanced at him and then laughed. “I think it’s time I spoke to my god. I am, after all, His most worthy subject. Zegarnald owes me a favour or two.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know how to contact the gods?”

“I believe I said I didn’t know how to contact the God of Thieves. The God of War is a different matter entirely. He speaks to me often.”

“What does he say?” Tarja asked curiously.

“Ah, now that is between me and my god. You return to the Keep and try to keep things under control. I will see what I can do about some divine assistance.”

“Damin!” Tarja called uselessly, as the Warlord spurred his magnificent stallion forward. Damin ignored him and galloped toward the camp.

Tarja watched him go, wondering about the wisdom of allying himself with someone who thought the fickle Primal gods could help them against the might of the Karien army, allied with the almost uncountable Fardohnyans.

Garet was right, he thought heavily as he spurred Shadow on towards the camp. He was trying to win a war with wishful thinking.

Chapter 11

The Isle of Slarn was a miserable, bitter place; shrouded in mist and surrounded by a treacherous reef that made even the most seasoned sailor nervous. Adrina watched the island growing larger through the mist, shivering in the chilly spray that splashed over the bow in the grey, overcast morning.

“It’s a great honour,” Cratyn told her solemnly, “to be allowed to visit Slarn.”

“You think so?” she asked, gripping the rail tightly. “I’ll try to remember that as I’m being dashed against the reef, just before I drown.”

Cratyn looked at her unsmilingly. He had solemn eyes in a not-unpleasant face, but he had no sense of humour that Adrina had been able to detect thus far.

“The Overlord will protect us and see us safe into the harbour.”

“That makes me feel so much better.”

“I am pleased to see that you are beginning to appreciate the power of the Overlord,” he noted, as if her comment had been a profession of faith rather than a snide dig at his boring old god. “When we reach Slarn, the priests will appoint a Confessor to aid your conversion to the true faith.”

“You’re assuming I plan to convert, then?” she asked, bracing herself against the violent lurching of the hideously painted ship. The captain was screaming orders to his crew, fighting to be heard over the crashing waves and the creaking boat.

Cratyn looked astonished. “As the wife of the Crown Prince, you must set an example of faith and virtue for all the women of Karien.”

“Me? An example of virtue? I fear I am not worthy of that honour, your Highness.”

Completely oblivious to her meaning, Cratyn nodded. “Your humility does you credit, Princess. I am sure the Overlord will look most kindly on your character.”

Just so long as he doesn’t look too closely, she told herself. Still, the trip from Fardohnya so far had been bearable. She had only had to socialise with her Karien fiancé and his priests during meals. The rest of the journey she had been left to her own devices in her small but sumptuous cabin, which was quite appallingly decorated by someone who had either been very devout or blind drunk when he chose the colours. Every flat surface was emblazoned with the five-pointed star and lightning bolt of Xaphista.

Tristan and the rest of his regiment were not invited to Slarn. Their small fleet of Fardohnyan ships was sailing straight onto Karien.

“Your ladies-in-waiting will also join us when we reach Slarn,” Cratyn added carefully. “I will then make arrangements to return your slaves to Fardohnya.”

Adrina turned to face Cratyn determinedly. “My slaves aren’t going anywhere, your Highness. They will stay with me.”

Cratyn took a deep breath before he replied, as if he had known what her reaction to such a suggestion would be. It explained his sudden desire for her company this morning. She wondered how long it had taken to work himself up to delivering the news.

“The Overlord says that man can have only one master, and that is God. We do not condone or tolerate slavery in Karien, your Highness. Your slaves must be sent home.”

“I don’t give a damn what the Overlord says. My slaves are staying with me.” She tossed her head imperiously. Pretentious little upstart! “Did my father know you were planning to deprive me of my slaves the moment we left Fardohnya?”

“He suggested that it would be wise not to broach the subject until we reached Slarn.” Cratyn agreed. “But he assured us you would understand the necessity —”

“Well, he was wrong!” she declared. “I do not understand.”

“I realise you are quite attached to them, your Highness, but as the Crown Princess of Karien, you cannot be seen to be supporting such a barbarous custom.”

“Barbarous!” she cried. “My slaves live in more luxury than most of your damned knights. They are cared for, looked after, and secure. How dare you call my treatment of them barbarous!”

Cratyn looked rather taken aback by her outburst. “Your Highness, I did not mean to insult you. I’m sure you take great care of your slaves, but they are not free.”

“Free to do what, exactly? Free to work like drudges for a pittance? For lordlings who think tossing their underlings a coin liberates them from any further responsibility for those less fortunate than themselves? It is harder to be a master than a slave, your Highness. A master must see to the welfare of his slaves. A master must ensure that everyone in his charge is taken care of. How many of your noble lords own the same level of responsibility?”

Cratyn sighed, unaccustomed to defending his position, particularly to a woman. In truth, Adrina was not surprised by the order to send her slaves home. She was far better versed in Karien customs than Cratyn knew, and had been expecting something like this for days. But she was enjoying watching him squirm.

“Your Highness, you must see that keeping your slaves is impossible...”

“I see no such thing,” she announced petulantly. “Isn’t it enough that I will never see my home again? Now you want to take away the only familiar faces I know. How can you be so cruel? Does your Overlord preach thoughtlessness along with virtue and piety?”

That left him speechless for a moment. Cratyn had not expected her to use his God to support her argument. “I... of course not... perhaps a compromise might be reached?”

Adrina smiled sweetly as he gave her the opening she was fishing for. “You mean I can keep some of them? Maybe just one or two?”

“You would have to emancipate them,” Cratyn warned her. “But as free servants, I’m certain the priests would not object to their presence.”

“Oh, thank you, your Highness,” she gushed, with vast insincerity. Taking his bare hand in hers, she turned it over and kissed it, in the Fardohnyan tradition, letting her tongue trail lightly along the sword-callused palm. Cratyn snatched his hand away at the intimacy. He actually blushed.

“Perhaps we should go below now, your Highness,” he suggested.

Adrina had to bite her lip to prevent herself laughing aloud. She realised, with mild surprise, that this young man was probably a virgin. The Overlord preached abstinence from sex except in marriage – and then only for the purposes of procreation. Cratyn was so annoyingly devout, he probably felt the need for penance if he had an impure thought. Adrina decided the wedding night was going to be quite an event, with Cratyn trying to pretend he knew what he was doing, and her trying to pretend she didn’t.

“Perhaps we should,” she agreed, with a smile that had nothing to do with the conversation and a great deal to do with her vision of her upcoming nuptials.

The Monastery of Slarn was as depressing and dark as the rest of the island. What little Adrina saw of the place in the carriage ride from the wharf was bare and rocky and windswept. The island sat in the middle of the Fardohnyan Gulf, but its fame stemmed more from its occupants than its strategic value. Slarn was home to the priests of Xaphista and a colony of Malik’s Curse sufferers. For some reason, the priests were immune to the wasting disease, and anyone diagnosed, regardless of nationality, was packed off to Slarn as soon as their condition was identified. Cratyn had assured her that the sufferers were kept well away from the monastery, but she wondered just how safe this place was. Her half-brother Gaffen’s mother had contracted the disease when he was a small boy, and Adrina still remembered standing outside the palace watching everything burn as she was taken away, screaming and crying to be allowed to say goodbye to her son. Everything Emalia had touched was destroyed with fire, lest it infect anyone else in the palace. Was Emalia still here, Adrina wondered, or had the disease taken her by now?

She glanced at Cratyn and frowned. He was seated across from her in the unadorned, but serviceable, carriage that had met them at the wharf. His head was bowed and he seemed to be muttering something. Praying, no doubt, she thought impatiently. Slarn was holy ground, after all.

“I hope they have a fire going when we get there,” she remarked, as much to disturb his concentration as to make conversation. “Is it much colder than this in Yarnarrow?”

Cratyn looked up, and silently finished his prayer before answering. “Much colder, your Highness. We are snowbound for part of the year.”

Adrina clapped her hands in delight. “I’ve never seen snow.”

“You’ll see plenty in Yarnarrow.”

“Then I’ll have to rely on you to keep me warm, won’t I?” Baiting Cratyn was proving to be a most distracting pastime.

To her delight, he blushed again. “I’ll... do my best to see you are... comfortable, your Highness.”

The carriage finally clattered to a halt before the forbidding façade of the monastery. The door opened and a hand reached in to help her down. There was a gaggle of tonsured priests waiting for them, in addition to a dozen or more Church knights and five women, all but one of them younger than Adrina. She looked about with interest as Cratyn disembarked beside her.

The older woman in the group stepped forward and smiled with the ease of a professional diplomat.

“Welcome to Karien, your Highness,” she said with a deep curtsy.

“Princess, may I present the Lady Madren,” Cratyn announced, sounding surer now that he was on familiar ground among his own people. “Lady Madren, this is Her Serene Highness, Adrina of Fardohnya.”

The woman glanced at Cratyn questioningly. “Adrina? We were expecting the Princess Cassandra.”

“Princess Cassandra proved unsuitable,” Cratyn informed the woman uncomfortably, although he managed not to blush this time. “Adrina is the eldest daughter of King Hablet, and as such, is an eminently qualified consort.”

“Of course, your Highness.” Adrina could tell she was burning with curiosity over the sudden change in brides. She wondered if Cratyn would admit to the real reason, or if it would prove too embarrassing for him. “You are most welcome, Princess.”

“Thank you, my Lady.”

“Please allow me to introduce your ladies-in-waiting.”

Adrina was tempted to ask if it could wait until they were inside. The wind was bitingly cold, and the idea of standing out here on the bleak steps of the monastery while she was introduced to everybody was distinctly unappealing.

“This is Lady Grace, Lady Pacifica, Lady Hope and Lady Chastity,” Madren announced as the young women in question stepped forward. Adrina glanced at the pale young women for a moment in astonishment.

“Are those really their names?”

Madren stiffened at the insult. “In Karien, it is the custom to name one’s daughters after the virtue they hope the child will emulate, your Highness.”

“Poor Chastity,” Adrina murmured, then she smiled apologetically at the older woman. “I’m sorry, I should not have been surprised. We have a similar custom in Fardohnya. My own name means ‘she whose beauty will tempt men to insane acts of bravery for the chance to spend the night with her’.”

Adrina’s name meant no such thing, but it was too tempting an opportunity to pass up. The looks on the Kariens’ faces alone made the lie worthwhile. Cratyn looked as if he wished the ground would open and swallow him whole, and the ladies Grace, Pacifica, Hope and Chastity were on the verge of swooning.

“What virtue does ‘Madren’ represent?”

“I was named for my mother’s home province, your Highness,” Madren replied haughtily. “The naming after virtues is a relatively new custom.”

“Well, with luck, it will prove a passing fad,” Adrina announced airily. “Shall we continue the introductions inside? I’ve no wish to keep you all out here in this wind on my account.”

She smiled sweetly at Cratyn and Madren as she swept up her cloak. There was little they could do but follow her inside.

Everything on Slarn was damp and the monastery was no exception. The black stone walls wept moisture and the rushes scattered on the stone floor of the main hall squelched faintly underfoot. There was no noticeable difference between the temperature inside or out. Two huge pits, evenly spaced in the floor of the lofty hall, hosted blazing fires that did little to warm the cavernous room. Adrina looked about with a frown. Xaphista must be one of those gods who thinks suffering and misery is good for you, she thought, rather depressed at the prospect of spending the rest of her life among his worshippers. She hoped the castle at Yarnarrow was better appointed than this miserable place.

An acolyte stepped forward to take her wrap, but she waved him away. It was too cold to shed the warmth of her cloak, and underneath she wore a Fardohnyan costume ill-suited to the bitter cold. She had been planning to make an issue of that too, knowing her mode of dress would appall the straight-laced Kariens. Now she was not so certain. The concealing, drab woollen dresses of her ladies-in-waiting looked decidedly warmer than her gloriously provocative gown.

The introductions continued once they were inside. Adrina smiled and nodded as Madren introduced her to an endless stream of priests and knights. Without exception, they greeted her solemnly; their eyes wide as they studied the exotic Fardohnyan bride Cratyn had brought home. Each priest ceremoniously laid his elaborate star-and-lightning-bolt-tipped staff on her shoulder, to satisfy himself that she was not an evil spirit – or worse, a Harshini, in the guise of a mortal. As for her future husband, he was nowhere to be found. He had vanished in the company of a young sandy-haired knight almost as soon as they crossed the threshold of the monastery.

“And this, your Highness, is Vonulus,” Madren announced, as the last of the supplicants stepped forward. “He will be your Confessor and will instruct you in the doctrine of the Overlord, as well as advising you on pastoral matters.”

Vonulus laid his staff on her shoulder gently, then bowed, his tonsured head shining in the damp morning light. Adrina studied him with interest. He was a little older than she, with intelligent brown eyes, and a serene expression that came from an inner peace Adrina doubted she would be able to disrupt easily.

“Your Serene Highness,” Vonulus said in fluent Fardohnyan. “I am honoured to serve you.”

First mistake, Adrina thought. He should not have let me know he spoke Fardohnyan. “Vonulus. I look forward to receiving your wisdom.”

“I claim no wisdom, your Highness. I am a simple man, but moderately well read.”

“Finding anyone who can read at all in Karien is a surprise,” she remarked, watching for his reaction. The Kariens she had met so far were a universally dour and humourless lot. And they were insulted by the slightest hint of criticism. But not Vonulus. He met her eye unblinkingly, accepting her unspoken challenge.

“Your Highness, I hope you receive many surprises in your new home.”

“I’m sure I will, sir.”

“My first official duty will be to prepare you to accept the Karien wedding vows,” he told her. “The ceremony will take place in Xaphista’s Temple, as soon as we reach Yarnarrow. Lady Madren will advise you on matters of dress and protocol. I will, if the Overlord wills it, assist you to steer an easy course through the many intricacies of our religion.”

“Tell me, Vonulus,” she asked. “Hypothetically speaking, what would happen if I chose not to embrace your god?”

Madren hissed, shocked at the mere suggestion. Vonulus was less easily roused. “You will be the Crown Princess of Karien, your Highness. To worship another god would be considered treason. I imagine Fardohnya treats traitors much the same as we do.”

She patted Madren’s hand comfortingly. “I was simply asking out of curiosity, my Lady. Never fear.”

“Of course, your Highness,” Madren agreed. “I knew that.”

“And will you be joining us for lunch, Vonulus? It is a pleasure to hear my native tongue spoken so fluently.”

“I would be honoured, your Highness.”

“Perhaps you would be more comfortable dressed in something more... appropriate?” Madren suggested, waving the silent ladies-in-waiting to her. “I shall have your ladies escort you to the chamber put aside for you.”

Hoping that the chamber would be warmer than the draughty, cavernous hall, Adrina acquiesced graciously to the suggestion. Surrounded by the Ladies Grace, Hope, Pacifica and Chastity, she walked the length of the hall to the entrance where, not surprisingly, the five-pointed star and lightning bolt was carved into the large wooden doors. They opened as she approached to reveal Cratyn and a young knight entering the hall. The men stopped as they neared them. Cratyn’s eyes flickered over Adrina then fixed on the Lady Chastity, who walked on her right. The look he gave the young woman was filled with remorse. Adrina glanced at Chastity, startled to see her soft brown eyes misted with unshed tears and unmistakable longing.

“Prince Cretin, I thought you were lost,” she said brightly. Was the pale and insipid Chastity the reason Cratyn was so unhappy about being forced to take a Fardohnyan bride?

“It’s Cratyn, your Highness,” Lady Pacifica corrected her, rather crossly.

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Adrina asked innocently. “Cretin.” It was an unfortunate, if rather delightful, result of her accent, that she mispronounced his name. It was also quite deliberate. Adrina spoke Karien fluently. Much more fluently than her somewhat contrived accent led her hosts to believe. Her first court’esa had been a linguist of some note and he had taught Adrina to speak a number of languages fluently. Another thing better kept from the Kariens. She had not thought of the court’esa in years – a slender, gentle young man with dark eyes and long, graceful limbs.

“It’s nothing to worry about, my Lady,” Cratyn assured Pacifica, not wishing to make an issue of it. “Your Highness, this is my cousin, Drendyn, Earl of Tiler’s Pass. Drendyn, this is Her Serene Highness, Princess Adrina of Fardohnya.”

The young Earl bowed inelegantly, smiling like a child confronted with a new and exotic toy. Adrina took an instant liking to him. He was the first Karien she had met who did not feel the need to mope about as if they were perpetually in mourning.

“Welcome to Karien!” he gushed. “I do hope you’ll be happy here. After the wedding, you should come to Tiler’s Pass. We have the best wines in Karien and the hunting is just marvellous. You do hunt, don’t you?”

“Every chance I can get. I shall look forward to your hospitality, my Lord.”

“This way, your Highness,” Pacifica interrupted stiffly, with a frown at the Earl. She did not seem to like the idea of Adrina getting too friendly with him.

“If you will excuse me, my Lord, Prince Cretin.” She curtsied gracefully and followed her ladies-in-waiting into the hall.

As the door closed behind them she stopped and called the women to her. They all turned to face her expectantly. Pacifica was tall and plain, with protruding pale eyes and pockmarked skin. Hope was a pleasant looking girl with rich brown hair and a vacant expression. Grace was a plump brunette with a button nose and a receding chin. Chastity was pale and fair and by far the beauty of the group. “Ladies, I’d like to make sure we understand each other.”

“Your Highness?” Pacifica asked, still a little put out, she thought, by Drendyn’s enthusiastic welcome.

“As my ladies-in-waiting, your actions reflect on me. If I ever see you, Pacifica, acting like a jealous fishwife again, or you Chastity, lusting after my fiancé, I shall have you both whipped. Is that clear?”

Pacifica turned a brilliant shade of red. Chastity burst into tears. Grace and Hope simply stood there, dumbstruck. Adrina marched on ahead, not waiting for them to catch up. That way, they couldn’t see her laughing.

Chapter 12

The Harshini were the strangest creatures R’shiel had ever encountered. All she had been taught to believe about them, since her earliest childhood, was proving to be wrong. They were not evil or wicked or even particularly threatening. They were a gentle, happy people who seemed to want nothing more than the same happiness for all living things.

For R’shiel, raised in an atmosphere of political intrigue and ambition, she found it hard to believe that the Harshini could be so innocent. She questioned them constantly, looking for the crack in their serene complacency, but found none. In fact, she suspected there were even some of the Harshini who deliberately avoided her, for fear of being asked questions they simply didn’t understand. They had no ambition beyond that which the gods had created them for. They were the guardians of the gods’ power. That was all they needed to know.

The demons were a different matter, however, and R’shiel found herself enjoying their company much more than the placid Harshini. Lord Dranymire was a bit of a bore, but she supposed that came from being older than time itself. The other demons, the younger ones, were much more interesting.

Korandellan had tried to explain the bond between the Harshini and the demons in some depth, but R’shiel understood so little about the gods that she had trouble grasping the concept. She could feel the bond, though, like an invisible cord that tied her to the demons. She only needed to think of them, and they were there, eager to show her Sanctuary, or have her tell them something of the outside world. Their hunger for new things was insatiable, particularly in the younger demons, although “young” was a relative term among the demonkind. “Young”, when compared to Lord Dranymire, the prime demon in the brethren bonded to the té Ortyn family, might be anything less than a thousand years.

“We are all one,” Korandellan explained patiently. “The gods, the Harshini and the demons. We are all made of the same stuff.”

“Then why aren’t the Harshini gods?” she asked.

“We are a part of the gods.”

“And the demons?”

“They are also a part of the gods.”

“So gods created the Harshini and the demons, right?”

“That is correct.”

“Why?”

“Because they feared that without some way of limiting their power, they would destroy each other.”

“So the gods gave you their power? That’s a pretty dumb thing to do. What happens if they want to use it?”

Korandellan sighed. “They did not give us their power, R’shiel, they share it. The power you feel is the same source of power that the gods draw on.”

“Then that makes you gods, too, doesn’t it?”

“Think of it as a rope made up of many strands,” the King said, trying to put his explanation into words she could grasp. “Each of the Primal gods has divinity over a different aspect of life. Each god draws on their own strand. Depending on what is happening in the world, the strands grow thicker and stronger, or weaker and thinner.”

R’shiel thought on that for a moment. “You mean if everyone started stealing, then Dacendaran’s strand would grow and the others would diminish, because he’s the God of Thieves?”

Korandellan nodded happily. “Yes! Now you are beginning to understand!”

“Don’t count on it,” she warned.

“The Harshini use the gods’ power, R’shiel; they use it constantly.”

“So they drain off the excess?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“But how can that work? You can’t abide violence, so you would only draw on the power of some of the gods, wouldn’t you?”

“That is what the demons are for,” he replied. “To maintain the balance.”

She nodded as it finally began to make sense. The demons were childlike and innocent and took thousands of years to reach maturity. They embodied all the violence, mischief and destructive capabilities of the power the Harshini could not draw on, but their childlike innocence and their blood bond to the gentle Harshini prevented them from causing harm.

“And only the té Ortyn family can draw on all the power at once, can’t they? That’s what makes me so dangerous?”

The King smiled, as he usually did when she asked such blunt questions. Then again, he would probably smile if someone chopped his leg off. No wonder Brak spent so much time out in the human world. Eternal happiness could be rather wearing at times.

“Your human blood allows you to circumvent our instincts against violence, yes,” he agreed.

“Is that why they call me the demon child? Because I’m human, with the same ability for causing violence as a demon?”

This time the King laughed out loud. “I never really thought of it like that, R’shiel. The name ‘demon child’ is a human one, but now that you mention it, yes, I suppose that’s exactly what you are.”

It made sense now. She wasn’t sure she actually believed it, but it did make sense.

“So tell me about Xaphista? How did he get to be a god?”

For the first time since she met him, Korandellan’s smile faded. “Xaphista learnt too much, too quickly, I fear. The family he was bonded to were travellers. They roamed the world seeking knowledge, and in time too much human blood became mingled with the Harshini line. The restraint on violence broke down and Xaphista learnt that if he could gather followers to believe in him, his power would grow to rival the Primal gods.”

“And how am I supposed to destroy him?”

“I have no idea, child. I cannot contemplate destruction. That is a human quality. You must find the answer within yourself.”

Find the answer within yourself.

R’shiel didn’t even try. She liked the Harshini – it was impossible to dislike them – but she had no desire to become embroiled in some divine conflict. She accepted that there were gods. She had even met a few of them since coming here, but they did not impress her, and she certainly felt no desire to worship them. If the gods didn’t like one of their underlings getting above his station, then they should have thought about that before creating the problem in the first place.

She did not share her opinion with Korandellan. He was willing to answer any question she asked and teach her anything she wanted to know, but his aversion to violence made the subject of Xaphista an awkward one. That suited R’shiel just fine – she had no desire to discuss the matter anyway.

Time was a fluid quantity in Sanctuary, so R’shiel had no way of gauging how long she had been here. It seemed as if everyday she learnt something new, but if each day was a new one, or simply the same day repeated over and over, she could not tell. She regained her strength and then grew even stronger, exploring the vast network of halls that made up the Harshini settlement.

There were rooms here that were so like the Citadel she sometimes had to remind herself where she was. The artwork that was so determinedly concealed in the Citadel was exposed here, in all its glory. Although the walls were generally white, there wasn’t a flat surface in the place that was not adorned with some type of artwork, large or small. It seemed every Harshini was an artist of some description. There were delicately painted friezes lining the halls and crystal statues in every corner. There were galleries full of paintings depicting everything from broad sweeping landscapes to tiny, exquisitely detailed paintings of insects and birds. The Harshini studied life and then captured its essence in their art.

Curiously, the one thing she expected did not happen here. The walls did not glow with the coming of each new day and fade with the onset of night. The Brightening and Dimming that characterised the Citadel was missing. The Harshini used candles and lanterns like any normal human, although admittedly they could light them with a thought and extinguish them just as easily.

The valley floor, which looked so wild and untended from the balconies, proved to be a complex series of connecting gardens and the source for much of the Harshini food in the settlement. At least it should have been, Korandellan had explained, with a slight frown. The abundant gardens were trapped in time, as was the whole settlement. The vines never wilted, the flowers never faded. Bees buzzed between the bushes, crickets chirruped happily, worms wiggled their way through the fertile soil – but a picked berry was gone forever. Like the Harshini, and every animal in Sanctuary, they could not reproduce. The issue of food was becoming critical, so much so, that Korandellan had allowed a number of Harshini to leave the settlement. Some of them went openly, like Glenanaran, who had returned to Hythria to teach at the Sorcerers’ Collective. Others went out into the human world, disguised and cautious, to barter or trade for some badly needed supplies. Although he never said it aloud, R’shiel guessed it was fear of Xaphista and the Karien priests that kept them hidden.

They were performers, too, R’shiel discovered soon after she was allowed the freedom of Sanctuary. In the amphitheatre in the hollow centre of the gardens, against the permanent rainbow that hovered over the tinkling cascade, they held concerts in the twilight as the sun settled behind the mountains. The first time R’shiel had heard the Harshini sing she had cried. Nothing had prepared her for the beauty of their voices or their skill with instruments she had never seen in the human world.

Sometimes the concerts were impromptu affairs, where members of the audience would step forward, either alone or in groups, to perform for their friends. Other times the concerts were as well organised as any Founder’s Day Parade, and then the massed choir of the Harshini would transport R’shiel to a place she had never even glimpsed before. “The Song of Gimlorie”, the Harshini called it. The gift of the God of Music. A prayer in its own right, it had the power to devour one’s soul. The cadence of the song, the subtle harmonies, and the pure, crystalline voices of the Harshini, combined to create images in the mind that could be as euphoric as they were dangerous. The demons would appear in the amphitheatre whenever they sang for Gimlorie, their eyes wide, their bodies uncharacteristically still as they listened to the music with rapt expressions. R’shiel understood their fascination with the music and lamented its loss to the human world.

It was following the last concert she attended that R’shiel came to an important decision. Tarja was a pleasant, fading memory. Joyhinia and Loclon were so far buried in the back of her mind that she barely even acknowledged their existence. Xaphista was the gods’ problem, not hers. There was supposed to be a war going on, but it did not intrude on the serenity of this other-worldly realm. Sanctuary was peaceful, and the troubles of the outside world could not touch her in this magical place. She was half-Harshini after all, and welcome here.

R’shiel decided that she didn’t really care if she never returned to the outside world at all.

Chapter 13

Karien was a vast country, full of tall evergreens, rugged valleys and steep, but distant, snow-capped mountains to the east. With autumn approaching the weather grew colder as they sailed north. Adrina found herself shivering each morning when she took her daily exercise on deck.

The Ironbrook was a heavily populated waterway. They sailed past numerous villages, some large and prosperous, some mean and depressing, some barely deserving of the name at all. They seemed dirty and crowded to a princess raised in the spacious, pink-walled cities of Fardohnya. In fact, Karien seemed a nation lacking in colour. The villages were drab, the people even more so, and the frequently overcast weather leeched the remaining pigment from the world. She was not looking forward to spending her life among these people, not even as their queen.

Adrina was easily bored and the seemingly endless journey up the Ironbrook River toward Yarnarrow offered little in the way of entertainment. She had exhausted most of the opportunities for distraction available to her. She had admired all the scenery she could bear and waved at so many ragged peasants lining the riverbank that her arm felt ready to drop off. When she wasn’t being hounded by Madren regarding the proper way to behave in a Karien court, Vonulus dogged her heels with his instruction in the unbelievably demanding laws of the Karien Church. Adrina was beginning to think the reason so many people sinned was because it wasn’t humanly possible to remember everything that would lead one into temptation.

The only other activity Adrina had to while away the long days on the river was socialising with her ladies-in-waiting. She was not certain what a lady-in-waiting was supposed to do. They hovered around her like flies around a corpse, and seemed anxious to perform small, meaningless tasks for her, but they were offended if she treated them as servants and too sheltered to serve as entertaining companions.

Adrina was unusually cautious in dealing with them. It would not do for these young women (virgins one and all) to learn that for her sixteenth birthday her father had given her a handsome young court’esa. Nor would it do to disillusion the Ladies Hope, Pacifica, Grace and Chastity regarding her virtue. As far as Adrina could tell, every one of them had been raised in finest Karien tradition, which meant they could read (barely), sing (acceptably), play a musical instrument (tolerably well) and discuss such riveting topics as needlework, banquet menus and the convoluted family bloodlines of the Karien nobility. All of these topics left Adrina cold, so she listened and smiled and pretended she didn’t understand them when the conversation became unbearable.

Today was proving particularly trying. Tall, dour, Pacifica had taken it upon herself to enlighten Adrina regarding the long and incredibly dull history of her family, the Gullwings of Mount Pike. She had only got as far as Lord Gullwing the Pious, who lived three centuries past, when Vonulus disturbed them. Adrina welcomed him into the crowded cabin. Even a lesson in the complex duties of a woman according to the Church of Xaphista was preferable to another three hundred years of Dullwings.

“Vonulus! Have you come to instruct me?” she asked. “Or perhaps another discussion about the definition of sin?”

“You would do well to heed both, your Highness,” Pacifica advised, a little put out at Adrina’s shift in attention.

“We may discuss whatever you wish, your Highness.”

Adrina glanced at Pacifica and her companions thoughtfully. “Sin shall be the topic today, I think. I am interested in your definition of adultery.”

Predictably, the Ladies Hope, Pacifica, Grace and Chastity gasped at the suggestion. Vonulus, however, was not so easily rattled.

“Certainly, your Highness. What were you planning?”

Adrina’s eyes widened innocently. “Planning? Why nothing, sir. I simply seek to avoid pitfalls. I have no wish to do or say something that in my country would be considered perfectly normal, but in yours would see me stoned.”

“A reasonable precaution,” he noted with a look that said he didn’t believe her for a minute. “What exactly did you want to know?”

“Define adultery. The Karien definition.”

“It is not the Karien definition, your Highness. It is the Overlord’s definition, and therefore, the only acceptable definition.”

Adrina chose not to pursue that particular argument. “As you wish, define it for me.”

“Adultery, according to the Overlord, is any thought or deed that causes a man to lust after another man’s wife, or a woman to lust after another woman’s husband.”

Adrina’s brow furrowed. “So, let me see if I understand you. If I lust after an unmarried man, then I have not committed adultery, but if I lust after a married man, I have? Is that right?”

“I think you take my meaning too literally, your Highness,” Vonulus began with a shake of his head, but Adrina did not allow him time to continue.

“So that would work the other way, too, I suppose?” she asked. “If my husband... well, for argument’s sake, let’s pretend Cretin falls madly in love with one of my ladies...” she glanced around at the four rather appalled young women, before fixing her eyes on Chastity. “Say... the Lady Chastity here...”

“Your Highness!” Chastity cried in horror.

Adrina smiled sweetly. “Oh never mind, Chastity, I only use you to demonstrate my point. With a name like yours, how could you be anything but pure? Anyway, let’s pretend that Cretin and Chastity... indulge in a bit of... sin... then by your definition, Cretin would get off free as a bird, because Chastity is unmarried, yet my poor Lady would be stoned, because Cretin is married to me. Is that right?”

Vonulus did not look pleased. “That could be regarded as the strictest definition, I suppose, however —”

“I see,” Adrina cut in. “And I can sin merely by thinking something lustful?” Gods! Am I in trouble! “How would you know what I’m thinking?”

“I don’t need to know, your Highness. Xaphista sees all. The Overlord would know.”

“He must be a very busy god, then,” she remarked irreverently.

“It is by resisting such thoughts, that we spare our god the need to constantly watch over us,” Vonulus replied.

“And do you ladies resist temptation?”

The young women nodded quickly in agreement. Too quickly, she thought, with a private little smirk.

“The Overlord teaches us that to resist temptation is to ensure a place at His table in the next life,” Pacifica said.

“You mean if you’re a good little girl in this life, you won’t come back as a cockroach in the next?”

Vonulus sighed heavily. “Your Highness, I believe we discussed the matter of reincarnation several days ago. There is no such thing. We are given one life. When we die, our spirit ascends to the Overlord’s table if we have lived according to his rules.”

“And you drown in the Sea of Despair for eternity, if you don’t,” Adrina replied with a nod. “I remember our discussion. That would mean, that by your definition, every soul who ever lived, who didn’t worship Xaphista, is splashing about in the Sea of Despair, wondering where they went wrong. It must be pretty crowded down there.”

“Your irreverence will lead you into trouble, your Highness,” Vonulus warned. “Have a care when you reach Yarnarrow. Such comments will not sit well at court.”

Adrina met the priest’s gaze evenly. “Can’t your religion stand a bit of scrutiny, Vonulus? You wish me to believe in your god, yet you resent me questioning anything I do not understand. My gods may be numerous, but at least they have a sense of humour.”

“Your Highness, a sense of humour will be of little help to you, should you be out of grace when you die. The Primal gods you worship are nothing more than natural events to which the unenlightened have attached divinity. You should be thankful that by marrying Prince Cratyn, you have an opportunity to embrace the one true god.”

Adrina smiled apologetically, realising that she had pushed the priest far enough for one day. It did not particularly matter to her that they expected her to worship their god. She wasn’t a fool and had every intention of acting as if she had converted. But her own beliefs ran too deep to be overturned by a priest, no matter how clever or articulate.

“I appreciate your advice, sir,” she demurred. “I hope the Overlord will forgive my pagan ignorance.”

Vonulus looked a little suspicious, but he nodded. “The Overlord can see into your heart, your Highness. He will judge you accordingly.”

“Well, I don’t have anything to worry about then, do I?” she asked brightly.

“I’m sure you don’t,” Vonulus agreed warily.

Two days later, they docked at Setenton, the first real city Adrina had seen since coming to Karien. The city boasted a sizeable wharf district and an impressive market, but it was as dirty and crowded as every other town she had sailed past these last few weeks. A bleak, thick-walled castle, built on a rise that gave it a commanding view of the river and the surrounding countryside, dominated the walled city. This was the home of Lord Terbolt, the Duke of Setenton, and coincidentally, Chastity’s father – so Lady Hope informed her. As they waited for the ship to dock, Adrina glanced at the young woman, but she showed no obvious pleasure to be home. Rather, she kept surreptitiously glancing at Cratyn, as if trying to catch his eye. To his credit, the young prince studiously ignored her.

The sight that greeted them as they docked brought a smile to Adrina’s lips. A full guard of honour awaited them – her own Guard, Fardohnyan one and all, in full ceremonial uniform.

Her father held to the notion that vast wealth was only fun when you got to flaunt it, and he had spared no expense equipping her Guard. Five hundred strong, every man was mounted on a sleek black steed stamped with the unmistakable breeding of the Jalanar Plains. The soldiers were dressed in silver and white, from their ornate silver helms and short white capes, trimmed with rare Medalonian snowfox fur, to their white, silver-trimmed, knee-high boots.

According to Fardohnyan legend, the custom of the royal guard wearing white had come about almost a thousand years ago, when King Waldon the Peaceful seized the throne from his cousin Blagdon the Butcher. His Guard wore white so that the people would know there was no innocent blood on the hands of his soldiers. Whatever the reason, the ceremonial uniforms were gorgeous, and Tristan wore his with the confidence of one born to show-off. He really was much too good-looking for his own good, Adrina decided. She had worried that Cassandra might cause trouble in Karien. It occurred to her that Tristan was just as likely to get into mischief. All that repressed emotion at court, mixed with her brother, was a recipe for disaster.

Impressed by the sight of her Guard, Cratyn offered her his hand as they walked down the treacherous gangplank, followed by their retinue. Tristan met them at the bottom and bowed ostentatiously.

“Your Serene Highness, your Royal Highness, the Fardohnyan Princess’s Guard awaits the honour of escorting you to Setenton Castle,” he announced, rather dramatically, in Fardohnyan. “Which, I might add, is as draughty and flea ridden as every other building in this godforsaken country and I would very much like to go home,” he added, without changing his smile or tone.

Adrina turned to Cratyn. “My brother welcomes us, and pledges his life to see us safely to the castle,” she translated calmly, grateful that Vonulus was still back on the ship. Tristan really should learn to be more careful.

Cratyn frowned. “Your brother?”

“Half-brother,” she amended. “Tristan is one of my father’s bastards.”

A shocked gasp escaped Pacifica’s lips at Adrina’s casual remark, a fact that was not lost on Tristan, who was not supposed to understand Karien. He bit back a grin as Cratyn, predictably, blushed crimson.

“Ah, please tell your... captain... that we are honoured,” Cratyn stammered. “Although I hardly think the ride from here to the castle will be life threatening.”

“His Highness appears to be having some difficulty coping with your baseborn status,” she translated.

“His Highness looks like he’s about to burst something. I’ll bet you can’t wait for the wedding. Shall we?” He offered Adrina his arm, which she accepted gracefully, with a smile over her shoulder for her fiancé.

They rode in an open carriage up the steep, cobbled streets of Setenton toward the castle. Crowds lined the route to catch a glimpse of the foreigner who would one day be their queen. Adrina smiled and waved. She was born to this, and the Kariens seemed to appreciate her acknowledgment of them. At least the townsfolk did.

After a while, Lady Madren leaned over with a frown. “You must not encourage them, your Highness.”

“Encourage them, my Lady? These are to be my people, are they not? I want them to like me.”

“It doesn’t matter that they like you, your Highness,” Madren said. “Only that they respect and obey you.”

“In Fardohnya we have a saying, my Lady: ‘A king who has the love of his people is harder to kill than one who has their enmity’. Being pleasant costs nothing.”

“It is unseemly, your Highness,” Madren insisted.

“And what of you, Prince Cretin? Don’t you care that the people love you?”

“The people love the Overlord, your Highness. It is His blessing that gives my family the right to rule. What they feel for me is irrelevant.”

“Well, you trust in the Overlord,” she told him. “I’ll just keep smiling and waving. I’m not actually a member of your divinely sanctioned family yet.”

Adrina turned back to the peasants, ignoring Madren’s frown and Cratyn’s despairing look. Tristan glanced back over his shoulder from his position at the head of the Guard and she rolled her eyes at him. He laughed and spurred his horse forward. Adrina had a feeling it was going to be a very long day.

Fardohnya was a nation ruled by a single line of monarchs for a millennium. A thousand years of Fardohnyan kings governed on the principal that a nation that prospered was a nation relatively free of internal unrest. It had proved a sound theory and consequently, little Fardohnyan architecture was designed with defence in mind. Aesthetics was the overriding concern. Besides, if one was wealthy enough, one could hire the best architects to construct fortifications that didn’t constantly remind one of their true purpose.

The Kariens did not subscribe to the Fardohnyan notion of beauty first, usefulness second. Setenton Castle was a fortress and pretended to be nothing else. The walls were thirty paces high and thicker than two men lying end to end, and the courtyard bustled with the panoply of war. Looking around her as she alighted from the carriage in a courtyard crowded with men, horses and the ringing of smiths’ hammers, she wondered if the Medalonian Defenders were as good as their reputation held them to be. She privately hoped they were. Karien was much larger than Medalon, and could overrun the smaller country through sheer weight of numbers, if nothing else.

Hablet needed a drawn-out conflict on the northern border of Medalon. He could not go over the Sunrise Mountains into Hythria with an invasion force, but once on the open plains of Medalon, he could turn south with ease. Of course, the Kariens thought he was planning to attack Medalon to aid their cause. It would not be until they discovered his true destination that his treachery would be revealed. Adrina was not in favour of the plan, mostly because she would be the focus for the Karien’s fury when they realised they had been duped. Her father had advised her to plan an escape route when the news came. He had seemed singularly unconcerned that his plan might cost Adrina her head.

Lord Terbolt greeted them from the steps of his great hall. He was a tall man with hooded brown eyes and a weary expression. But he greeted Cratyn warmly before he turned to Adrina.

“Your Serene Highness,” he said with a small bow. “Welcome to Setenton Castle.”

“Thank you, Lord Terbolt,” she replied graciously. “I hope our presence will not tax your resources unduly. And you have been playing host to my Guard. I trust they have not been a burden to you.”

Terbolt shook his head. “A few language difficulties, your Highness, nothing more. Please, let me have you shown to your rooms. You must be tired, I’m sure, and we men have things to discuss that will not interest you.”

On the contrary, Adrina was vitally interested, but it would be difficult to convince these barbarians that as a woman she might have any idea of politics or war. “Of course, my Lord. Perhaps Tristan might be of help, though? I am sure he could learn something from your discussions and he might be able to offer a new perspective, don’t you think?”

“But he doesn’t speak Karien, your Highness,” Cratyn pointed out, with a rather horrified expression.

“Oh that’s all right, I’ll translate,” she offered brightly. “I’m really not tired, my Lords, and although as Lord Terbolt pointed out, I will no doubt be bored witless by the discussion – we are allies now, are we not? All that I ask is that you not speak too quickly so that I may follow the discussion. Tristan!”

Neither Terbolt nor Cratyn looked pleased by her suggestion, and poor Madren looked ready to faint, but she had left them little choice.

“As you wish, your Highness,” Terbolt conceded with ill grace.

She picked up her skirts and, with Tristan at her side, marched indoors.

“Adrina, does something bother you about these people?” Tristan asked her quietly as they entered the gloom followed by the rest of the entourage. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed Terbolt greeting Chastity with all the warmth of a man renewing his acquaintance with a distant relative.

“What do you mean?” she asked as she looked back at him. “They are fools.”

“Maybe. I just wonder if we are the ones being played for fools.”

“You pick a fine time to have second thoughts, Tristan,” she muttered as they walked the length of the rush strewn stone floor. Tall banners, depicting both the sign of the Overlord and the Lord Terbolt’s silver pike on a field of red hung limply from the walls. Presumably the red background was a romantic representation of the muddy Ironbrook. “You were the one who encouraged me to accept this arranged marriage.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I just have this feeling. I can’t define it, but it worries me. Be careful.”

“You’re the one who should be careful. Although, I have it on good authority that provided you confine your attentions to unmarried women, you shouldn’t need to worry about being stoned.”

“It’s going to be a long, cold winter, I fear, Rina.”

He had not called her Rina since they were small children. “You at least have the option of going home someday. I have to spend my life with these people. Not to mention Prince Cretin the Cringing.”

He leaned closer to her and, although speaking Fardohnyan, even if he was overheard, nobody here would understand him. “Look on the bright side. He’ll be off to war in a month or two. With luck the Medalonians with keep him there for years.”

“With luck, they’ll put an arrow through him,” she corrected with a whisper, then turned to her fiancé and smiled serenely, every inch the princess.

Cratyn was looking at her with an odd expression. Not dislike, exactly. It was stronger than that. She had a bad feeling it was distaste.

Chapter 14

Tarja returned to the camp late in the day, letting Shadow set her own pace, still brooding over his last argument with Jenga. The Lord Defender was trying to hold together a disparate force, Tarja knew that, and the knowledge that he was doing it through deception weighed heavily on him. But it didn’t excuse his intransigence over the matter of attacking the Kariens. The Lord Defender was willing to defend his border, but he refused to make the first move. He wanted to wait until the Kariens invaded. Tarja disagreed. The Karien camp had grown considerably from the five hundred knights that had been camped there all through summer. They should be taking the fight to the enemy and they should do it now, before the Karien force grew so large that they would simply be overrun.

Jenga was furious when he heard that Tarja had crossed the border. Using the same Hythrun tactics that were so effective in the south, on their numerous cattle raids into Medalon, he had taken a handful of men into Karien under cover of darkness and stampeded the enemy’s horses through their camp. The ensuing destruction had been extremely gratifying – it had probably set back their war effort by weeks. He’d only lost three men to injury, and had considered the entire affair a small, if significant, victory.

Jenga did not see it that way. He had exploded with fury when he learnt of the attack, accusing Damin of being a reckless barbarian for suggesting the idea, and Tarja of being an undisciplined fool for listening to him.

Following his desertion two years ago, Tarja had often longed for the chance to return to the security and brotherhood of the Corps. But now that he was back, he discovered it was not the easy ride he had hoped. He had liked being in command of the rebels, he realised now. He had been raised to command, and knew, without vanity, that he was good at it. Tarja respected Jenga, but had grown accustomed to making his own decisions. Jenga was a good soldier but he’d been Lord Defender for more than twenty years, and that meant he had more practice with politics than war. Tarja had spent the best part of his adult life at war with the Hythrun, the Defenders and now the Kariens. Jenga had not raised his sword in anger in decades.

They still had only six thousand of the twelve thousand Defenders they could count on, and a thousand Hythrun Raiders from Krakandar. As he thought of the Hythrun, he wondered, as he had already done countless times, where Damin Wolfblade was.

Nobody had seen the Warlord for nearly a month – not since the argument with Jenga after the raid, when he announced that he was going to speak with his god. If Almodavar knew where he was, he wasn’t saying. The grizzled Hythrun captain seemed unconcerned by his Lord’s absence. If Damin wished to speak with the God of War, to seek his blessing, then his troops were not about to object. They fervently believed Zegarnald would help them. They were counting on it, in fact.

When he reached the camp, on impulse Tarja turned toward the scattered Hythrun tents. Perhaps Almodavar had heard something. It was becoming increasingly difficult to reassure Jenga that Damin had not simply deserted them.

He rode through the camp, acknowledging the occasional wave from the Hythrun troops. The Raiders were much less respectful of rank than the Defenders. Among the Raiders, one earnt respect through battle, not promotion or pretty insignia. But some of these men had faced Tarja on the southern border. They knew him for a warrior and found nothing strange in their Warlord’s alliance with his former enemy.

The Defenders had been far less accommodating. They resented the presence of the Hythrun and made no secret of it. Tarja thought that much of the impressive discipline the Defenders displayed was designed to show the Hythrun how things were done in a “proper” army. The Defenders despised mercenaries, and most of Damin’s Raiders were just that. Tarja was a little more tolerant. Had the rebellion not intervened, he would likely be a mercenary himself, by now. But feelings ran strong between the two camps and fights broke out frequently. In the beginning, Tarja and Damin had organised training bouts between the two armies, ostensibly to foster some sort of cohesion between the two forces. Three fatalities put paid to that laudable sentiment, and Jenga had ordered them stopped. Now the training was strictly segregated.

He reached the centre of the Hythrun camp and discovered a large number of the Raiders in a cheering circle, obviously wagering on some sort of contest. As he neared the group a cheer went up, almost drowning out an unmistakable cry of pain. Tarja dismounted curiously, threw the reins over Shadow’s neck and pushed his way through the crowd.

The source of the Hythrun entertainment proved to be two boys, both bloodied and wounded. The brawl must have been going on for quite some time, by the look of the two combatants. The older of the two was a well-muscled, fair-haired Hythrun lad of about sixteen, an apprentice blacksmith that Tarja had seen once or twice around the forge. The younger boy could not have been more than ten or eleven and was unmistakably Karien, but despite the difference in their sizes, he appeared to be giving a good account of himself, although he was clearly on the brink of collapse. His freckled face was almost totally obscured by blood, his clothes torn, his eyes burning with hatred. He was staggering to his feet as Tarja pushed through to the front of the crowd.

Tarja winced sympathetically as the older boy ran at the disoriented Karien lad and delivered a kick to the boy’s chin that snapped his neck back almost hard enough to break it. With a pain-filled grunt, the Karien boy dropped to the ground. Breathing heavily, the apprentice laughed, triumphantly standing over his vanquished foe. He reached down and snatched the pendant from around the boy’s neck and held it up high to the cheers of the spectators. The five-pointed star and lightning bolt of the Overlord glittered dully in the afternoon light. Someone started up a cry of “Finish him!” which was quickly taken up by the rest of the spectators. The apprentice grinned at the chant and pulled his dagger from his belt. Tarja glanced around the Hythrun and realised, with horror, that they were serious.

“Enough!” he shouted, stepping into the clearing, his red jacket stark against the motley browns and black chain mail of the Hythrun.

Silence descended on the circle of Raiders. Only then did Tarja wonder about the advisability of walking into the centre of thirty-odd Hythrun Raiders crying for blood. The Raiders stared at him, their stillness more threatening than their chanting. He covered the distance to the startled apprentice and snatched the dagger from his hand.

“Get back to work, boy,” he ordered in a tone that brooked no argument.

The Hythrun boy glared at him, but stepped away from the fallen Karien. A discontented mutter rippled through the men, until one of them, a slender man, with a puckered scar across his throat that looked as if he had survived having it cut, stepped forward.

“You’ve no authority here, Defender,” he said. “Go back to your pretty-boys and leave us to deal with the Karien scum as we wish.”

Tarja could feel the animosity from the Hythrun mercenaries surrounding him. He was far from his own troops, and Damin’s restraining influence had weakened in his absence. With a jolt, Tarja realised he may not get out of this alive. The mercenary stepped closer and Tarja did the only thing he could think of, under the circumstances. He brought his elbow up sharply into the Hythrun’s face and then kicked the stunned mercenary’s legs from under him. The Hythrun hit the ground before the others could react. Tarja slammed his boot down across the man’s scarred throat and then looked up at the startled Raiders.

“Anyone else?” he asked with an equanimity he did not feel. The man beneath his boot squirmed desperately, gasping for air, lack of oxygen draining his strength to escape the pressure of Tarja’s boot.

“I think you’ve made your point, Captain.”

Tarja had to consciously stop himself from sagging with relief as Almodavar appeared in the circle. The Hythrun captain barked a harsh order at his men in their own language and the circle dissolved. Tarja took his boot off the throat of his challenger and the man scrambled to his feet and ran off without looking back, clutching at his neck. Almodavar smiled grimly.

“I never thought you had a death wish, Captain,” the Hythrun remarked with a shake of his head. “You should know better than to interfere with Raiders when their blood is up.”

“Your Raiders should know better than to encourage cold-blooded murder,” Tarja retorted, turning to the prone form of the Karien boy. He knelt down beside the lad and was relieved to see his eyes fluttering open blankly.

The Hythrun captain looked down at the boy and shrugged. “Don’t blame my Raiders too quickly, Captain. That one asks for it daily. He wants to die for his Overlord.”

Tarja pulled the boy to his feet. Far from being grateful, the boy seemed disappointed that Tarja had saved him. He shook himself free and staggered a little before drawing himself up to his full height.

“I need no help from an atheist!” he spat defiantly in broken Hythrun. He had obviously been in the camp long enough to pick up some of the language. He would never have learnt a heathen language in Karien.

Tarja glanced at Almodavar and then back at the boy. “Ungrateful little whelp, isn’t he?” he said in Karien, so the boy would understand him.

Almodavar, for all that he looked like an illiterate pirate, spoke Karien almost as well as he spoke Medalonian and Fardohnyan. Damin held that understanding an enemy’s language, was the first step to understanding an enemy. He had been surprised to learn that most of Damin’s Raiders spoke several languages. His Defenders, the officers at least, could speak Medalonian and Karien. It had been considered polite to converse with one’s allies in their own language, but few bothered to learn the languages of the south. It was a lesson Tarja had taken to heart, although trying to convince Jenga that the Defenders should learn to speak Hythrun was proving something of a chore.

“Aye,” Almodavar agreed, easily falling into the language of their enemy. “This isn’t the first time, and I’ll wager it won’t be the last, that he’s caused trouble. He and his brother were the ones who brought the news of the alliance. His brother isn’t much trouble, but you’d think this one planned to defeat us single handed.”

Tarja studied the boy curiously for a moment. “This is the Karien spy?”

The boy bristled at Tarja’s amusement. “Atheist pig! The Overlord will see you drown in the Sea of Despair!”

“I’m starting to regret saving your neck, boy,” Tarja warned. “Have a care with that mouth of yours.”

“The Overlord will protect me!”

“I didn’t see him around just now,” Almodavar chuckled, and then he changed back to speaking Medalonian without missing a beat. “You wouldn’t consider taking him back with you, I suppose?” he asked. “I doubt he’ll last much longer around here with that attitude.”

Tarja frowned. The last thing he needed was an uncontrollable ten-year-old reeking havoc in their camp in the name of the Overlord. But Almodavar was correct in his assertion that he would not last long among the Hythrun. He pondered the problem for a moment then turned to the captain.

“Very well, I’ll take him back with me,” he agreed, speaking Karien so the boy could follow the conversation. “You keep his brother here. If the boy gives me any trouble, I’ll send word. You can send back a finger from his brother’s hand each time you hear from me. When we run out of fingers, start on his toes. Perhaps the prospect of seeing his brother dismembered bit by bit will teach him a little self-control. It’s obviously not a virtue the Overlord encourages.”

The boy’s blood-streaked face paled, tears of fear and horror welling up in his eyes. “You are a vicious, evil, barbarian bastard!” he cried.

“A fact you would do well to remember, boy,” Tarja warned. He dare not look at Almodavar. The Hythrun captain made a noise that sounded like a cough, but which Tarja suspected was a futile attempt to stifle a laugh. “Go and fetch your belongings. If you’re not back here in five minutes, you’ll find out what your brother looks like without his left ear.”

The boy fled as Almodavar burst out laughing. “Captain, I swear you’re turning into a Hythrun.”

“What did you expect from a vicious, evil, barbarian bastard?”

“Truly,” Almodavar agreed. “You’ve had a busy day. First you take on my Raiders, and then you subdue a Karien fanatic with a few words. What’s next?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Tarja said. “You’ve no word from Lord Wolfblade?”

“None. Don’t let it concern you, Captain. He’ll be back.”

Tarja sighed, not really expecting any other answer. He’ll be back. But before or after the war is over? he wondered.

Chapter 15

Yarnarrow was a huge city, rivalling Talabar in size, although it lacked the southern capital’s grace and aesthetic beauty. Steep pitched roofs of grey slate covered the more substantial buildings; while the poorer districts were simply hovels thrown together with whatever material their pitiful inhabitants could scrounge. The vast Yarnarrow Castle loomed over the city like a shadowed hand, and was even more forbidding than the city, which had grown up around its slanted walls. Adrina longed for the flat-roofed pink stone villas of Talabar, the broad balconies, the flower-laden trellises and the heavy scent of their perfume on the still air. She missed the wide, tree-lined streets and the gaily-dressed citizens. Everything was grey here – the city, the sky, even the people. Yarnarrow was depressing and dirty, and the most pervasive odour was stale wood-smoke that hung like a pall over the city as if it were constantly wrapped in fog.

She despaired at the thought of spending her life here.

The wedding took place with almost indecent haste, the day after Adrina arrived. Vonulus had instructed her in the Karien wedding vows, and Madren had ensured that she knew exactly what was expected of her. They had barely landed in Yarnarrow when she was whisked away to her large and rather draughty apartments to prepare herself for the ceremony the following day. She was not even accorded the honour of an introduction to King Jasnoff or Queen Aringard, a slight against her that had her fuming.

Tamylan, the only slave she had been allowed to keep, helped her dress on the morning of the wedding. Her ladies-in-waiting had other duties to attend to, it seemed, which did not bother Adrina at all. She defiantly ignored the stiff, grey silk dress that Madren had informed her was her wedding gown, and dressed instead in the traditional Fardohnyan bridal outfit she had brought with her. It had been made for Cassandra originally, but they were about the same size, so Adrina had appropriated the gown from her younger sister, rather than explain why Japinel had not designed a new one. It was a little tight, and she knew it would cause a commotion, but she was still smarting over Cratyn’s obvious distaste for his Fardohnyan bride.

Among the more interesting things she had learnt during her short stay at Setenton Castle was that prior to the treaty with her father, Cratyn had previously been betrothed to Chastity, and that he had broken the engagement to marry Adrina. It accounted for Cratyn’s reluctance, and Chastity’s pitiful demeanour whenever the prince was in the room. The girl was obviously hopelessly in love with him and Adrina suspected he reciprocated the young woman’s feelings. She had every intention of making him forget the silly cow ever lived, and if anything was going to advertise her matchless beauty, it was the traditional gown of a Fardohnyan bride.

The gown was in two pieces. The bodice was made of deep blue lace, threaded with diamonds, with long narrow sleeves and a low neckline that offered a tantalising view of her ample bosom and left her midriff bare. The skirt sat snugly on her hips, the same glorious blue as the bodice, made up of layer upon layer of transparent silk that flowed like a waterfall against her legs. The skirt was belted with a layer of silver mesh. In the mesh was sheathed the small jewelled dagger that had once belonged to her mother. Centuries ago, Fardohnyan brides had carried a sword, but it was tradition, rather than necessity, that required the Bride’s Blade these days, and the blade was more ornamental than practical. It was sharp, though. She had cut her finger testing its edge after Hablet had presented it to her the day she left Talabar.

The Fardohnyan bridal jewels completed her outfit. In her navel nested a blue diamond of immeasurable value, matched by the sapphire and diamond choker that encased her long neck. She wore her hair down, and it hung past her waist in an ebony fall of silken waves, as was the tradition for all Fardohnyan brides. Over it all, she wore a shimmering blue veil that covered her head and the lower half of her face. The veil trailed ten paces behind her, floating on the slight current of air created by her passage as she took the long walk down the aisle of the vast Temple of Xaphista to the shocked gasps of the gathered Karien nobility.

As she traversed the length of the vast temple, Adrina was quite overwhelmed by the opulence of the building. Having seen the bleak, austere monastery on the Isle of Slarn, the Temple of Xaphista seemed almost garish by comparison. Tall, fluted columns of gold-flecked marble were spaced evenly down the centre of the cathedral, supporting a vaulted ceiling that led to a dome over the altar. The dome was lined with thousands of tiny mother-of-pearl tiles, which reflected the sun onto the worshippers in a spray of rainbow light.

The temple was filled to capacity with every nobleman and noblewoman in Karien who had managed to get themselves invited to the royal wedding. Adrina heard their shocked whispers. There was no sign of warmth among the gathering. No familiar faces or encouraging smiles. Tristan had not been allowed to attend, nor had any of her Guard. They waited outside, not permitted to sully the sacred temple with their pagan presence. The only familiar face she saw during her interminable walk down the aisle was Vonulus, standing with the other priests at the front of the temple, dressed in his elaborate ceremonial robes and clutching his precious staff. The priest shook his head faintly as she caught his eye, as if scolding her for her defiance.

She turned her attention back to the altar and the somewhat aghast figure of Prince Cratyn. He wore black, from head to toe, the severity of his outfit relieved only by a thin golden coronet on his head and a gold and silver pendant in the shape of the star and lightning bolt of the Overlord. His expression was as close to anger as she had ever seen it, in her limited acquaintance with him. To the Seven Hells with him, she decided. To the Seven Hells with all of them.

The ceremony was blessedly short, requiring little more from her than her agreement to obey Cratyn in all things and be a good and upstanding Defender of the Faith. Almost before she knew it, she was married. The High Priest, who had spent the entire ceremony trying not to see the considerable amount of bare flesh she was displaying, declared them man and wife and then prostrated himself on the floor of the altar. Carefully instructed by Vonulus, Adrina knew this was coming, and with Cratyn at her side, followed suit. Biting back a gasp as her bare skin touched the icy marble floor of the temple, Adrina momentarily regretted her impulse to wear her own gown. She had forgotten about this part of the ceremony. Every person present was required to prostrate themselves before their god and by the sound of the muffled grunts and groans behind them, some were finding the task easier than others.

They lay prone on the floor of the temple for a full ten minutes, the entire temple hushed, as each member of the congregation examined their conscience and contemplated their service to the Overlord. Adrina spent the time wishing she could get up. That floor was freezing.

Finally, the High Priest climbed awkwardly to his feet, and the congregation followed. Adrina turned to Cratyn and smiled, deciding to be gracious, at least in public. He took her hand uncertainly and led her through the temple to the muted, and rather unenthusiastic applause of the wedding guests.

When they reached the entrance, she was relieved to find Tristan and her Guard, once again in their glorious dress whites, waiting to escort them back to the castle. He smiled at her encouragingly, his men holding back the crowd, as Cratyn handed her up into the open carriage for the ride through the streets.

She sat down and smoothed her skirts before glancing at her new husband. He was not looking at her, but back at the temple where a sobbing Chastity had just emerged into the rare sunlight. Adrina frowned. How did one compete with such an insipid rival?

“You could smile, you know, husband. Getting married is supposed to be a joyous occasion. At least in Fardohnya, it is.”

“We are not in Fardohnya now,” Cratyn pointed out, as they moved off with a jerk. “You would do well to remember that.”

Startled by his icy tone, Adrina retorted without thinking. “You would do well to remember who you married. Chastity will just have to stay that way, I’m afraid.”

Cratyn glared at her, but did not reply. Despite the unusually warm day and the waving crowds, the ride back to Yarnarrow Castle was thoroughly unpleasant.

Had she been married in Fardohnya, the rest of the week would have been spent feasting and dancing to celebrate the occasion of her marriage. In Karien such revelry was considered wasteful and unseemly. On reaching Yarnarrow Castle, Adrina was escorted to the royal apartments to meet the Karien King – not to celebrate her marriage, but to formalise the treaty between Fardohnya and Karien.

Jasnoff proved to be a more rotund version of his son, with the same brown eyes and hair, although his was flecked with grey. He also wore the same shocked expression when he saw what she was wearing. He made no comment about it, however, and simply rose from his small throne and accepted her curtsy as was his due.

“You will sign here,” Jasnoff ordered, as soon as the pleasantries were taken care of. He pointed to a parchment scroll waiting on the small, slanted desk, a tonsured scribe holding out an inked quill expectantly.

“Certainly, your Majesty. What exactly is it that I’m signing?”

“It is a letter to your father,” Cratyn explained behind her. “It informs him that you are married in accordance with Karien law, and that we have kept our side of the bargain. On receipt of this letter, he will send your dowry and begin preparations for the invasion of Medalon.”

“My dowry? Ah, you mean he will sign over sovereignty of the Isle of Slarn, don’t you?”

Adrina took the quill from the scribe. There was something vaguely degrading about being traded for a lump of rock. She signed the letter with a flourish and handed the quill back to the scribe.

Jasnoff nodded with satisfaction and turned to his son. “Your mother and I will look forward to seeing you at dinner. And your wife, of course,” he added as an afterthought.

Cratyn bowed to his father and Adrina dropped into another low curtsy as the King and his scribe strode from the room, leaving them alone. Adrina turned to Cratyn questioningly. Vonulus and Madren had spent a great deal of time instructing her on the Karien wedding ceremony, but had barely mentioned what was supposed to happen afterwards.

“So what now, Cretin?” she asked. She waited for him to blush. This was the first time they had ever been alone, and she had no doubt the poor boy was probably dreading his marital duty. That, or he’d rather be doing it with Chastity.

The slap, when it came, took her completely by surprise. Her head snapped back and his signet cut her cheek, leaving a thin smear of blood on the back of his hand.

Cratyn was not blushing, he was furious.

“Fardohnyan whore!” He slapped her again, this time even harder, and she staggered under the blow. “You will never disgrace me or the Royal House again by such a wanton public display!”

Adrina quickly decided to forgo trading blows with him. Cratyn might be a fool, but he was stronger than she was. Such rare common sense was the last rational thought she had as her own anger exploded.

“You will never lay a hand on me again, you gutless little turd! How dare you hit me!”

“I dare what I please, your Highness,” he told her, his voice a quiet rage. “I am your husband!”

“That remains to be seen! I seriously doubt your manhood is going to be up to the task. Perhaps if I simper and pout and let you call me Chastity, it will be easier for you?”

Cratyn raised his hand to strike her again, but this time she was ready for him. She had her delicate and wickedly sharp Bride’s Blade at his throat, faster than he could credit. With eyes wide, he slowly lowered his arm.

“That’s better,” she said, holding the thin blade to his neck with her outstretched hand. “Husband you may be, Cretin, but if you ever lay a hand on me again, I will slit your miserable throat. Do we understand each other?”

Cratyn nodded slowly and she lowered the knife. He rubbed his neck where she had jabbed him, fingering the small bead of blood that came away on his finger. He stared at her, but his expression was far from apologetic.

“I should not have hit you,” he conceded. “It was unworthy of me. But don’t play me for a fool, Adrina, or think your threats and a table dagger have me cowed.” He moved to the side table and poured himself a generous cup of wine before he turned back to her, his anger replaced with quiet certitude. “Did you really believe that we knew nothing of your reputation? Of your lovers? I have known since we first met what you are. Your sister’s wanton behaviour in Talabar merely played into our hands.”

The admission stunned her. “What are you saying? You actually wanted to marry me?”

“I married Hablet’s eldest legitimate child,” Cratyn corrected coldly. “Any issue of yours will be heir to the Fardohnyan throne.”

“Not if my father has a legitimate son. And I have fifteen bastard half-brothers. Father could legitimise one of them any time he wanted to.”

“If he does, they will die. The Overlord has willed it. Fardohnya will become the Overlord’s through the ascension of a Karien king to the throne.”

“You are out of your mind if you think I will aid you in this!”

“You are my wife, Adrina,” he insisted stubbornly, as if there was nothing further to be discussed on the matter. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “Another thing, I will require you to order your Guard to place themselves under my command. I will be taking them to the front with me.”

“Oh no you won’t! My father never gave you leave to use my Guard in battle. They are under my command.”

“Then you will command them according to my wishes.”

“The Seven Hells I will! My Guard isn’t going anywhere without me, least of all to some soggy battlefield to fight your wars for you.”

“As you wish, Adrina,” Cratyn shrugged. “If you insist, you will accompany your Guard, but they will fight.”

“How in the name of the gods do you plan to make me order them into battle? I’ll die before I give such an order.”

Cratyn placed the cup down carefully and crossed his arms as he studied her. “You swear by the Primal gods. That is an offence punishable by death. You are my wife and have sworn to obey me in the eyes of my God and every nobleman in Yarnarrow. To defy me is punishable by death. If that does not convince you, I am sure it will only take your bastard half-brother and his pagans a few days to break some church law punishable by death.”

“You hypocritical son-of-a-bitch! You have the gall to preach piety to me yet you would calmly murder my brother in the name of your pitiful god!”

“Be careful, Adrina,” Cratyn warned. “Insulting the Overlord is punishable —”

“By death,” she finished impatiently. “I get the idea, your Highness.”

“Then you will do as I command?”

Adrina could barely credit the change in him. He seemed so sure of himself, here in Yarnarrow. The blushing princeling who had almost fainted at the sight of the barely dressed Fardohnyan women was still there, underneath the confident exterior, but this was his God speaking. His faith ran so deep it was impossible to shake his belief that everything would turn out as Xaphista willed it. As the realisation came to her, Adrina forced her anger down. She could not fight this by having a tantrum. She needed to have her wits about her to find a way out of this terrible bargain.

“I have conditions,” she said.

“I have no need to grant you anything, Adrina.”

“No, you don’t,” she agreed. “But you want my cooperation, and believe me, I am much more tractable when I have my own way.”

He nodded slightly. “As you wish, what are your conditions?”

Adrina’s mind was racing ahead, trying to think what she could ask for that would not raise suspicion. “If I am to accompany you to the Medalon border, I wish to do so in a manner befitting my station as your wife. I want my full retinue, including my ladies-in-waiting.” There! Let’s see how your precious Chastity likes roughing it on the front with a few thousand smelly soldiers, she thought.

“I believe that can be arranged,” he conceded. “Was that all?”

“No. I want to be included in your war council. I will not allow you to waste Fardohnyan lives without being fully informed as to your plans.”

“Absolutely not! A council of war is no place for a woman.”

“Suit yourself,” she shrugged. “If you refuse me, then I will stand up at dinner tonight and scream at the top of my voice that Xaphista is a lying, hypocritical bastard. Somewhat like you, I imagine. Such an act would be punishable by death, would it not? If I die, you’ll have no heir to the Fardohnyan throne and no troops to throw at the Medalonians. If you think I’m bluffing, then by all means, refuse me.”

He thought for a moment, weighing up, no doubt, the advisability of calling her bluff, against the reaction of his Dukes to a woman in their war council.

Finally he nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Very well.”

“And one other thing,” she added as an afterthought. “I want every Fardohnyan under my command given special exemption by the Church. As you pointed out, they are bound to break some unknown Church law, sooner or later. It will be a lot easier for both of us if you don’t whittle away at their numbers by hanging every transgressor for some slight, real or imagined, against your precious god.”

Although he bristled at her tone, he was not so foolish as to deny the logic of her request. He nodded.

“That’s it then,” she said. “I will do as you ask.” For now, she amended silently.

“I have some conditions of my own,” Cratyn told her as she turned away.

“Such as?”

“You will never dress in such a provocative manner again. You will behave in a manner befitting a Karien Princess, or, Fardohnyan heir or not, I will see you stoned.”

“Of course, your Highness,” she agreed, her voiced laced with sarcasm. “Perhaps a hair shirt would be more suitable?”

He ignored the jibe. “And you will not speak to your half-brother, or any of your Guard unless Vonulus is present. I will not have you making your own plans behind my back.”

Now that could prove awkward, she thought in annoyance, but she did not see a way around it. “You show a disturbing lack of trust in me, your Highness.”

“A warranted lack of trust,” he retorted. “Do you agree?”

She nodded slowly. “I agree.”

“Good. In that case, you may return to your rooms and dress in something more... appropriate... for dinner. Tomorrow, I will have the nuns sent to you, to discuss the most opportune time in your cycle to consummate our marriage. I do not intend to spend one moment longer in your bed than I have to.”

Of all that had been said in the past hour, that shocked her the most. It even hurt! How dare he!

“Just be sure that when you do deign to come to my bed, you have some idea of what you’re supposed to do,” she retorted coldly. “As you apparently know, I have been taught the art of lovemaking by professionals. It would be most unfortunate if your much-needed heir to the Fardohnyan and Karien thrones fails to be consummated because I couldn’t stop laughing.”

The insult hit the mark as she intended, but she swept up her skirts and strode from the room before he had a chance to answer her.

Chapter 16

For longer than human memory, Sanctuary had remained hidden in the mountains named for it. It had weathered nature’s inevitable passage of time, untouched by anything but the magical peace and serenity that seeped through its very walls. The vast white-spired complex had watched ages come and go, kingdoms rise and fall, mortals live and die. The gods roamed its halls at will and the Harshini who lived there sought nothing more than wisdom and knowledge and safety from the foibles of humanity.

Nothing had ever disturbed it.

Until now.

Until the demon child.

Brakandaran heard the laughter as he approached Korandellan’s chambers and winced. It wasn’t that nobody laughed in Sanctuary, on the contrary, the Harshini were happy by nature. But this was not the polite, considerate laugh of an amused Harshini. This laugh was loud and heartfelt and unmistakably female. The laughter echoed through the halls with startling clarity, turning the heads of the white robed Harshini who glided silently past him in the hall. Their black eyes were either curious or indulgent, depending on whether or not they had any knowledge of its source.

Brak hurried on, almost afraid to discover the reason for the demon child’s mirth. Korandellan was a tolerant king – he had ruled the Harshini through some of its most turbulent history – but he was ill-equipped to handle R’shiel. She had a knack for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, asking awkward and frequently unanswerable questions, and she was totally unimpressed by the pivotal role she was expected to play in the conflict of the gods. Nor was the Harshini King easily able to deal with the fact that she was an instrument of destruction. It was hard for him to accept that the demon child’s purpose was to destroy. Harder yet for him to teach her what she needed to know to enable her to complete the task. Lorandranek, R’shiel’s father, had been driven insane by the knowledge.

Brak opened the door to Korandellan’s chambers with a thought. The King leapt to his feet with a relieved smile at the sight of him. He and R’shiel were on the balcony, overlooking the hollow valley that Sanctuary encompassed, a crystal pitcher of chilled wine between them. Both the King and the demon child were dressed in the light linen robes that were all the protection one needed in the atmosphere-controlled vicinity of the Citadel. His black leathers seemed out of place. Brak crossed the white tiled floor and bowed to his king, who seemed inordinately glad to see him.

“Brakandaran!” Korandellan cried. “You’re back!”

“So it would seem.”

“R’shiel and I were just discussing her childhood at the Citadel,” the King explained. “She has had a most interesting life.”

Interesting is something of an understatement, Brak thought, but it did not explain R’shiel’s laughter.

“The King asked me if I missed my mother,” she explained, as if she understood his confusion. “It struck me as rather funny.”

“Our worthy monarch has no concept of a personality like the First Sister’s,” Brak agreed wryly. “But it’s good to hear you laughing. You’re looking much better.”

Another understatement. He had never seen her look better. Cheltaran, the God of Healing, had done more than heal the near-fatal wound she received in Testra. It was as if he had healed her soul as well. Or maybe it was because Death had forsaken any claim on her until the life Brak had offered in return for hers was forfeited. Her violet eyes were shining, and her skin was golden rather than sallow. She had put on weight, too, now that she was eating a diet more suited to her Harshini metabolism. He realised they would not be able to keep her here much longer, and wondered if Korandellan realised it too. They would have taught her much about her Harshini heritage and the power she had at her command, but this girl was destined to destroy a god. She would not, could not, learn all she needed within Sanctuary’s peace-filled walls.

“What news have you, Brakandaran?” the King asked. He waved his arm and a chair appeared at the table for him. Korandellan took his own seat and poured him a cup of wine with his own hand. Brak wanted to tell him it wasn’t necessary, but it would have been useless. For more than twenty years, Korandellan had been trying to prove to him that he did not hold him responsible for Lorandranek’s death. Every small gesture meant something to the King. Brak took the offered seat and accepted the wine.

“Not good news, I fear,” he said, glancing at R’shiel. He wondered what her reaction would be to the news he carried. Much of her current serenity was a direct result of Sanctuary’s magical atmosphere. And, he privately suspected, a deliberate glamour laid on her, to take the edge off her more extreme human emotions while her body and mind recovered. That glamour would not hold if she ever realised it was there. She was easily powerful enough to break through it. Ignorance of the spell was the only thing protecting the gentle Harshini from her violent human side.

“Are the Kariens still planning to invade Medalon?” Korandellan asked with concern. The mere thought of a war made him pale. It wasn’t cowardice; it was simply part of being a Harshini. A part that neither Brak nor R’shiel, being half-human, were susceptible to.

“It’s worse than that,” Brak told him. “They have allied with the Fardohnyans.”

Korandellan shook his head, tears glistening in his totally black eyes. “Foolish humans. Don’t they realise what such a war will cost?”

“They realise,” Brak said. “They just don’t care.”

R’shiel frowned. “Even if the Fardohnyans don’t join in the conflict in the north, they could still send troops up the Glass River in the south. The Defenders can’t fight a war on two fronts. They barely have the numbers to fight on one, even with Hythrun allies.”

Brak wondered who had told her about the Hythrun. Probably the demons. They could gossip like old women when something caught their fancy. Korandellan said nothing, just shook his head. He was no more able to discuss tactics than he was able to contemplate murder.

“It’s liable to escalate beyond Medalon,” Brak agreed. “If the Fardohnyans enter Medalon from the south then they can cross into Hythria without having to go over the Sunrise Mountains. Hablet has no interest in Medalon, but he’d love to get his grubby little hands on Hythria.”

“We must do something!” Korandellan exclaimed. “We cannot allow the entire world to be plunged into war. Perhaps if I ask the gods...”

“Well, I don’t suggest you mention it to Zegarnald,” Brak suggested. “A global conflict would rather please the God of War. In fact, I wouldn’t mind betting that he’s been giving it a bit of a nudge. It must get pretty boring looking down on all those measly little border skirmishes. We haven’t had a decent war in centuries.”

“Your disrespect will prove fatal one day, Brakandaran.”

Brak started at the voice as the overwhelming presence of the God of War suddenly filled the chamber. Brak should have known better than to even mention His name. Here in Sanctuary, more than any other place, to name a god was to call him. He turned in his chair but did not rise, although R’shiel and Korandellan did. Zegarnald took shape before them, so tall his golden helmet brushed the ceiling, dressed in a simple dark robe that covered him from head to toe, out of respect for Korandellan, no doubt. The Harshini were uncomfortable with weapons and Zegarnald carried at least one of every weapon his worshippers had devised, from a dagger to a longbow. Brak would have bet money he had the odd catapult stashed about his person somewhere.

“Divine One, you honour us with your presence,” Korandellan greeted him sombrely.

The War God smiled, if such a grimace could be called a smile. “Well, some seem more honoured than others. I would think, Brakandaran, that you of all the Harshini would be pleased to see me. I do not offend your sensibilities, as I do your king’s, yet he can find it in himself to be gracious.”

“I’m half-human,” Brak shrugged. “What can I say?”

“You could start by not saying anything,” Zegarnald retorted. “Particularly about matters you know nothing of.”

Korandellan laid a restraining hand on Brak’s shoulder – a silent plea not to argue with the god. “Brakandaran means no disrespect, Divine One.”

“On the contrary, Korandellan, that’s exactly what he intends. However, in this case, he is correct. I have been giving this war a nudge, as he so elegantly puts it.”

“Why?” R’shiel asked curiously. She had come to accept the sudden appearance of the gods, along with a lot of other things that Brak suspected she would not be nearly so accepting of, were she outside Sanctuary’s magical walls.

Zegarnald turned his gaze on the demon child, as if noticing her for the first time. “When you understand that, demon child, you will be ready to face Xaphista.”

“I really think your faith in me is misplaced. I wouldn’t know the first thing about killing a god.”

Surprisingly, Zegarnald nodded in agreement. “Unfortunately, you speak the truth. Korandellan would have more chance of defeating him than you at present, a situation I have decided to remedy.”

Brak looked at Zegarnald suspiciously. “How?”

“The demon child must leave Sanctuary and return to the humans,” the god decreed. “You have helped her, Korandellan, but your peaceful ministrations and Sanctuary’s magic are destroying the instincts she will need to survive Xaphista.”

Korandellan did not appear pleased by the order. “No Harshini will be turned out of Sanctuary, Divine One, not even when decreed by a god. The demon child may leave if she wishes, but I will not send her away.”

“As you wish,” Zegarnald agreed, then he turned to R’shiel. “What say you, child? Do you wish to return to your human friends?”

R’shiel barely hesitated. “No. I want to stay here.”

Zegarnald seemed almost as surprised as Brak by her words. The god studied her closely for a moment then nodded. “I see. You are more devious than I suspected, Korandellan, but the glamour that holds back her emotions cannot last forever. Brakandaran, I suggest you take the demon child into the mountains for a day. Let her breathe the air outside of Sanctuary for a time and then ask her the same question. Her answer will differ a great deal, I suspect.”

“What do you mean? I feel fine.”

“And happy, and calm, and contented,” Zegarnald agreed. “But can you feel pain? Or anger? Or grief? I think you will discover such emotions beyond you while you live within these walls.”

R’shiel looked puzzled, uncertain. Korandellan looked decidedly unhappy.

“Is this true?” she asked the Harshini king. “Have you done something to me that stops me feeling those things?”

“It was necessary, child,” Korandellan told her, as incapable of lying as he was of causing pain.

“But it can’t be,” she insisted. “I have no holes in my memory. I remember everything. And everyone.”

“And yet you feel nothing?” the god asked. “You feel no loss for your friends, no anger at being betrayed, no fear for their safety? Take my advice, leave these walls for a time and see if you feel the same. When you wish to return to your friends, call me. I will see you delivered safely to them.”

The god was gone an instant later, leaving a very confused young woman behind. Brak glanced at the King and shook his head. “You cannot fight the inevitable, Korandellan.”

The King sighed. “I’m Harshini, Brakandaran. I cannot fight anything.”

Chapter 17

Adrina intended to make Cratyn pay for striking her, and pay dearly. Such an act was beyond unforgivable. In the finest traditions of mort’eda – the ancient Fardohnyan art of revenge – she quite coldly and deliberately planned to make him rue the day he ever laid eyes on her.

Her first step was acquiescing to his demands. Overnight, Adrina became the perfect Karien Princess – so perfect that it brought suspicious stares from Madren and Vonulus, both of whom viewed her transformation with suspicion. Lacking proof to the contrary, however, there was little they could do, given Adrina’s exemplary behaviour. Cratyn did not seem surprised. He no doubt considered it a direct result of his ultimatum, and Adrina was happy to let him think that way until she was ready to teach him otherwise.

Adrina dressed according to Karien custom, wore her hair in a snood, as was proper for married Karien Ladies, and followed Cratyn the required three paces behind him whenever they appeared in public together. She converted to the Overlord with remarkable conviction and even attended morning prayers in the chilly Temple with Queen Aringard each morning at dawn. She embroidered with her ladies and planned menus with commendable frugality. She gave alms to the poor on Fifthdays and met with the nobles of her husband’s court with eyes lowered demurely. She wore no cosmetics and trimmed her long nails to the short blunt shape the Kariens preferred. In short, she gave nobody a single excuse to fault her behaviour.

Of course, there were any number of ways to get at Cratyn, the easiest target being the hapless Lady Chastity.

Adrina suddenly decided that she preferred the Lady Chastity’s company to others’. She began to foster a friendship with the girl that culminated some three weeks after her wedding in a long session of “girl-talk”, which centred mostly on Cratyn. A single afternoon was all it took to reduce the poor girl to tears as Adrina waxed lyrically about the prince, about how many children they would have, about how handsome he was and how lucky she was that some other woman hadn’t snatched him up before now. When Chastity had all she could stomach she excused herself hastily. Adrina could hear her sobbing from down the hall.

Teasing Chastity was poor sport, though, and it put Cratyn in a foul mood. He burst into her rooms as she bent over her needlework and ordered Tamylan out, his pale face flushed with rage.

“What did you do?”

“I wasn’t aware that I had done anything, your Highness. Could you be a little more specific?”

“The Lady Chastity is distraught! What did you say to her?”

“We were merely discussing married life. I was endeavouring to enlighten her about the joys of conjugal bliss.” She smiled at him sweetly and added, “Such that it is.”

“You are not to discuss such things with her!”

“Why ever not?” There was nothing she had said or done that he could fault her for without crossing into dangerous moral territory, and they both knew it. “Could it be that the Lady Chastity still harbours some affection for you, my dear? Now that would be awkward wouldn’t it, you being married to me...”

She let the rest of the sentence hang. The young prince stormed out of the room, muttering to himself about foreign whores.

Adrina was getting very tired of being referred to as a foreign whore.

But there were other ways to punish him. Her first real chance came when they began their preparations for their trip to the border. Adrina held Cratyn strictly to his promise to see her accommodated in a manner befitting her station, and by the time they left Yarnarrow, her entourage was almost as large as the force of knights and foot soldiers accompanying them. She would happily have beggared him, given half a chance, and it was only Jasnoff’s intervention that prevented her from doing just that. As soon as the King complained, Adrina ceased her outrageous demands, but by then the damage had been done. Adrina and her ladies were going off to war in style.

Adrina’s most subtle, and by far her most effective revenge she aimed at Cratyn’s manhood. The nuns had dutifully visited Adrina the day after her wedding to discuss her cycle in rather unpleasant detail, and they determined the most opportune time to conceive was eight days after the wedding. Adrina’s bed remained empty until that time. When the designated night finally arrived, Adrina excused herself early and spent a considerable amount of time preparing for Cratyn’s visit, including preparing a small quantity of the mixture that would ensure that in the unlikely event that Cratyn actually desired her, his body would not respond.

Getting Cratyn to accept the laced wine had been easy. She had a feeling he could only bring himself to touch her if he wasn’t entirely sober. She then waited, with an expectant look, for Cratyn to make the first move. His fumbling and ultimately futile attempts to consummate their union left her weak with ridiculing laughter. Cratyn fled the chamber in embarrassment and she did not lay eyes on him for two whole days afterwards. Altogether an entirely satisfactory outcome, she decided.

But Adrina was determined that no child would ever come from this union, so she set about making certain it never did. She knew enough herb lore to ensure she would not suffer an unwanted pregnancy – it was a necessity for any woman in a society where court’esa were the norm. But the easiest way to prevent a pregnancy was simply not to let Cratyn into her bed on the days designated by the nuns as suitable. There was also the added bonus that if the marriage remained unconsummated for a year and a day, under Karien law she would be free of Cratyn entirely.

One of the lesser-known advantages of being instructed in the arts of love by a court’esa was learning how to cool a man’s ardour as easily as arousing it. It was a skill every court’esa owned – even professional lovers needed a night off occasionally – but it was a skill rarely passed on to their masters or mistresses. If one’s paramour knew what one was up to, it was impossible to guarantee success. It only worked on an inexperienced lover, and that description fitted Cratyn better than his custom-made armour. There were drugs too, one could use, although they were a closely guarded secret among the court’esa. Adrina had extracted those secrets from Lynel, a dark-eyed court’esa from Mission Rock in southern Fardohnya, for the promise of a minor title. So grateful had she been to learn the arts and acquire the drugs, that she even kept her promise, and as far as she knew, Lynel was still happily ensconced in his own small manor near Kalinpoor on the Jalanar plains. In the days and weeks that followed her marriage to Cratyn, she often had cause to silently thank the man.

But her revenge did not stop there. While it was intensely satisfying to her to watch Cratyn crumble with mortification every time she glanced at him, the real fun came from making it known that the Crown Prince of Karien was impotent.

Her first step was to cry, quite convincingly, on Madren’s shoulder about her inability to arouse her husband. Madren, of all her retinue, was the most suspicious and the most watchful. Adrina blamed herself, of course and almost choked when Madren delivered her stiff and rather unimaginative suggestions on how to deal with the situation. As she had made certain that the servants would overhear her heartbroken confession, within a day the news was all through the castle. Tamylan reported that the kitchens were abuzz with rumours and that even the stableboys had heard. By the time their vast caravan left Yarnarrow there was not a man or woman in the castle, serf or noble, who had not heard the rumour that Cratyn’s manhood was in doubt.

The effect such rumours had on Chastity was predictable. The girl was torn between horror that her love might be impotent and delight that he had not slept with Adrina. That the pale skinned blonde lusted after Cratyn was so obvious, Adrina wondered that she hadn’t been hauled off and stoned for her adulterous thoughts. On the other hand, there was many a duke who would have preferred a Karien queen, and Adrina wondered if she would survive the birth of a son, should she be so foolish as to conceive. A claimant to the Fardohnyan throne did not need a Fardohnyan mother to raise him, and everybody knew how perilous childbirth could be.

Adrina refused to give any of these fanatics an opportunity to rearrange the world to their liking. She would suffer the humiliation of Cratyn only coming to her rooms when she was likely to conceive; she would tolerate Madren’s hawk-like scrutiny and Vonulus’ pious instruction. She would bear King Jasnoff’s obvious distaste and Queen Aringard’s sour disapproval. She would even put up with the miserable Karien weather.

Until she found a way out of this mess, Adrina didn’t really have much choice.

Tristan was predicably unhappy about being ordered to the border, but as she had promised Cratyn she would not speak to him alone, she had not had the chance to explain it to him before they left Yarnarrow. In fact, getting a message to Tristan became more and more important as they drew closer to the border. She was afraid he would do something reckless. He knew the terms of the agreement under which he and his soldiers were in Karien, and knew that she was flying in the face of Hablet’s express wishes by ordering her Guard to the front.

Hablet wanted the Hythrun so involved in the Medalon conflict that they would not notice the direction his army was heading when then crossed the southern border of Medalon. Loaning her Guard to Cratyn to ensure a quick victory in the north was not liable to help her father’s cause, and she was far more concerned about his reaction than anything Cratyn might threaten her with. Hablet was not a man who took disruption of his plans well. The problem kept her awake night after night, until one morning, as she sat on a small stool in her sumptuous travelling tent, while Tamylan brushed out her long hair before she dressed for the day’s travel. She studied the former slave in the mirror thoughtfully. She really was quite a pretty young woman.

“Tam, do you like Tristan?”

The question startled her. “Tristan?”

“Yes. You know, Tristan. Tall. Fair. Golden eyes. Good looking and entirely too aware of the fact?”

Tamylan smiled. “Do I like him? I suppose.”

“Good,” Adrina announced with satisfaction. “I want you to become his lover.”

The brush halted mid-stroke as Tam stared at her in the mirror. “You want me to be Tristan’s lover?”

“Don’t act so thick, Tam. You heard me. You’re both Fardohnyan, far from home. Nobody would look twice.”

“Your Highness, I appreciate your... thoughtfulness... but somehow, I don’t think your brother is interested in the likes of me.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Tam,” Adrina told her cheerily. “You’re very pretty and there isn’t a court’esa for a thousand leagues, so Tristan can hardly afford to be choosy now, can he?” She laughed at the young woman’s expression. “Oh Tam, don’t look so horrified. Don’t you see? I can’t speak to Tristan without that vulture Vonulus around. If everyone thinks you and Tristan are lovers, they won’t question you visiting him.”

“If they think Tristan and I are lovers, I’m likely to get stoned.”

“No you won’t. The Fardohnyans have been given a special exemption by the Church. You’ll be safe enough. Far safer than me, in fact.”

Tamylan scowled unhappily. “I don’t like this place, your Highness. I’d rather you figured out a way to get us home.”

“I’m working on it, Tam,” Adrina assured her. “Believe me, I’m working on it.”

There was one bright spot in her miserable existence, and it came from the most unexpected source. The day after her wedding, Drendyn, Cratyn’s cheerful cousin, had paid her a visit carrying a large wicker basket, which he placed gently on the rug in front of the hearth before turning to her with a beaming smile.

“I have brought you a wedding gift,” he announced.

“And it’s a beautiful basket, too,” she agreed graciously.

“Basket? Oh! No! It’s what’s inside!”

Curiously Adrina lifted the lid and peered inside. A wet nose thrust itself at her and a long sloppy tongue slapped her face. Laughing delightedly, she threw back the lid and lifted the puppy out. He was tan in colour, his shaggy coat thick and soft. The pup was enormous, even at such a young age, and she struggled to lift him.

“He’s beautiful!” she cried. “What is he?”

“He’s a dog,” Drendyn explained, a little confused.

“I know he’s a dog, silly, but what sort of dog? We have nothing this big in Fardohnya. If he gets much bigger I’ll be able to saddle him!”

“He’s a Karien hunting dog,” the young Earl told her. “You said you liked hunting, so I thought you could train him now. We breed the best hounds in Karien in Tiler’s Pass. Do you like him?”

She pushed away the sloppy kisses of her new friend and laughed. “Oh Drendyn, I love him. Thank you so much.”

The Earl looked very pleased with himself. “Nothing is too good for our future queen. You will have to think of a name for him.”

“I shall call him... Tiler! In honour of your home.”

Tiler had not left her side since. The dog grew at an alarming rate, and consumed enough to keep a peasant family well fed. He was, besides Tamylan and Tristan, the only soul in Karien who seemed to love her unreservedly. Adrina found it strange that she, having been raised in excessive luxury with anything she wanted there for the asking, should find such joy in such a shaggy, clumsy beast.

Chapter 18

Brak could have followed R’shiel’s path through the mountains with little difficulty, even had a demon not appeared to show him the way. The little grey creature was young and it could barely speak, but it tittered with concern and kept looking over its small grey shoulder to ensure Brak was still following, as it led the way through a forest carpeted in the fiery shades of autumn.

When he finally reached her he hesitated. She was sitting on the edge of a precipice, dressed in dark riding leathers, her feet dangling over a long sheer drop that disappeared into mist.

“I’m not suicidal, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said without looking at him. The little demon scrambled up the rest of the path and climbed into her lap.

“Did you bring him here? Traitor.”

She turned to face Brak. Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks tear stained. “Did they send you to find me?”

“It’s a curse. All I seem to do these days is chase after you.” When he reached the ledge he sat down beside her and admired the view silently for a moment. The steep mountains were still snow capped, even at this time of year, and the air was pleasantly cool. He could see Sanctuary’s tall spires in the distance, but only because he knew they were there. To mere human eyes, the spires looked like any other steep peaks in this vast range full of them. “Korandellan was worried about you.”

“He did this to me. It serves him right.”

“Nobody meant to hurt you, R’shiel. They did it to protect you.”

“Did they know how much it would hurt when it wore off?”

“Probably not. Harshini don’t really understand human emotions. But when you came here, you were dying. They did what they had to.”

She wiped her eyes impatiently. “I know that. That’s what makes it so infuriating. You have no idea how hard it is to stay angry at these people.”

“I do know,” he assured her. “Better than you, girl. I’ve lived between two worlds for centuries.”

She glanced at him curiously. “Will I live as long as you?”

Brak shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose you will. Most half-humans seem to inherit Harshini longevity. You might fall off this precipice at any moment too, so don’t tie yourself into knots trying to predict the future.”

“Is that how you get by?”

“That and large quantities of mead,” he replied with a thin smile.

She looked at him sharply then smiled when she realised he was joking. “You don’t really fit in here, do you Brak?”

“No more than I fit in a human world. But don’t let my inability to find my niche in the world deter you from trying to find yours.”

“I was under the impression my niche was already carved in stone,” she pointed out sourly. “I am the demon child, am I not?”

“R’shiel, nobody is going to make you face Xaphista until you’re ready. Stop worrying about it. If you really are meant to tackle Xaphista, there will come a time when you won’t need to be asked. You’ll want to do it.”

“I can’t see that happening anytime soon.”

“As I said, don’t tie yourself into knots trying to predict the future.”

R’shiel did not answer him for a while. She stared out over the mountains, idly scratching the young demon behind its large wrinkled ear. Finally she turned to him, the tears under control for the time being.

“Does Tarja think I’m dead?”

The question surprised him a little. He had not expected her to be able to think things through so rationally yet. The first time he had broken through a glamour designed to suppress his emotions, he’d been incoherent for days.

“I suppose so. Nobody has told him otherwise that I’m aware of.”

“He’s done his grieving then,” she sighed. “And I will live to see him whither and die an old man. I’m not sure I can deal with that.”

“The way Tarja finds trouble, it’ll be a bloody miracle if he lives to be an old man, so I wouldn’t let that stand in your way.”

She frowned at his poor attempt at humour. “You’re pretty tactless, for a Harshini, aren’t you?”

“I’m the bane of their existence,” he agreed. “At least I was until you came along and relieved me of the title. However, it seems I am doomed to serve your cause, whether I like it or not.”

“There’s no need to be so gallant about it.” She turned back to the glorious view and was silent for a time before she spoke. “I wish I knew what to do, Brak.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to go home. But there’s a small problem. I don’t seem to have a home any longer. Sanctuary isn’t where I belong, I know that now, and I can hardly go back to the Citadel.”

“No, that’s probably not a good idea,” he agreed with a faint smile.

“What happened to Joyhinia?” she asked abruptly. “Did Tarja kill her?”

“Dacendaran stole her intellect. Then Tarja destroyed it. She lives, but she’s as innocent and harmless as a child, now. I suppose she’s on the border with the Defenders. We’d have heard if she returned to the Citadel in that condition.”

“And this Hythrun who is helping Tarja, what’s he like?”

“Damin Wolfblade? You’d like him. He’s almost as good at finding trouble as Tarja. I sometimes think it was a mistake bringing those two together. I’m not sure the world is ready for either of them.”

“And Lord Draco?”

Brak sighed heavily. “R’shiel, if you’re so anxious to see how they are, go to them. Zegarnald has already offered to take you. You can’t stay here forever and you don’t want to, anyway. Follow your instincts. Destiny has a habit of catching up with you, no matter how hard you try to outrun it. Believe me, I speak from experience.”

“Were you destined to kill my father?”

Brak stared at her, aghast at the question. It took him a moment to recover himself enough to answer her. “I don’t know, R’shiel. Perhaps I was. One of the advantages of being destined to do things, is that it can take the place of a conscience for a while.”

“Korandellan says you’ve been trying to outrun your destiny your whole life.”

“Does Korandellan often discuss my failings with you?”

“He uses you to illustrate the pitfalls of being half-human.”

Brak scowled at her but offered no comment.

“You think I should go back, don’t you?” she sighed.

“It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s what you think that counts.”

“I’m afraid,” she admitted.

“Of what?” he asked curiously. “Tarja?”

She nodded. “I’m afraid he’s accepted that I’m dead. Suppose he’s moved on? Suppose he’s found someone else?”

Brak snorted impatiently. “Suppose you stop being such an idiot! Gods, R’shiel! Zegarnald was right. You’re turning into a mouse. Have a bit of faith, girl! The man loves you. Six months wondering if you’re dead isn’t going to change that. If it has, then he never loved you in the first place, so you might as well be rid of him. Either way, put us all out of our misery and go find out for yourself instead of sitting here on the top of a mountain bemoaning your lot in life.” He did not add that Kalianah had made certain Tarja would never love another. She did not need to know that.

R’shiel glared at him, startled at his outburst. Months of the eternally accommodating Harshini had left her unprepared for a little human aggravation.

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

“Why not? That’s what you’ve been asking me. You want me to tell you what you should do, so that if it doesn’t work out you won’t have to blame yourself. Well, thanks, R’shiel, but I have enough of my own burdens to lug around without taking on yours as well.”

He watched the anger flare in her violet eyes with relief. Her spirit was still there, underneath the shock from the glamour and the effects of her time spent in the smothering peace of Sanctuary. It was rare that he agreed with the War God, but in this case, Zegarnald was right. R’shiel would wither if she stayed here much longer. This girl had faced down three hundred angry rebels, she had been raped, imprisoned, and mortally wounded by the woman she grew up thinking was her mother. None of it had been able to break her. But much longer within Sanctuary’s calming walls and the human shell that had protected her inner strength would be dissolved.

Pushing the demon from her lap, she scrambled to her feet and brushed down the leathers before turning on him. “I don’t need you to tell me what I want to do. I’ll go where I want, when I want, and you can go to the lowest of the Seven Hells, for all I care!”

She stormed off down the path, the little demon tumbling in her wake. Brak watched her go with a faint smile.

“Deftly handled, Lord Brakandaran.”

Brak turned towards the deep voice, unsurprised to find the old demon Dranymire behind him. “I thought you’d be around somewhere. You could have helped, you know.”

The little demon sat down beside Brak with a smug expression. “If she had fallen off this cliff, I would have been there in an instant. But some things are best left to one’s own kind.”

“It’s not my responsibility to protect her. That’s supposed to be your job.”

Dranymire nodded sagely. “And protect her I will, Brakandaran,” he said. “But I can only save her from outside danger. I cannot save her from herself.”

Chapter 19

Mikel of Kirkland found it hard to be brave in the Defender Camp. Among the Hythrun it had been easy. There he had Jaymes to support him. Jaymes was always brave. Jaymes hadn’t blabbed about the Fardohnyan alliance trying to make himself sound important. Jaymes had been quiet and sullen and strong.

The Hythrun were quick to anger and easy to provoke, and Mikel felt it was his solemn duty to do what he could to sabotage their war effort. He had honoured the Overlord countless times in the weeks he spent among them, cursing the soldiers, spitting in their stew whenever he got the chance, and making a general nuisance of himself. It had been easier once the Warlord left. The big blonde Hythrun had frightened the boy more than he was willing to admit, but once he was gone, Mikel found his courage increased. The fight with the blacksmith’s apprentice had been the last in a long line of skirmishes with his captors.

The Defenders were different, however. They did not listen to his insults or his curses, or if they heard them, they simply laughed indulgently at him. Even more humiliating was the fact that the captain who had saved him from the apprentice and taken him to the other camp had placed him in the care of a woman! Her name was Mahina and he was supposed to call her Sister, even though she wasn’t a nun and didn’t deserve the title. Worse, when the little old lady, who reminded him of his own Nana, had gotten hold of him, she took one whiff of his ragged tunic and ordered him to bathe. She then stood over him while the deed was done, to ensure he was properly clean. Everybody knew that taking off all your clothes was a sin against the Overlord and it was a well-known fact that total immersion in water was bad for you and gave rise to unhealthy vapours. But she had stood there like a slave-master on a Fardohnyan galley and made him wash every part of his body. She then added insult to injury by trimming his hair and making him wear a pair of cast-off Defender’s trousers and a pleated linen shirt several sizes too big for him. His tunic and hose she rather ceremoniously burned on the hearth, holding her nose as she did so.

As praying to the Overlord had always evoked a reaction from the Hythrun, he was startled when his prayers drew nothing from Mahina and the Defenders but bored looks and, in some cases, stifled yawns. The Defenders did not seem offended by his prayers. They just didn’t care! His devotions meant nothing to them. They were atheists who considered worshipping the gods a quaint and rather laughable custom. That hurt almost as much as the thought that his misbehaviour might cost Jaymes a finger.

The Defenders were frighteningly well disciplined, a fact which surprised the boy. They were under the command of a tall, hard-looking man called Lord Jenga, but it was the captain who had brought him here who scared him most. His name was Tarja Tenragan, and every night, when Mikel said his prayers to the Overlord, he prayed his god would strike the man down.

Mikel burned with hatred for the tall Medalonian who had so calmly ordered Jaymes dismembered if Mikel misbehaved. Although he was only a captain, everybody seemed to listen to him, even Lord Jenga, and he had faced down the Hythrun Raiders without blinking. Mikel was sure there was nothing on this world that could scare him – and that scared Mikel, because he knew that in battle, the Medalonians would not run in the face of the first concerted charge, as he had often heard Duke Laetho boast.

In fact, much of what Mikel had heard in the Karien camp was proving to be incorrect. The Hythrun did not eat human babies for breakfast and the red-coated Defenders weren’t weaklings dressed up in fancy uniforms and playing at being soldiers. They were hard men and well trained. Much better trained than the Kariens, Mikel suspected. Where the Karien camp spent time boasting of past victories on the jousting field or anticipating future glories, these soldiers were on the training field in Medalon.

They were much better supplied too, Mikel discovered. Unlike the Kariens, the Medalonians and their Hythrun allies had a constant supply line from the Glass River, and they lived like kings compared to his own people. He had eaten more since being a captive than he had since arriving on the front as Lord Laetho’s page some four months ago. He began to wonder if it was a sin to eat so well, but when he refused to eat, Mahina had threatened to have him force fed. When that threat had not worked, Mahina called Tarja in. The captain had looked at him coldly and simply asked one question.

“Left hand or right hand?”

Mikel had not missed a meal since and never again brought up the topic of sinning by eating too well.

Mahina had set him to performing chores around the camp, which in truth did not vary much from what had been asked of him as Lord Laetho’s page. He waited tables and filled wine jugs and ran errands for the old woman, all the while keeping his eyes and ears open. Mikel was certain he would eventually be rescued. If not, there was always a chance he could escape – except that if he did, Tarja was likely to kill Jaymes, so he tried not to think about it too much. But if the chance ever arose, he wanted to take back as much intelligence as possible to Lord Laetho. Perhaps even Prince Cratyn or King Jasnoff would want to hear his information. Mikel managed to spend a good deal of time in idle dreams of his triumphant return to the Karien camp, bearing the one vital piece of information that would ensure a Karien victory.

In the meantime, he performed his chores doggedly, determined to give Tarja no reason to harm his older brother. Mahina was often distracted, but she was not unkind and it was hard to hate her. In fact, it was hard to hate many of the Medalonians, although his loathing of Tarja Tenragan never wavered. Most of them treated him well, if not out of kindness, exactly. Mikel suspected it was because they did not consider him a threat. He had grandiose, if rather vague plans to disabuse them of that notion some day and he prayed to the Overlord every night before he slept that his god would show him the way.

The Defenders’ camp spread out across the plain in neat lines of identical tents, radiating from the old keep in the centre, which served as the temporary command post for the Medalonian forces. The Defenders called it Treason Keep, which Mikel thought the strangest name. It was here that Mikel did his chores for Mahina. It was here that Lord Jenga, Tarja Tenragan and another dangerous looking man called Garet Warner met with the savage Captain Almodavar and a passionate young man called Ghari, to make their plans. Mikel had not worked out exactly what Ghari’s position was in the Medalon forces, but he was often called in to discuss matters of import, although he had little to offer in the way of tactical advice. He seemed to be in charge of all sorts of other things – tasks that were vital to the war effort but not directly involved in the fighting.

Mikel was amazed at how little time the Medalonians spent discussing actual battle plans. They spent a lot more time worrying about supplies and ammunition and feed for the horses and securing enough fuel to see them through the winter. He supposed it was because they did not have the Overlord to protect them. Such mundane matters were rarely discussed in the Karien camp. The Overlord would provide.

Mikel had a natural ear for languages, and it was not long before he could make sense of what they were saying. Astonishingly, once Mahina realised he could understand what was being said, far from discouraging him, she took time out to give him lessons and even boasted to Tarja at how quickly he was picking up the language. Tarja had actually smiled!

Of all things in the Defenders’ camp that confused or surprised Mikel, the strangest by far was the Crazy Lady. She had rooms in the restored upper level of Treason Keep, heavily guarded by Defenders and a sad looking man called Lord Draco who said little and kept to himself in the chambers above the great hall. Lord Draco frightened Mikel, and not simply because of his physical resemblance to Tarja. The man had an air about him that spoke of emotions Mikel was too young to define. The only redeeming features that Mikel could see were his devotion to the Crazy Lady and the fact that any time Lord Draco and Tarja were in the same room you could almost see the hatred between them like streaks of jagged lightning. He did not know why Tarja hated Lord Draco and was too afraid to ask anyone the reason, but it made him feel a little better to know that all was not as perfect as it seemed in the Medalonian camp.

The Crazy Lady never left her room. Mikel had seen her once, when Mahina had sent him to her chamber with a document she had to sign. The guards had opened the door for him and Affiana, the tall, no-nonsense woman who seemed to be the Crazy Lady’s nurse, had met him inside. Affiana had relieved him of the scroll and bustled him out the door, but not before he caught a glimpse of the Crazy Lady sitting on the floor in the centre of the chamber, clutching a ragged doll and humming tunelessly. The guards outside had shooed him away, leaving him burning with curiosity regarding the Crazy Lady’s identity.

The third week into Mikel’s internment in the Defender camp, Mahina sent him to find Tarja. A messenger had arrived from the front with news, and she wanted to see him. It must be something important, he knew, but he was sent away before he could learn what it was.

While Mikel dreaded the thought of seeking Tarja out, he was looking forward to the opportunity to visit the training ground legitimately. He hurried through the camp, ignored by Defenders who considered him not worth noticing. The day was quite cold and still. Swirls of dust floated through the camp like smoke eddies. Mikel all but ran, knowing the quicker he got there, the more time he could spend watching the Defenders before he had to approach Tarja.

The training ground covered a vast area north of Treason Keep. It was dusty and noisy, the long grass scuffed bare by the boots of thousands of men training for war. He slowed as he reached the field, weaving his way cautiously between groups of men charging with pikes at targets nailed to posts buried deep in the ground. A little further on another troop bearing red-painted shields was practising a set of striking sword blows. The sergeant in charge bellowed impatient instructions about turning hands, and standing side-on, and told one hapless young man that if he continued to use his shield as a counter-balance instead of protection he would undoubtedly have the honour of being the first trooper to die in defence of Medalon.

A little further on Mikel watched in awe as a troop of Hythrun Raiders practised, mounted on their beautiful golden steeds. They were shooting into melons mounted on short poles, which exploded in a ruddy mess as wave after wave of them galloped towards the targets; they loosed their arrows side-on, reloaded and fired at the next target without missing a beat. The Raiders steered their horses with their knees and rode as if nothing could unseat them. Karien knights picked their horses for their ability to carry the weight of an armoured man. Agility and speed were secondary concerns. Mikel thought of Lord Laetho’s huge and very expensive warhorse, which looked clumsy and cumbersome compared to the sleek Hythrun mounts, and wondered how he would fare in a battle.

He moved on in the direction Mahina had told him Tarja would be, watching the Hythrun horsemen over his shoulder as he hurried forward. He stopped again for a moment to watch another group attacking a number of armoured targets, practising slowly and deliberately as they aimed for the vulnerable places in the armour with deadly precision. Mikel frowned as he watched them. Although every man here was training for war, these men were specifically training to kill or disable the knights who would lead the charge. He shuddered at the thought. The Medalonians seemed to be taking this war a lot more seriously that his own people. But then they had to, he reminded himself. They were outnumbered and they did not have the Overlord on their side.

“Here, lad, what are you doing hanging about the field?”

Mikel jumped guiltily and turned to the man who had challenged him. It was Ghari, he discovered with relief. Ghari did not frighten him nearly as much as the Defenders.

“Sister Mahina sent me to find Captain Tenragan.”

Ghari placed his hand on Mikel’s shoulder with a friendly smile. “Let’s go find him then, shall we? I’m looking for him too.”

Mikel nodded a little uncertainly and let Ghari lead the way. He watched the man out of the corner of his eye, expecting to see some sign that Ghari’s friendliness was feigned, but the young man simply glanced down at him and smiled again. Mikel could not understand these people at all.

Tarja was on the far side of the training ground, stripped down to trousers and boots and sweating in the cold sunlight. He was training with another man, a little older than he, and both men were breathing hard, dust clinging to their sweaty skin as they traded blows. Both had the musculature of men who spent hours with a sword, but Mikel was astounded to see Tarja’s back scarred with the unmistakable mark of the lash. He was savagely pleased to think that someone had lashed Tarja. He would like to meet the man and thank him.

The sound of metal against metal rang loudly as Tarja and his opponent moved back and forth, neither man trying to gain the advantage, simply working muscles to the point of fatigue and beyond to strengthen them. Mikel had heard one of the Medalonians say that it was the training you did after you reached the point of exhaustion that really counted. Everything you did up to that point was just warming up.

Tarja saw them approaching and held up his hand to halt the fight. His opponent lowered his sword and glanced at Mikel and Ghari. Realising that their appearance heralded the end of their bout, he raised his blade in salute to Tarja with a weary smile.

“You’re getting slow, Tarja. I can still stand up.”

“I’m getting slow,” Tarja laughed as he returned the salute. “More likely some Karien knight is going to make a trophy of your hide.”

The older man chuckled. “Perhaps, but he’ll have trampled you getting to me.” Captain Alcarnen picked up his shirt off the ground and wiped his forehead with it, then threw it over his shoulder. “Ghari,” he said with a nod as he walked past the young man.

“Captain,” Ghari replied, with a surprising amount of angst. Mikel looked at him curiously. He didn’t like Nheal at all, that much was obvious.

“You didn’t come looking for me for the pleasure of my company, I suppose?” Tarja asked. He slipped his shirt over his head but did not bother to tuck it in to his trousers.

“No,” Ghari agreed. “There’s a bit of trouble brewing in the followers’ camp. I thought maybe you could do something.”

The captain did not seem pleased. “What is it this time?”

“Some of our people tried to set up a temple to Zegarnald. The Defenders tore it down.”

“Heathen worship is against the law, Ghari. You know that and so do they.”

Ghari placed his hands on his hips and glared at Tarja. “Damn it, Tarja, we followed you here to save Medalon from the Kariens. You told us things would change, that we’d be free to worship our gods —”

“All right, I’ll speak to Jenga,” Tarja promised, obviously not pleased by the prospect then he turned his gaze on Mikel, who shivered with apprehension.

“And what of you, boy?” he asked abruptly. “What are you doing here?”

“Sister Mahina... she sent me to... a messenger came... from the front... she said...” Mikel could have cried as he stuttered under the scrutiny of the captain.

“I gather that means Sister Mahina has received a messenger from the front and she wants to see me?” he translated condescendingly. Mikel’s hatred surged through his veins like lava. I will kill this man one day, he swore silently. Tarja seemed oblivious to his animosity. “This could mean things are about to get interesting.”

“You think the rest of the Kariens have arrived?” Ghari asked.

“Either that, or they’ve packed up and gone home, which would be too much to hope for,” he said, sheathing his blade. “Has anyone told —” Tarja’s words were cut off by an ear-shattering whoop as the Hythrun Raiders suddenly thundered past them at a gallop, leaving them coated in a cloud of fine dust. Tarja glared at the troop angrily, spitting grit as he watched them vanish into the dust. “What in the name of the Founders are they up to?”

Ghari wiped his eyes. “Something’s caught their attention.”

Tarja shook his head in annoyance and followed the path of the Raiders. He strode ahead of Ghari and Mikel, who had to run to catch up. The Raiders had not gone far. They were milling about, shouting incomprehensibly a mere fifty paces from the edge of the camp, kicking up a cloud of dust as thick as a winter fog in Yarnarrow. Mikel watched the Raiders curiously, coughing as the dust tickled the back of his throat. He glanced over his shoulder and discovered most of the men on the training ground had stopped what they were doing and had turned to see what the commotion was about.

Tarja strode on, then suddenly stopped, frozen to the spot, as three figures began to materialise out of the dust. All three were on foot, and Mikel immediately recognised the figure in the centre, leading his lathered golden stallion, as the Hythrun Warlord who had been missing these past weeks. The man on his left Mikel had never seen before, but he was tall and lean with dark hair and walked with long, easy strides. Damin Wolfblade was grinning like a fool, obviously enormously pleased with himself. The tall man beside him simply looked satisfied. The figure to the right of the Warlord made Mikel gasp. It was a woman, he realised, wearing close-fitting dark leathers that showed every line of her statuesque body in startling detail, an outfit that would have seen her stoned had she dared wear it in Karien. As she neared them, the Warlord and the other man stopped and waited, letting her walk on alone. She was very tall and had long, dark red hair that fell in a thick braid to her waist. She was the most beautiful woman Mikel had ever seen, even when he was at court; prettier even than the Lady Chastity, who was supposed to be the most beautiful woman in all of Karien.

He glanced up at Tarja, whose expression had changed from anger to awe. As the woman walked towards him, Mikel thought he could have killed Tarja, had he a knife, and the captain would not have noticed, so enthralled did he seem at the sight of the pretty lady.

“By the gods!” Ghari breathed softly behind him. “She’s alive!”

Ghari apparently knew who the pretty lady was, but his words seemed to break the spell that held Tarja motionless. The captain walked out to meet her, and as soon as she saw him, the pretty lady broke into a run. She collided with Tarja, who swept her off the ground and spun her around in a full circle with an inarticulate cry. He was kissing her before her feet touched the ground, a deed that had the gathered army cheering and Mikel blushing with embarrassment at such a wanton public display.

“Who is she?” Mikel asked Ghari. He looked up at the young man and was startled to see his eyes misted with tears.

“R’shiel,” Ghari explained, although the name meant nothing to him. Ghari glanced down at him and ruffled his cropped hair with a grin. “She’s the demon child. She’s come back to us!”

That description meant as little to Mikel as the lady’s name, but it seemed fitting that a man as evil as Tarja would be attracted to a demon. The crowd flowed past him as the soldiers all converged on the returning Warlord and his companions. He quickly lost sight of Tarja and R’shiel as the crowd swallowed them.

Mikel turned away, his heart heavy. It was bad enough that these Medalonians seemed so organised and battle ready, but it was patently unfair that Tarja Tenragan was allowed to be happy, or that they had demons on their side. He impatiently brushed away tears of anger and said a silent prayer to Xaphista.

Help me, he prayed. The demon child has returned to help our enemies.

Mikel had no way of knowing if Xaphista had heard him or not.

He would have been astonished and delighted to know that he had.

Chapter 20

The Karien war camp proved to be as uncomfortable as Adrina had feared. Cratyn’s army was slow in gathering and many of his knights had been here far longer than they ever intended. The sixty days they owed their king was long past. What kept them at the border now was the hope of recovering some of the cost of their expedition once they reached Medalon, and the exhortations of the priesthood that this was a holy war. When one feared eternal damnation, it was easier to stay and fight. Food was scarce and so was fuel; winter was fast approaching. Nobody had expected the Defenders to be waiting on the border when the knights arrived.

The original force of five hundred had been deemed sufficient to cow the unprepared Medalonians and punish them for their temerity. Instead they were met by a large force of Defenders with Hythrun allies and defences that left the knights gasping. There was nothing hurried or hastily thought-out about their earthworks. Even to the inexperienced eye it was obvious that the Defenders planned to force the battle along a path of their choosing. Although Adrina heard some of the knights boast that the first sight of an armoured charge would send the Defenders scurrying, she knew better. Whoever had planned the defence of the Medalon border had planned this long ago – and planned it well. Taking Medalon was not going to be easy, despite the Kariens’ numerical superiority and the much-talked-about blessing of the Overlord.

Not surprisingly, Adrina’s first appearance at the war council caused a stir, even more than Tristan’s inclusion. Tristan was a man, after all, and a warrior, for all that he was foreign. It was not considered seemly for a woman to involve herself in such manly pursuits as war, even in the unlikely event that she would have anything constructive to offer. Adrina bore the insults stoically, letting Cratyn defend his decision to his vassals. If he was going to lead these men, he needed the practice, anyway.

The war council was made up of the eight Dukes of Karien. The loudest was a heavy-set man with a thick neck and an even thicker intellect – Laetho, the Duke of Kirkland. Adrina marked him as a dangerous fool. He had apparently lost two of his servants a few months back, having sent the children over the border to spy on the Medalonians. It was safely assumed they were both dead. Only an idiot would, quite literally, send boys out to do a man’s job.

The man next to Laetho was as tall, but only half his girth. Lord Roache, the Duke of Morrus. He said little and gave the impression that he wasn’t listening, more often than not, but when he did comment, it was obvious he had not missed a word of the discussion. Adrina regarded him with caution.

Next to Roache, she was delighted to discover Cratyn’s cousin Drendyn, the Earl of Tiler’s Pass. His father was too infirm to make the journey to the border and had sent his son in his place. Drendyn was young and enthusiastic, but dangerously inexperienced. He had never faced a man in battle, never had his life seriously threatened. Adrina thought it likely he would die, sooner rather than later, no doubt doing something exceptionally foolish, which he considered exceptionally brave. It was a pity really, because she quite liked the young Earl.

The fourth member of the council was even younger and more inexperienced than Drendyn. Jannis, the Earl of Menthall, was also here in the place of his father, although Tam had heard it rumoured that the reason the old Duke was absent had something to do with the “wages of sin”. Adrina wondered if it meant he’d caught the pox, but it was hardly a question she could put to any of her Karien companions, and the reason hardly mattered anyway. Dark and slender, Jannis was barely more than a child and agreed with everyone, even when they disagreed with each other.

On the other side of the long trestle table set up in the large command tent was Palen, the Duke of Lake Isony. He was a lot smarter than he looked. He had the ruddy face of a peasant and the mind of a general, Adrina decided. If Cratyn listened to his advice, he might even win this war. On Palen’s right sat Ervin, the Duke of Windhaven. His purpose seemed entirely decorative. He was dressed in blue velvet with snowy lace collar and cuffs, and spent more time fiddling with his moustaches than he did taking part in the conversation. When he did speak up it was usually on a point that had been passed over ten minutes before.

Next to Ervin was a stout, middle-aged man with a patch over one eye. The Duke of Nerlin, Wherland had the unfortunate nickname of Whirlin’ Nerlin, but he was an experienced fighter, having spent time in the gulf fighting Fardohnyan pirates. His advice was always preceded with the comment, “When I was in the navy...”. But he wasn’t a fool, and when he finally figured out how to fight on dry land, he would be a dangerous opponent.

The last of the Dukes should have been Chastity’s father Terbolt, the Duke of Setenton; however, he had sent his brother, Lord Ciril, in his place. A heavier version of his older brother, Ciril did not look surprised at her inclusion. He had already suffered through her unwelcome presence when she visited his brother’s castle on the way to Yarnarrow. Adrina wondered why Terbolt had stayed at home, hoping there was nothing sinister in his unexplained absence. As for Ciril, she marked him as a stolid, if unimaginative knight, who would advise caution, but would see any battle plan through to the bitter end.

She said nothing during the first meeting of the council and had, via Tamylan, advised Tristan to do the same. If they asked him a direct question, she translated it for him and then dutifully repeated his answers to the Dukes. To his credit, Tristan gave no sign that he understood a word of the discussion going on around him, even when the Kariens suggested things that, under normal circumstances, would have made him laugh out loud. By the time the meeting broke up, nothing had been decided, and there were eight dukes with eight different ideas as to how the battle should be engaged, well, seven in reality – Jannis agreed with everyone – and one very confused young prince.

When the tent finally emptied, leaving Cratyn and Adrina alone, she turned to him with a hopeful smile.

“It is the right time in my cycle, your Highness. Can I expect you tonight?”

“I’ll see. I have a lot to do.”

“Of course, however, it’s been several months now and we still haven’t consummated our union. Perhaps here, on the battlefield, you might find the... fortitude... to get the job done.”

Cratyn glared at her, his expression a mixture of hatred and despair. “Don’t push me, Adrina.”

“Push you, husband? I doubt pushing you would achieve any more than pulling your limp sword has so far.”

“You taunt me at your peril, Adrina.”

She laughed. “Peril? What peril? What are you going to do, Cretin? Hit me again?”

“I’m warning you...”

“Does your sword get hard when you think of Chastity, my dear?”

Cratyn flew out his chair and turned to face her. He was red faced with shame and shaking with fury. “Don’t you even mention her name, you pagan whore! I’m not fooled by this act you are putting on! If I cannot lay with you, it is because the Overlord does not wish me to sully myself in your filth!”

Adrina took a step backwards, her hand on Tiler’s collar. The dog took exception to Cratyn’s tone and he was growling softly, warningly.

“Perhaps you’re right, Cretin. Perhaps you are cast in the image of your god. He’s undoubtedly an emasculated idiot, too.”

Cratyn snatched up a map from the table and made a show of studying it. His hands were shaking with suppressed rage. “Return to your tent, Adrina, and take that damned beast with you. I will come to you when the Overlord assures me the time is right, not to satisfy your crude heathen lust.”

“Lust? Now there’s a word I never thought to associate with you. Are you sure you know what it means?”

“Get out.”

“Get out, your Highness,” she corrected.

He slammed the map onto the table. “Get out! Go back to your tent and stay there! I will not tolerate your pagan disrespect a moment longer!”

His shout had Tiler lunging against her hold. He bared his teeth at the prince defiantly.

“Don’t you dare take that tone with me, you impotent fool! I am a Princess of Fardohnya!”

“You are a heathen slut,” he cried angrily.

She could not hold Tiler any longer. He slipped her hold and lunged for the prince. Cratyn threw his hand up to protect his face as the dog flew at him. His cry brought the guards running from outside the tent.

It almost happened too quickly for Adrina to see. Tiler had Cratyn pinned against the table. The guards saw nothing but their prince under attack. Adrina saw the blade in the hand of the guard and screamed as she realised what they intended. She threw herself at the dog, but the guards were quicker. Tiler squealed with agony as the guard ran him through.

“No!” she sobbed as the dog slid to the ground.

“Sire? Are you all right?” the guard asked with concern as he helped Cratyn up. Tiler had savaged his arm, but he had managed to fend off the worst of the attack.

“You killed my dog!” Adrina accused, unaware of the tears coursing down her face. “I want him punished, Cretin! He killed my dog!”

“Your damned dog was trying to kill me!” Cratyn gasped, still shaking from fear and shock. “I’m more inclined to knight him.”

Adrina brushed away her tears and gently kissed Tiler’s limp head before climbing to her feet.

“You’ll pay for this,” she warned, then she turned and walked out of the tent with all the regal bearing her breeding and ancestry allowed.

When she reached her own tent she dismissed her ladies-in-waiting impatiently and called for Tam. When her maid found her, she was tearing at the laces of her bodice impatiently, sobbing inconsolably.

“Here, let me do that,” Tam offered, as she saw Adrina struggling. The princess knocked the offered hand away.

“No! I can do it myself! I want you to go and see Tristan. We’re getting out of here.”

The young woman studied her closely. “Out of here? How?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. But we’re leaving and I don’t care what it does to the alliance, to the war, or to my father. I’ve had enough!”

“We’re a thousand leagues from home in the middle of a battlefield on the border of an enemy nation,” Tamylan pointed out. “Where are you planning to go, your Highness?”

Adrina glared at her in annoyance then sagged onto her bed. It was a large four-poster that had taken a full team of oxen to bring it to the front. One of the trappings of her station designed to inconvenience Cratyn.

“I don’t know,” she sniffed, wiping her eyes. “Oh, Tam, they killed Tiler!”

The slave opened her arms and she sobbed against Tamylan’s shoulder hopelessly. Grief was a new emotion for Adrina. She had never before lost a living soul she had loved.

“There, there, I know it hurts, but it will pass in time,” Tam advised.

Adrina wiped her eyes and sat up determinedly. “I can’t do this any more, Tamylan. I don’t care if there’s a crown at the end of it. I cannot bear these people. It’s like a prison.”

“I understand, your Highness, but think it through before you act too hastily. This might be a prison, but it’s a sight more comfortable than the one awaiting you on the other side of the border, or worse, if you were caught by the Kariens trying to run away.”

Adrina looked up at the slave who had been by her side for as long as she could remember. “You always did say more than was proper for a slave.”

“That’s because I’ve always been your friend first, Adrina.”

Adrina smiled wanly. “Even though you were my slave?”

“Slavery is a state of mind, your Highness,” she shrugged. “You’re a princess, yet you’ve less freedom than I have. I never minded being a slave. It just meant that I knew where I stood.”

After Tamylan left, Adrina lay on the bed and thought on what the slave had said. She was right. Even being a princess didn’t stop you from being used by other people for their own ends, or save you from being hurt. If anything, it made you more vulnerable. Well, enough was enough. She would find a way out of this and she would never, as long as she lived, ever allow a man to hurt her again.

And by the gods, she vowed, she would make Cratyn pay.