Harshini

by Jennifer Fallon

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

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

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

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

  “My Lord.”

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

  “I require rooms,” he announced.

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

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

  “Did you want anyone in particular?”

  “I need to speak with the Raven.”

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

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

  “You know him then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I wish to speak to him.”

  “The Raven doesn’t speak to anyone.”

  “He’ll speak to me.”

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

  “Gernard?”

  “The innkeeper.”

  “Ah…can I offer you some wine?”

  “No.”

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

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

  “I am Brakandaran.”

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

  “You require proof?”

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

  “And what is that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Can you afford to be wrong?”

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

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

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

  “The demons live to protect the Harshini,” he pointed out with a shrug. He bent down and picked the demon up, stroking her leathery skin, trying to calm her. She took a very dim view of anyone trying to hurt a member of her clan and was all for vaporising the woman where she stood.<
br />
  The assassin stared at him for a moment, as he stood there soothing the angry demon and then dropped to one knee. “Divine One.”

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

  She stood up and met his eyes.

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 8

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

  “I think he’s awake.”

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

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

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

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

  “Am I a prisoner?” he asked.

  “Not that they’ve told me, sir.”

  “Then why the ropes?”

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

  “Denjon? Denjon is here?”

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

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

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

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

  “How are you feeling?”

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

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

  “Where’s R’shiel?”

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

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

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

  Tarja, it began without preamble. If you are reading this, it means you survived. You were wounded trying to help me, and I tried to save your life. The Harshini part of me helped heal your wound, and the demons should do the rest. Brak says they’ll leave you when you’re well.

  He read the paragraph twice. Most of what she had written made no sense. He had been wounded, it seemed, and she had used her magic to heal him. He could not understand the part about the demons, though. Shaking his head, he read on.

  I have gone on ahead to Hythria with Damin and Adrina. I want their marriage to bring peace to the south, but I must support Damin in Hythria. I might learn about my destiny there, too. I’ll explain why it’s so important when I see you. Founders, how I hate being the demon child! I wish I could have stayed with you…

  I sent Brak to Fardohnya to tell King Hablet that his daughter is now the future High Princess of Hythria. That might stop him invading Hythria through Medalon come spring.

  Tarja smiled. Damin and Adrina were married. He wondered what R’shiel had threatened them with to make that happen.

  You must know by now that I killed the Karien prince and Lord Terbolt the morning after you tried to rescue me, so the Kariens will probably want my head even more now.

  We’ve arranged to meet you all in Krakandar. From Damin’s side of the border you’ll be able to plan retaking Medalon. The thousand men you have now is too few to do anything but annoy the Kariens, but with Hythrun help, we’ll make those Karien bastards pay for invading Medalon.

  Denjon is on our side, but be careful of Linst.

  R’shiel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “How many of the others feel like him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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