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.”
&nbs
p; 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 t
o 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.
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