Harshini

by Jennifer Fallon

  “I can’t spare the men to go trekking off into the wilderness, or wherever Sanctuary is to help them, R’shiel,” Tarja told her. “Even if we could get past the Kariens.”

  “Then we have to bring the Harshini here. To the Citadel.”

  They all turned and looked at her.

  “What?” Garet demanded in horror.

  “The Harshini can’t be killed here. The Citadel won’t permit it.”

  “And you think we’re going to let you bring the Harshini into the Citadel? Absolutely not!” Garet snapped before anyone could say a word.

  “But you must!” Mandah cried. “The Harshini will be slaughtered if you deny them shelter.”

  “Young woman, every Defender in Medalon has been trained to hunt the Harshini down and kill them on sight. And you expect us to let them back into the Citadel?”

  “Tarja?” Mandah begged, her green eyes moist. R’shiel watched her with interest, and more importantly, Tarja’s reaction. He seemed decidedly uncomfortable. Was Mandah the reason Tarja found it so easy to deny the geas? She forced the thought from her mind. She had other, more important things to deal with.

  “Even if I agree, what makes you think the Harshini will want to come?” Tarja asked.

  “It’s that or die in Sanctuary. They can’t willingly take their own lives and staying at Sanctuary would be tantamount to doing that, if there was a chance they could return here to safety.”

  “What about Loclon?”

  “He’ll keep.”

  “You were burning with vengeance a couple of hours ago.”

  “A couple of hours ago I hadn’t inadvertently put several hundred innocent lives in danger.”

  “You bring the Harshini back in here and we’ll be neck deep in pagan rituals within days,” Garet warned.

  “We have a common enemy, Garet,” Tarja pointed out. “I’m inclined to let them come, simply to frustrate the Kariens.”

  “If you don’t let them come, you’ll have the blood of the Harshini on your hands,” R’shiel added.

  Garet laughed sourly. “Do you know how many Harshini the Defenders have killed in the last two hundred years, R’shiel? There’s plenty of blood on our hands already. A bit more won’t make that much difference.”

  “Then it is time to undo some of the damage,” Mandah declared. “You must let them back, Tarja! If you want the pagans to follow you, you can do nothing else.”

  “It didn’t take you long to learn the art of political blackmail, did it?” Garet snapped at Mandah, and then turned to Tarja. “It’s your decision. You’re the Lord Defender now. Just so long as you understand the trouble you’re bringing down on us if you agree.”

  Tarja nodded, but didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to Brak. “Where is Sanctuary, exactly?”

  “In the Sanctuary Mountains.”

  Tarja glared at him.

  “It’s north-west of Testra,” Brak added. “That’s about as specific as I’m willing to get.”

  “Then how are you going to get them out of there? I wasn’t kidding when I said I don’t have the men to spare, and it’s too early in the spring for the passes to be cleared of snow, in any case. Even if we didn’t have half of Karien camped around our walls, I have a list as long as my arm of Sisters we need to arrest before they can get organised against us. I don’t know that I can help you, even if I was inclined to.”

  “They can fly,” R’shiel said. “On dragons.”

  “Oh, well that should reassure the population,” Garet remarked sourly. “A few hundred dragons landing in the Citadel loaded with a race we’ve spent two centuries convincing them we’ve eradicated.”

  “Tarja, please,” R’shiel asked, ignoring Garet’s sarcasm. She needed him to agree. She needed the Harshini safe. Her conscience wouldn’t permit anything else.

  “I don’t suppose there is any way you can do this discreetly?” he asked.

  “You mean try to avoid a few hundred dragons landing in the Citadel loaded with a race that you’ve spent two centuries convincing your people you eradicated?” Brak asked drily.

  “That would be a good start.”

  R’shiel glanced at Brak, who thought for a moment then shook her head. “Not with the Kariens blocking their path.”

  “Even if you can get them here in one piece,” Garet pointed out, “chances are they’ll be attacked on sight, once our people see them.”

  “Then you’d best make sure they’re protected,” R’shiel warned. “You claim you want a different world from the one the Sisterhood left you. Learning to live with the original inhabitants of Medalon seems like a good place to start. You never know, Garet, you may even learn something from them.”

  “I’m learning where your loyalties lie pretty quickly,” he accused.

  “My loyalty is to Medalon.”

  “You’ve an interesting way of showing it.”

  “Enough, Garet,” Tarja sighed. “Arguing will get us nowhere. The Harshini can return, R’shiel, but only if you can promise me that they will not try to reclaim the Citadel or cause any more trouble than they have to.”

  “Interesting that you suspect the Harshini of trying to reclaim the Citadel,” Brak said with a smile. “Have you considered what will happen if the Citadel tries to reclaim the Harshini?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Garet asked suspiciously.

  “He doesn’t mean anything,” R’shiel cut in, before Brak could say anything further. “Do I have your word on this, Tarja?”

  He nodded, but he didn’t seem very pleased with the decision.

  “Then I’ll summon Dranymire and the demons.”

  “Will you send the Divine Ones a message?” Mandah asked. Her eyes were alight at the prospect of seeing a real demon and of meeting the fabled race that she so admired.

  “No. I’m going to have to return to Sanctuary myself to convince the Harshini that any asylum they are offered in the Citadel is genuine.”

  “Can’t Brak go alone?” Tarja asked.

  He shook his head. “I’m not the one who brought this on, nor I am going to be the one to convince Korandellan and his people that you have opened up the Citadel to the Harshini. It will have to come from R’shiel.”

  She nodded and looked at Brak. “Will you come with me?”

  “Don’t I always?” he said.

  “R’shiel!”

  She stopped and turned, waiting for Mandah to catch up with her. The young rebel closed the door of the First Sister’s office and hurried towards them along the carpeted hall.

  “What is it, Mandah?”

  “Could I speak with you?”

  R’shiel shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “About Tarja.”

  “What about him?”

  Mandah stopped before her, taking a deep breath, as if preparing herself mentally for what she planned to say. Brak walked on ahead, leaving them some semblance of privacy. “You know what happened, don’t you? About the geas?”

  “Yes, but how did you know about it?”

  “You forget that I’m a pagan, R’shiel. I know more about the gods and the Harshini than you do.”

  “That’s not difficult,” she agreed with a wan smile.

  “It’s just…well, I wanted to know…”

  “What? If I still have some claim on him?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “No, but I’ve seen the way you look at him. You’ve done it since we first met. Remember that night in the stables in Reddingdale, when you helped us escape the Defenders? You could have found a dozen other ways to hide Tarja, but you had to throw yourself down on top of him and start kissing him.” R’shiel smiled suddenly. “He’s yours if you want him, Mandah. He certainly doesn’t want me any more.”

  “R’shiel, I don’t want you to think that…well, that I’m benefiting from your misfortune.”

  “Don’t worry, Mandah. Tarja is yours if you can hold him. He’s not mine. He never really was.”

  Mandah stu
died her for a moment, as if trying to detect some glimmer of falsehood in R’shiel’s assurance.

  “You’ve changed, R’shiel. There was a time when you would have denied me out of spite.”

  “There was a time I would have done a lot of things, Mandah,” she said. “But I know when I’m beaten. I won’t stand in your way.”

  “Then I have your blessing?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Mandah impulsively hugged R’shiel and then ran back towards the First Sister’s office. And Tarja. R’shiel watched her disappear inside and turned to find Brak leaning on the banister at the top of the stairs, staring at her thoughtfully.

  “What?”

  “That was very noble of you.”

  “You shouldn’t have been listening.”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t have missed that for the world.”

  She stalked past him in annoyance. “Are you coming?”

  “Of course, demon child,” he replied mockingly, as he followed her down the stairs. “Although, I have to say, you were wrong about one thing.”

  R’shiel stopped and glared over her shoulder at him. “What was I wrong about?”

  “You do not know when you’re beaten, R’shiel.”

  PART 4

  DESTINY

  CHAPTER 47

  Damin’s coronation as High Prince was a subdued affair, for which he was grateful. He had no wish to indulge in the orgy of excess that normally accompanied such an event. Greenharbour was still getting over the siege and the battle that had raged through the city streets. There were thousands of homeless and some foods were still being rationed. It would have been asking for trouble if he had sanctioned such indiscriminate waste. Adrina had agreed with him, although Marla had been rather put out. She had spent her life imagining the day when her son would finally be crowned High Prince and was rather annoyed that her grandiose dreams were to be so easily dismissed.

  Kalan had placed the crown on Damin’s head with a wink that only he could see, then placed the High Princess’ crown on Adrina’s dark hair with only the faintest hint of reluctance. There had not been a High Princess in Hythria for more than fifty years and the last one had been a small, timid girl who had struggled through two pregnancies and then finally given up on life when she delivered a healthy girl. She had not lived long enough to learn that the baby had been named Marla. In fact, since the death of one of her twin boys she had delivered the year before, she had not paid much attention to anything. Damin glanced at Marla and wondered what she was thinking as her mother’s crown was placed on his Fardohnyan wife’s head. Her expression was unreadable.

  Following the coronation, they retired to the banquet hall for a moderately extravagant feast, at which all the Warlords of Hythria lined up to pay their respects and renew their allegiance to the House of Wolfblade.

  The four Warlords who had supported him during the civil war approached the high table one by one, and repeated their oaths without hesitation. Tejay Lionsclaw was jovial, Rogan Bearbow grave and respectful. Narvell could barely contain his glee. Only Toren Foxtalon appeared a little wary, no doubt still thanking the gods that he had changed sides before it was too late.

  Once the oaths were out of the way, Damin stood up and silence fell over the gathering. The hall was full, crowded with the Hythrun nobility he could not afford to offend, his new Fardohnyan allies and the Defenders who had arrived in time to save them all. He cast his gaze over them, wondering if ever a High Prince had addressed such an oddly assorted gathering before.

  He raised his cup. “To Hythria!”

  “Hythria!” the guests responded dutifully.

  “It is customary, when a new High Prince takes the throne, to reward those who deserve it, and to punish those who deserve it also. I think we can dispense with the latter. Most of the punishments that needed meting out were taken care of before the coronation.”

  A smattering of laughter wafted through the hall. Damin had been ruthlessly efficient in dealing with his enemies. He had no intention of bringing his child into a court riddled with potential assassins. If there were any souls left who wished him harm they were keeping very quiet about it.

  “It now falls to me to name the Warlords of the provinces that find themselves without a ruling lord. The first province I wish to award is Krakandar, and I gift it to the man who deserves it better than I did. Step forward Lord Almodavar Krakenshield.”

  Almodavar had been warned, of course. One didn’t hand out entire provinces on a whim and the Convocation already had ratified in secret every decision he would announce tonight. But Almodavar still looked stunned. He had worn the same look of blank surprise since Damin had told him about this three days ago.

  The condition for Almodavar’s acceptance had been that he take the name Krakenshield, so that Laran’s name might live on. Almodavar had been his father’s closest friend and had not objected to the condition. No one but he and Almodavar knew of the other condition that Damin had imposed. It made him smile with immature, vengeful delight—his only regret that he wouldn’t be there to see the look on Starros’ face when Almodavar finally acknowledged him as his son and informed the head of the Thieves’ Guild that he was now the heir to Krakandar.

  Almodavar had guarded Krakandar as if it were his own since before Damin was born, and if his son could manage an organisation as volatile as the Thieves’ Guild, ruling an entire province should prove easy by comparison. He had given Almodavar a message for Starros, which his old captain had promised to deliver when he returned home.

  “Tell Starros he did not beat me. I let him win.”

  “Is that it?” Almodavar had asked curiously.

  “He’ll know what I mean.”

  Almodavar stepped forward and swore his oath of allegiance with pride and then moved to the empty seat on the high table with the other Warlords. Applause followed him to his seat. Nobody present doubted either Almodavar or his ability to rule Krakandar. More than a few mothers eyed him speculatively, aware that he was unmarried. More than a few young women present saw the look in their mothers’ eyes and cringed—Almodavar might be capable, but he was old.

  “The next province I wish to award is Dregian.”

  The crowd stilled, wondering who would win the province of the man who had led the coup against the Damin. Many eyes turned on Garina Eaglespike and her three-year-old son Tav, who had been invited to attend. Her elder daughter Bayla sat next to Valorian Lionsclaw with a look of quiet terror in her eyes. If Damin took it into his head to destroy the Eaglespikes completely, she had only her marriage to Valorian to protect her, and Tejay was notoriously intolerant of her daughter-in law. Damin had it in his power to ruin her and there were many wondering why he had allowed her brother and mother to live.

  “I grant Dregian Province to Tav Eaglespike, to be held in trust for him by Lord Bearbow. Tav is to be fostered with his sister at the court of Lady Lionsclaw until he comes of age. Lady Eaglespike may continue to reside in Dregian Province at Lord Bearbow’s pleasure. She may see her son and daughter at Lady Lionsclaw’s pleasure.”

  The decision met with a relieved round of applause. Damin had avoided future trouble by leaving the province in the hands of the Eaglespike family, which had held it since time began, but with Tav raised under Tejay’s watchful eye, he would grow up far differently from the way he would with an embittered mother to poison his mind. Nor would Dregian suffer until the child came of age. Rogan Bearbow’s province was close enough to Dregian that he could easily administer both. Garina had accepted the decision with mixed feelings. She had lost her home and her son, but she would be permitted to keep her life and her position, such as it was. It was more than she could have hoped for and more than most people thought she deserved.

  “That just leaves Greenharbour,” Damin announced as the applause dwindled away to nothing. He glanced across the table at Tejay Lionsclaw. Although she knew what he was about to do, and had even voted for it in the end, she wa
sn’t particularly happy with the idea when he first proposed it. There were no heirs to the Falconlance name. Conin was a distant cousin and had been awarded the province on the death of the previous Warlord. There were no other cousins to placate and no heirs to object to his decision. Adrina sat beside him, unsuspectingly.

  “I grant Greenharbour Province to my brother-in-law, Gaffen of Fardohnya on the condition that he renounces his Fardohnyan citizenship and swears his loyalty to Hythria. He must also renounce any claim to the Fardohnyan throne, and chose a Hythrun name for his House.”

  Stunned silence met his announcement. Adrina stared up at him in astonishment, understanding immediately what his declaration meant. By adopting a Hythrun name and renouncing his Fardohnyan ties, Damin was removing Gaffen from the line of Fardohnyan succession, even indirectly. If Hablet followed tradition and had his bastard sons murdered once he had a legitimate heir, her half-brother would be spared.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed silently, a wealth of emotion in her eyes.

  Damin smiled at her briefly then turned back to face the gathering. They were still staring at him silently. It was Tejay who broke the tension, leaping to her feet as she banged her tankard on the table.

  “Damn it! If I can live with this, the rest of you can!” she declared. “Here’s to Gaffen! None of you would be sitting here if it wasn’t for him and the Defenders who came to our rescue and thank the gods no more of us got killed or we’d have had to appoint a few Medalonian Warlords, too!”

  Someone laughed. Then someone else started clapping and then the whole room joined in. Gaffen stepped forward and swore the oath, just as conscious of its ramifications as his sister.

  He took his place beside Tejay, who appeared to have had something of a change of heart about the big blond Fardohnyan since the Convocation. She was probably ten years his senior, but Tejay liked big men and Gaffen was endowed with a great deal of his court’esa mother’s charm when he wanted to be disarming. Damin shook his head with a smile and resumed his seat.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Adrina asked.