“Well, if she doesn’t like the idea, tell her to take it up with the demon child,” she told him, picking up a silver-backed hairbrush. She turned her back to him and began brushing out her long dark hair.
He had been dismissed.
Damin let himself out of Adrina’s rooms, thinking on what she had said about his mother and sister. She wasn’t far off the mark. Marla did nothing without thinking it through. As for Kalan, Adrina was right about her too. The High Arrion wouldn’t leave Greenharbour without a very good reason. His unease at finding his palace steps lined with silver-uniformed soldiers from the Sorcerers’ Collective still lingered.
“My Lord?”
Damin turned to find Orleon coming towards him at his usual, unhurried pace. The old man was as much a part of Krakandar Palace as the stones in the walls. He never aged noticeably that Damin could see. He still seemed the same, grey-haired, eagle-eyed watchdog that he’d been when Damin was a child.
“Yes, Orleon?”
“You have a visitor, my Lord.”
From the slight tone of reproach, Damin could guess who it was. “Where is he?”
“In the Morning Room, my Lord. I suggest you go there now, while we still have the silverware.”
Damin grinned at Orleon’s expression and changed the direction he was headed. The Morning Room was on the ground floor, and he took the broad marble steps two at a time, anxious to see his visitor. When he threw open the door, the man in question was holding up a small statue to the light, examining it with the critical eye of an expert.
“It’s not worth your attention,” Damin told him, as he closed the door behind him. “You’d get more for the candelabra.”
The fair-haired man slowly replaced the statue on the mantle before he turned to Damin.
“Perhaps. But that’s inscribed with the Krakenshield crest. Too easy to trace it back to its source.”
“When has that ever bothered you?”
The man smiled and crossed the room, catching Damin in a crushing bear hug, before holding him at arm’s length to look at him closely. Older by two years, but of a much slighter build, his clothes were expertly cut of expensive silk and he wore them with the cavalier air of a nobleman. His blue eyes were bright with intelligence and a level of animal cunning that Damin had often envied as a child. He looked prosperous and happy. Business must be good, Damin thought, not altogether pleased by the thought.
“Welcome home, Damin. It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too, Starros. How’s business?”
“It’ll be better now that you’re home.”
Damin moved to the sidetable, shaking his head. “I’m sure you mean it as a compliment, old friend, but telling me that my return is going to favour Krakandar’s criminal element, really doesn’t thrill me.”
He pulled the stopper from the decanter and poured two cups of wine, handing one to Starros with a smile. The thief frowned as he accepted the wine.
“You know what I mean, Damin. All these troops from the Sorcerers’ Collective and Elasapine filling up our streets is no good for my people.”
“Maybe I should invite them to stay.”
“Maybe you should invite them to leave,” Starros corrected.
Damin looked at him curiously. “Perhaps you’d better fill me in.”
They settled into the heavily padded chairs on either side of the hearth. The fire burned low—more glowing coals than flame—but it gave off enough heat to take the chill out of the air. Damin carried the decanter with him, certain he would need another drink before Starros was through.
“The Collective troops arrived about a month ago. Kalan made quite an impressive entrance, and then declared the city under the Collective’s protection. Your mother arrived before her by a few days, and Narvell and his henchmen got here last week.”
“Why did Kalan place the city under the Collective’s protection? That only happens when a Warlord dies without an heir.”
“You’ll have to ask Kalan, I’m afraid. I tried to get in to see her, but she doesn’t entertain the likes of me since she became High Arrion.”
Damin frowned, wondering what was really going on. He’d had no chance to speak to Kalan alone since he arrived, and she had not sought him out. Even more worrying was Kalan’s refusal to see Starros. The leader of the Thieves’ Guild was—so rumour claimed—Almodavar’s bastard son. He had grown up here in the palace with them and was counted among their closest friends. Even if she could not acknowledge her friendship with Starros openly, she had never refused to see him before.
“What else has been happening since I left?”
“Not much. Things were pretty quiet until your mother got here. But then things always get sticky once she turns up.”
Damin smiled in fond remembrance. “You remember that time she arrived from Elasapine and we’d gone fishing in the fens?”
“The time she found me beating the stuffing out of you in that bog?” Starros laughed. “I remember. Gods, we must have looked a sight. All mud and blood and black eyes.”
“You were not beating me,” Damin corrected. “I was letting you win.”
“You were bawling your eyes out like a baby!”
“I was not!”
“You were so! And I’ll never let you forget it, either. It was the only time I ever beat you in a fair fight, Damin Wolfblade.” Starros finished his wine and held out his cup for a refill. Damin shook his head and smiled. It wasn’t really worth arguing about. He leaned over and filled the cup without getting out of his chair. Starros sipped the wine appreciatively. “So, I hear you’ve taken a bride.”
“That’s right.”
“A Fardohnyan?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, you always did like to live dangerously. Is she pretty?”
“Very.”
“Worth the trouble?”
Damin grinned. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Starros chuckled softly. “And the rumour that you have brought the demon child to Hythria? Is that true?”
Damin lowered the cup from his lips and stared at Starros. “Where did you hear that?”
“I have my sources,” the thief told him smugly.
“I’m serious, Starros. How did you hear about it so soon?”
“Soon? Hell, we’ve known about it for weeks!” He looked at Damin, his smile fading.
“Who told you?”
“It’s really bothering you, isn’t it? Nobody told me, not in the way you’re thinking. It was a bit odd, actually. About six or seven weeks ago, an old man appeared in the city. Didn’t bother anyone at first, just roamed the streets trying to convince the working court’esa that their eternal souls were in danger if they didn’t renounce their way of life. He stood on a few street corners and gave speeches that nobody listened to. You know the type. We average about one prophet a month in a good year, so we paid him little attention.”
“But—” Damin prompted, certain there was more to the story.
“Do you remember Limik the Leopard?” Starros asked.
“Tall fellow? Scarred hands?”
Starros nodded. “He burned them as a child.”
“Didn’t I have him flogged once for beating his wife?”
“That’s the one. Hard case through and through.”
“I remember him,” Damin said. “What’s he got to do with the old man?”
“I’m getting to that. I sent Limik out on a job…oh, about three weeks ago, I think. A certain merchant in Felt Street had a bad habit of leaving his wife’s jewellery laying about the house. In our profession, that sort of carelessness can’t be allowed to go unpunished.”
“Of course not,” Damin agreed wryly.
“Anyway, Limik’s an old hand at that sort of thing, so I sent him out to teach our merchant friend a lesson. He did the job and was on his way back to the Guild when he bumped into the old man.”
“What happened?”
“Limik went back to
the house, confessed his crime to the merchant—who didn’t even realise he’d been robbed—and from that day on, he followed the old man around like a puppy, telling anyone who’d listen that he’d denounced Dacendaran, and was now a follower of another god.”
“Which other god?”
“He didn’t say. But he used the word ‘sin’ a lot.”
Damin frowned. “That sounds like Xaphista.”
“Not even Limik, in the throes of religious ecstasy, is stupid enough to use that name out loud in the streets of Krakandar,” Starros said. “But after that day, the old man changed his tune. He started talking about you. Said you’d allied yourself with the godless ones—I guess he meant the Medalonians—and that you were consorting with the demon child. Next thing you know, Kalan turns up with her troops and places the city under the Collective’s protection.”
“Where is this old man now?”
“Gone,” Starros shrugged. “As soon as I got word you were on your way home, I sent my people out to find him. He’s dropped out of sight. Vanished as if he was never here.”
“And Limik?”
“The day after the old man vanished, Limik robbed three houses and a tavern. He claims he can’t remember a thing. Threatened to knife me for even suggesting he’d ever confess to any crime, let alone turn away from Dacendaran.”
Damin stared into his wine for a moment. “So, what’s your theory?”
“I don’t have one, Damin. Strange old men and inexplicable religious experiences are not my line of business. That’s what we have a High Arrion for.”
Damin nodded, more than a little concerned. “I’ll mention it to Kalan.”
“You might want to mention it to the demon child, too.”
“Why?”
“Because along with reforming thieves and prostitutes, the old man was trying to find someone willing to kill her.”
CHAPTER 13
“Damin!”
Still brooding over Starros’ disturbing news, Damin was startled out of his reverie by R’shiel. He turned as she ran the length of the broad hall, skidding on the polished floor as she neared him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I need to see Kalan, and Orleon told me she’s in the Solar. As I have no idea what a Solar is or how to find it in this rabbit warren you call a palace, I was hoping you could show me the way.”
“Of course,” he said, offering his arm. She took it lightly and fell into step beside him. Her hair was damp from her bath, but she still wore the Harshini leathers she favoured so much. At least he thought they were made of leather. They never seemed to get dirty the way other, ordinary clothes did.
“So, have you spoken to Adrina?”
“Yes. She’s being remarkably cooperative. It has me worried.”
R’shiel laughed. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Damin.”
“You know, the annoying thing is, she’s actually very smart underneath that obnoxious attitude of hers. But I still don’t trust her.”
“You should. She does love you, you know.”
“Adrina? Don’t be absurd. She loves flirting with danger. And power. And herself.”
“She said much the same thing about you.”
Damin looked at R’shiel, shaking his head. “Stop trying to create romance where there is none, R’shiel. You wanted us to marry and we did, but don’t think you can ease your own guilt by inventing some relationship between us that doesn’t exist.”
She studied him thoughtfully for a moment then shrugged. “As you wish.”
They walked in silence after that, through the long, wide halls of the palace, each of them certain that the other was wrong.
Kalan greeted them as they stepped into the Solar. “Demon child; Damin.”
“My name is R’shiel.”
“It would be improper of me to address you so informally, Divine One.”
R’shiel sighed. “Whatever.”
The room had been added to the palace by Damin’s paternal grandmother and was roofed in clear glass tiles. The far wall was also glassed, and opened out into the palace gardens, which were looking rather forlorn, Damin noted with a frown. The furniture here had been cleverly wrought from iron, brightly coloured cushions relieving its convoluted lines. Damin never used the room much. As children they had avoided it. It was too easy for some passing palace courtier to see inside and discover what mischief they were up to.
“There are a few things I need to ask you,” R’shiel explained.
“Then I’ll leave you two in private,” Damin said. Getting caught between the High Arrion and the demon child wasn’t something he relished.
“I think you should stay, Damin,” Kalan suggested. “I imagine this concerns you as much as anyone.”
“I don’t think…”
“Stay, Damin,” R’shiel ordered. “There’s nothing I need to ask the High Arrion that you don’t already know about.”
“Before I answer your questions, Divine One, perhaps you’d like to start by telling me what absurd Harshini plot you’ve cooked up that required my brother to betray his country by marrying that Fardohnyan harlot.”
“While we’re all so busy with explanations, you can tell me what you’re doing here with an occupation force,” he retorted. For some reason, Kalan’s insistence on referring to Adrina as “that Fardohnyan harlot” was starting to aggravate him.
“Damin, calm down,” R’shiel advised then turned to the High Arrion. “Don’t judge Adrina too harshly, Kalan. She has a good head on her shoulders and your brother loves her.”
“Not that I noticed.”
“Then you’re not as observant as I thought,” R’shiel shrugged. “Please sit down. This could take a while so we might as well be comfortable.”
“If you’re planning to convince me this is a good idea, then we could be here all night,” Kalan remarked as she sat down on the chaise near the fireplace. The clouds moving in front of the sun shadowed the room. It made her expression hard to read.
“There was a time when the Hythrun did not question the Harshini.”
“That time is long past, demon child. The Harshini abandoned us and we learnt to survive on our own. Nothing personal, mind you—the Harshini presence in Greenharbour has been most welcome these past few months—but why should we submit to your people again?”
“Because without the Harshini all Hythria will continue to be is a pack of squabbling Warlords, each trying to kill the others to gain more territory,” Damin said. “Hythria is better than that.”
“That’s very noble of you, Damin. You hope to appeal to my patriotism in lieu of my political instincts, is that it?” Kalan smiled, as if the very idea was laughable.
“No, it’s your political instincts we’re relying on.”
Kalan turned to R’shiel. “What do you mean?”
“I have to destroy Xaphista, Kalan. I’m hoping you can tell me how.”
“You think the Sorcerers’ Collective is privy to such secrets?”
“It’s hardly something I can ask the Harshini.”
Kalan smiled faintly. “I suppose not, but don’t get your hopes up, Divine One. There may be something in the archives that I’m not aware of, but even in ancient times, the gods weren’t renowned for documenting the instructions for their own demise and leaving them lying about where a mortal could find them. And even if we have the knowledge you seek, with Hythria on the brink of civil war, I’ve neither the time nor the inclination to aid you in such an undertaking.”
“On the brink of civil war?” Damin scoffed. “Aren’t you exaggerating just a little, Kalan?”
“You don’t know the half of it, brother,” she scowled. “You wanted to know what I was doing here? Well, I’ll tell you. I’m here because the Warlord of Dregian Province tried to have you declared dead and your province gifted to his younger brother. Krakandar is currently under the protection of the Sorcerers’ Collective. I occupied your city because without me, you wouldn’t have a city.”
“Cyrus tried to have me removed?” The idea was laughable.
“It’s worse than that. He’s publicly calling you a traitor.”
“Let him! Who would believe him anyhow?”
“A lot of people. You left Krakandar all but unguarded, and even the lowliest beggar in the street has heard the rumours that Fardohnya is planning to invade us. You made a treaty with Medalon without consulting anyone. You sent Narvell to Bordertown to help the Defenders. It might have been different if you’d sent him to guard your border, but you didn’t. You sent him into Medalon. And now you return home like nothing is wrong, bringing with you the daughter of our worst enemy as your bride. The wonder is not that Cyrus has accused you, Damin. It’s that nobody has acted on it until now.”
“I have to get to Greenharbour,” he said, thinking of several rather painful and exotic things that he would like to do to the Warlord of Dregian Province. “I’ll put that obnoxious little upstart in his place. What’s Lernen been doing while all this is going on?”
“Fretting,” Kalan told him. “He’s not been well lately and Cyrus has his ear. He knows what Lernen likes and, more importantly, what he fears. You’ve no idea the damage he’s done in your absence.”
R’shiel was looking at him with concern. He did not realise how dangerous his expression was until he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass.
“Don’t do anything hasty, Damin.”
“What I plan to do to Cyrus will be very, very slow, R’shiel.”
“I don’t have time for you to start a war, Damin.”
He smiled coldly. “Don’t worry. It’ll be a nasty little war, but a short one.”
“How long ago did all this happen?” R’shiel asked Kalan, sparing Damin an exasperated look.
“Over a month ago. I’ve been here since the Feast of Jonadalup. Mother came here as soon as she realised Krakandar was under threat. Narvell arrived six days ago.”
“But now that he’s back, you can release Krakandar and return to Greenharbour, right?”
“No. We’ll have to go back to Greenharbour so Damin can petition the Convocation of Warlords for the return of his province.”
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