“I’ll come with you,” Mandah announced abruptly.
“Don’t be stupid,” Tarja retorted without thinking.
“But I was a Novice once,” she explained. “I know how to behave like a Sister of the Blade. Disguised as a Sister I can commandeer the ferry and once aboard you can take it out into the middle of the river, set fire to it, then swim ashore once it’s well and truly ablaze.”
“That may even work,” Denjon said thoughtfully.
“It’s too dangerous.”
Mandah laughed softly. “Dangerous? Tarja, I was fighting in the rebellion long before you came along and nothing much has changed that I can see. Why is it too dangerous for me and not for you?”
Tarja was unable to answer her. He could hardly admit his bravery had more to do with his desire to escape his own thoughts than it did from any innate sense of honour. Turning back to face the Kariens meant not having to continue south. It meant not having to face R’shiel for a little while longer. He was afraid to admit how much that thought relieved him.
“She has a point, Tarja. You’ll raise less suspicion travelling with a Sister than you would if you travel alone.”
“Then it’s settled. I’m going with you,” Mandah declared.
“Are you really so anxious to throw your life away?” he asked her with a frown.
“I don’t plan to throw my life away, Tarja, and I wasn’t aware that this was a suicide mission.” Her eyes challenged him to deny her accusation.
Tarja looked away first. “No, I’m not planning a suicide mission. You can come if you wish. We’ll be riding hard though. It won’t be easy.”
“If I’d wanted ‘easy’, Tarja, I would have stayed with the Sisterhood.”
Later that evening, Tarja sat in the taproom of the Roan Vale tavern finishing his meal, wondering why Mandah had accused him of planning a suicide mission. He didn’t feel suicidal. But neither did the prospect of dying unduly concern him. As he pondered the matter, he realised that the only thing he felt about death, when he consciously thought about it at all, was apathy. He did not hunger for death. He did not particularly hunger for life. He simply didn’t care.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
Tarja looked up at the old man who had spoken and glanced around the room. The taproom was filled to capacity and the only spare seat was the empty bench opposite him. He wondered for a moment if the others were avoiding him.
“Suit yourself,” he replied with a shrug.
The man sat down with his foaming tankard and smiled at Tarja. He had long white hair and a disturbingly familiar air about him that Tarja couldn’t quite place.
“You look troubled, my son.”
“These are troubling times.”
“And you bear a heavier burden than most, I suspect.”
Tarja shrugged but didn’t offer a reply. He had no wish to fall into conversation with this old man, whoever he was.
“I hear you flee Medalon to join the demon child?”
Tarja looked up sharply. “Where did you hear that?”
“The rumours are everywhere,” the old man told him. “There’s not a Defender here who isn’t whispering the news to his comrades.”
That’s true enough, he thought. Too many of these men were there when R’shiel revealed her power. It’s long past the point of being a secret.
“Well,” the old man continued, taking a sip of his ale, “one can hardly blame you for being worried.”
“Who says I’m worried?”
“Every line on your face proclaims it, Captain.”
“Thanks for your concern, but you needn’t be worried on my behalf. We have everything under control.”
“I’m sure you do,” the old man agreed solemnly. “But nothing will ever be certain while the demon child lives.”
Tarja studied the old man suspiciously. He wasn’t so full of his own troubles that he didn’t recognise a threat to R’shiel when he heard it.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean nothing,” he shrugged. “It just seems to me that the Kariens would be much more amenable if they weren’t facing the threat of the demon child. Isn’t she supposed to destroy their God? How would you feel if you thought someone was trying to destroy everything that you held dear? One doesn’t have to be on their side to understand what drives them. I just think it odd that the Defenders are going to such pains to protect the very one whose presence caused this conflict in the first place.”
“R’shiel didn’t start this war.”
“Didn’t she? Isn’t her existence what prompted the Kariens to act? You killed their Envoy because he was trying to take R’shiel to Karien, didn’t you? Why do you defend her? If Medalon means so much to you, why not simply hand her over and be done with it? She’s your greatest bargaining chip, yet you refuse to play it. Is she so important to you that you are willing to risk your entire nation to protect her?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, old man,” Tarja scoffed, unwilling to admit that his logic made frightening sense. Could it really be that simple? Could they end this conflict now by trading R’shiel to the Kariens? Would their enemy withdraw for something so easily arranged? Tarja shook his head, unable to believe that he could even consider betraying her.
The old man looked at him closely, as if he could read Tarja’s internal conflict. Then he smiled and shrugged and took another swallow of his ale.
“You must forgive me, Captain. I let my mouth run away with me at times. I’m just an old man who sees things a little differently from younger men. What would I know? I wish you luck in your quest.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Tarja replied, pushing away the remains of his stew. For some reason he had lost his appetite.
“I just hope the demon child appreciates the sacrifice you have made for her, Captain.”
The old man downed the rest of his ale and climbed to his feet. Tarja watched him as he threaded his way through the crowd to the door, disturbed to discover how easily the seeds of doubt and treachery planted by the old man had found fertile ground inside his troubled mind.
CHAPTER 19
Slaves lined the walls of the Main Hall of the Summer Palace, moving the languid air about with large rattan fans, although at this time of year the temperature was quite bearable. It was an impressive chamber, crowded with courtiers and supplicants awaiting the chance for an audience with their king. The potted palms provided the perfect backdrop for the clusters of schemers and sycophants who always seemed to find their way into any royal court, regardless of where it was or who was in power. Hablet held open court here each morning when he was in residence, and made a point of putting in an appearance, even if he never actually heard a petition.
Brak moved among the jewelled and pampered crowd, dressed in the garish yellow silk trousers and embroidered vest Teriahna had provided for him. She had claimed, with a perfectly straight face, that it gave him an air of “rustic nobility”. He assumed she meant he looked like the provincial lord he was pretending to be. He privately suspected he looked like an idiot.
Eventually he spied the man he was searching for and pushed his way through the courtiers to confront him. Hablet had yet to arrive and his Chamberlain, Lecter Turon, was busy openly collecting the bribes that would ensure one a place at the head of the queue. Brak had no intention of parting with a single coin to see Hablet. He had far better currency to deal with.
“My Lord Chamberlain?”
The eunuch turned to Brak and looked him over with a practised eye, taking in his air of “rustic nobility” and dismissing him as inconsequential with a single glance.
“Can I be of assistance, my Lord?” he asked rather impatiently.
“I wish to see the king.”
“As does every other man here,” the eunuch sighed.
“I was told you could arrange it.”
“Ah, now that can be difficult. The king is a very busy man.”
“
I could make it worth your while.”
Lecter’s eyes narrowed greedily. “Such a consideration would be expensive, my Lord.”
“Then the Raven was mistaken when she said you could help me.”
Lecter paled, his bald head shining with sweat. “The Raven?”
“Did I forget to mention that she recommended you? The Raven seems to know quite a lot about you, actually, Chamberlain Turon. I wonder why that is?”
The Chamberlain looked decidedly uncomfortable with the notion that the head of the Assassins’ Guild was taking a personal interest in him. “I will do what I can, my Lord, but as you may have heard, the king is in mourning for his cousin, the High Prince of Hythria.”
“I’m sure he’s devastated,” Brak agreed wryly. “But I won’t need more than a moment of his time.”
“May I inquire as to the nature of your business with the king?”
“I have news for him that would be best delivered in private.”
“Please wait here, my Lord. I will see what I can do.”
It wasn’t long before Turon returned and beckoned Brak forward. Brak followed him through the curious and envious stares to the delicately carved doors at the end of the hall. He knocked once and entered without waiting for an answer.
“Your Majesty! Allow me to introduce Lord…what was your name?”
“Brakandaran.”
“Lord Brakandaran! From…” Lecter looked at him questioningly.
“I come from Sanctuary,” Brak said.
Up until that point, the king had been sitting behind his elaborate gilt desk, reading from a parchment scroll in front of him, utterly uninterested in his guest. At the mention of Sanctuary his head jerked up and he stared at Brak with bright, birdlike eyes.
“Where did you say?”
“Sanctuary.”
“Which one?”
“There is only one, Your Majesty.”
“Lecter! Leave us!”
Hablet’s tone left no room for argument. The Chamberlain hurried to do as he was bid. As the door closed, Brak stepped further into the room and looked around with interest. The doors to the balcony were open and he could hear faint childish voices from the lush gardens below. The King’s private chamber had barely changed since he last stood here confronting Hablet’s great-grandfather.
“You look human,” Hablet accused as soon as they were alone. His voice was anything but friendly, but at least he made no pretence of not understanding who Brak was.
“I’m only half Harshini. It’s an advantage at times.”
“Brakandaran, did you say your name was? Not Brakandaran the Half-Breed, surely? I thought you’d be long dead by now.”
“As you can see, I’m not dead.”
“What do you want? If you’re here to petition my court for a place for one of your damned sorcerers, you’re wasting your time. I’ll not have the Harshini spying on my every move for that degenerate in Hythria.”
“That degenerate in Hythria is dead,” Brak pointed out. “I was led to believe you were mourning him.”
“Ha! Dancing on his grave, more like it. Is that why you’re here? Now Lernen is dead, you’ve decided to come to me for protection? You should have come here first, in any case. It was a grave insult to Fardohnya, the Harshini King sending his people to Lernen’s court without coming here first.”
“You just said you didn’t want any Harshini in your court.”
“That’s not the point. You should have offered. I have served the gods faithfully. I deserve it.”
Brak knew it was hopeless trying to argue with such a man. “Your Majesty, the decision to allow the Harshini to return to the Sorcerers’ Collective was not mine to make. I might point out, however, that if you hadn’t rounded up every member of the Sorcerers’ Collective and had them thrown in gaol when you assumed the throne, my king might have considered sending someone to Fardohnya. As it is, you’ve a lot of explaining to do.”
Hablet tugged on his beard unhappily. “They were Hythrun spies.”
“And the others you killed when you inherited the crown? What was their crime?”
“You’ve been around long enough to know what happens in Fardohnya when a new king takes the throne. Why quibble about it now?”
“Your barbaric practices don’t concern me, Hablet. Interesting though, that they were never practised when there were Harshini in the Fardohnyan court.”
“That’s because the Harshini are so damned squeamish. Now, did you want something in particular, or are you just going to stand there and chide me for things I did thirty years ago?”
Brak’s eyes darkened and he waved his arm, drawing a chair from the side of the room across the polished floor with an uncomfortable screech. When the chair magically arrived at his side, he sat down and leaned back, smiling at the Fardohnyan king.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I will have a seat.”
Hablet’s eyes widened. He had never been confronted with true Harshini power before. His day-to-day dealings with the gods involved bribing the temples and praying for a legitimate son.
“What do you want?”
“You and I need to have a talk about your heir.”
“I’ll name my heir when I’m good and ready,” Hablet declared. “And no black-eyed bastard from Sanctuary is going to make me appoint someone I don’t want.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Your Majesty, however circumstances have arisen of which you are not aware, and they will radically affect your choice.”
Hablet squinted at him “What circumstances? Ah! I have it! You’ve discovered that stupid law about leaving my crown to a Wolfblade, haven’t you? Well you can go back to Sanctuary and tell Lorandranek, or whoever the hell sent you here, that Talabar harbour will freeze in high summer before I let a Wolfblade set foot in Fardohnya, let alone sit on my throne.”
“I wasn’t sent by Lorandranek, Your Majesty. He’s been dead for over twenty years. Korandellan is King of the Harshini now.”
“I don’t care if the damned First Sister of Medalon is king!”
“I was sent here by the demon child.”
“The demon child? Are you drunk? The demon child is a legend made up to frighten children. Lorandranek never sired a half-human child.”
“Perhaps if you hadn’t been so hasty throwing the Sorcerers’ Collective out of Fardohnya, you might know that he did.”
“Who is he then? Where is he?”
“Her name is R’shiel.”
“A girl?” Hablet laughed with genuine amusement. “Why would the gods invest such power in a female?”
“Perhaps they don’t share your prejudice.”
“Perhaps they’re not as smart as they think they are,” the king scoffed.
“I don’t suggest you say that in Jelanna’s hearing,” Brak warned. “Maybe that’s why the Goddess of Fertility has denied you a legitimate son. She must know what you think of women.”
“Don’t you threaten me with my beliefs,” the king warned. “I am a faithful servant of the Goddess.”
“So I’ve heard,” Brak agreed with a wry smile.
“So, this demon child…this girl…sent you here to tell me who to name as my heir?” Hablet laughed scornfully. “I don’t know what’s funnier—that she thinks she can dictate to me, or that you actually thought I would listen to you.”
“You’d better listen to me, Hablet,” Brak warned. “There will be no legitimate son for you. Your heir will be as the law decrees—it will be Damin Wolfblade.”
“Over my dead body!”
“Exactly,” Brak pointed out simply.
“I’d rather give my crown to that simpering Karien idiot Adrina married than name that Hythrun barbarian my heir.”
“That might prove difficult,” Brak murmured, but Hablet wasn’t listening to him.
“Anyway, you’re mad if you think the people of Fardohnya would ever accept a Hythrun king!”
“They would accept a Fardohnyan queen.”
�
��Oh! So now you want him to marry one of my daughters, I suppose!”
“No need,” Brak said, with a smug smile. “The demon child has already taken care of that minor detail.”
Hablet stilled warily. “What do you mean by that?”
“Ah, now those would be the circumstances I spoke of,” Brak said, brushing a fleck of dust from his yellow silk trousers as he deliberately drew out the silence.
“What circumstances?” Hablet demanded.
“Cratyn is dead, Your Majesty. Your daughter has remarried.”
“Remarried? Who?”
“Perhaps you’d like to hazard a guess?” he suggested. He was rather enjoying Hablet’s discomfort.
“No!” the king cried, leaping to his feet, his face almost as crimson as the silk-panelled walls. “I’ll not tolerate this! I’ll disown her! Damn it, I’ll invade Hythria and bring her back!”
“Your House is now united with the House of Wolfblade. You will honour the peace between your Houses and do no such thing. As the Wolfblade House is the ruling House in Hythria, it is now beyond your reach. You can’t invade them and you can’t make war on them.”
“This is intolerable!”
Brak smiled serenely. “I’m sure you’ll learn to live with it.”
“Get out! Get out of my palace! Get out of my country, for that matter! Take your damned Harshini manipulations and your demon child and get the hell out of Fardohnya!”
Brak drew on enough power to blacken his eyes again, rose to his feet and loomed over the Fardohnyan king.
“You will abide by the law. You will name Damin Wolfblade your heir and you will give your blessing to his marriage to Adrina.”
“Never!”
“Then be prepared for the consequences, Your Majesty,” Brak warned. “You defy the demon child at your peril.”
CHAPTER 20
It was obvious that Cyrus Eaglespike and his cronies were in control of Greenharbour. The streets, while not exactly deserted, were unnaturally free of the normal bustle of commerce that one would expect in the greatest trading port in the south. There were no soldiers from the Sorcerers’ Collective in evidence and no sign of the Palace Guard either. Although the guards made no move to prevent Damin and his force entering the sparkling white city, their breastplates were embossed with a soaring eagle.
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