Harshini dct-3

by Jennifer Fallon

  “Why would anybody, god or man, put a spell on me to make me love R'shiel?”

  Mandah shrugged. “Who can guess the mind of a god? But think about what has happened since then. Would you have rescued her from the Grimfield? Or from the Kariens? Would you have done half of what you did, if you were not driven to keep her by your side? Perhaps it was the gods' way of protecting R'shiel.”

  “I am getting pretty bloody sick of your gods, Mandah.”

  She smiled. “You have served them remarkably well for an atheist.”

  “I wasn't planning to serve them at all.”

  “One cannot avoid one's destiny, Tarja, and like it or not, you are tied to the demon child.” She smiled comfortingly. “Try not to let it bother you. If it was a geas, then you're not responsible for how you felt about her. You shouldn't feel guilty for feeling that way, or that you don't feel that way any longer.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let it go, Tarja. And get some sleep.”

  “Later,” he promised, turning back to the map.

  Mandah hesitated for a moment, perhaps hoping he would confide in her further, but he had already said more than he intended. After a while he heard the door snick shut behind her as she let herself out of the cellar.

  Once she was gone, Tarja swore softly under his breath for a time, cursing every pagan god he could name.

  CHAPTER 16

  In the days that followed the news of the death of High Prince Lernen, all of Krakandar seemed to be in turmoil. The streets were draped with black and the gongs in the temples rang almost constantly, tolling the death of the High Prince. At night the city was a blaze of light as the citizens placed candles and lanterns at their doors to show Lernen's soul the way to the underworld, should he stumble into their street on his journey there. After three houses caught fire in the Beggars' Quarter, Damin declared the official mourning period at an end. He understood his subjects' need to follow tradition, but he didn't want his city burned to the ground for the sake of a man that very few genuinely lamented.

  Rogan Bearbow, the Warlord of Izcomdar, had delivered the news. His province bordered Damin's to the south and although the two had never been close, he was politically astute enough to ride north to Krakandar to see if Damin was in residence, before choosing which side he would take. That he would eventually have to choose a side, Damin was certain. Along with the news that Lernen had been dead for close on a month came the news that Cyrus Eaglespike, the Warlord of Dregian Province, had laid claim to the High Prince's crown. Apparently his ambitions had grown from merely removing Damin from Krakandar.

  Marla was livid when she heard the news, but Narvell was unsurprised. Cyrus was a distant cousin and had often remarked in the past that should anything happen to Damin or Narvell, he was next in line for the throne. It seemed now that he hadn't been joking. Damin was less worried than he might have been otherwise, knowing that regardless of Cyrus' tenuous claim to the High Prince's mantle, he had the demon child on his side.

  Just how useful an ally she was became evident the first time she met Rogan Bearbow. Older by several years than Damin, he was a tall, aloof man, who ran his province with harsh efficiency and kept the other Warlords at bay by lining his highways with the crucified bodies of any enemy Raiders foolish enough to cross his borders.

  R'shiel had entered the Great Hall with Adrina at her side. Amidst the courtiers crowded into the hall standing in small clusters discussing the implications of the High Prince's death, her skin-tight leathers looked out of place. R'shiel did not seem to care. She strode purposefully towards Damin, leaving Adrina to follow at a more dignified pace.

  “Is it true?” she asked, interrupting his conversation with Rogan.

  Damin nodded. “Rogan had a messenger bird from Greenharbour nearly ten days ago.”

  R'shiel turned on the Warlord. “Why did you take so long to send word?”

  “Excuse me, young woman, but who are you to question me?”

  “I'm sorry, Rogan, I forget my manners,” Damin said distractedly. He was watching Adrina out of the corner of his eye as she approached them, terrified she might do or say something that would embarrass, or worse, endanger them all. “Rogan Bearbow, Warlord of Izcomdar, allow me to introduce Her Royal Highness, R'shiel té Ortyn, the demon child.”

  “The demon child? This is some sort of jest, yes?”

  “This is some sort of jest, no,” R'shiel retorted. “What's happening, Damin?”

  Before he could answer, Adrina reached them. To his astonishment, she curtsied solemnly before him. “My condolences on the loss of your uncle, Your Highness, and my congratulations on your elevation.”

  Damin stared at her in surprise. There was not a trace of sarcasm in her tone, nor a hint of irony. She stood up and met his gaze, her expression grave.

  “And who is this delightful creature?” Rogan asked, quite impressed by her regal bearing.

  “This, Lord Bearbow, is my wife, the Princess Adrina.”

  Adrina smiled demurely at the Warlord and offered him her hand. He bowed and kissed her palm in the traditional manner, studying her closely.

  “You are not Hythrun, I judge, Your Highness.”

  “And you are very astute, my Lord. I am not Hythrun, I am Fardohnyan.”

  Rogan looked at Damin frowning. “You have taken a Fardohnyan bride?”

  “I —” Damin began, but R'shiel cut in before he could answer.

  “He has taken the bride I chose for him, Lord Bearbow. If you wish to object, I can arrange for you to discuss the matter with the gods. Did you have a particular favourite, or will any one of them do?”

  Rogan stared at her, his eyes wide, as it dawned on him that she truly was the demon child. R'shiel's impatient bearing, her entire dismissive attitude that discounted titles and bloodlines, was a sharp reminder that she was not an ordinary mortal. The fact that her bearing had more to do with being raised among the Sisters of the Blade than with her status as the living embodiment of a pagan legend was something that Damin found rather ironic.

  Rogan dropped to one knee in front of R'shiel. “Divine One.”

  R'shiel rolled her eyes, but fortunately, Rogan's head was bowed and he did not see it. When she spoke, her voice betrayed nothing about how she truly felt.

  “Arise, Lord Bearbow. I have no need of your worship.”

  “We may have need of your sword, though,” Damin remarked as the Warlord climbed to his feet.

  “Is there trouble?” Adrina asked.

  “My cousin, Cyrus Eaglespike, has claimed the throne.”

  “Then we must make all possible haste to Greenharbour and take it from him, Your Highness.”

  Rogan smiled grimly at her words. “This Fardohnyan wench has teeth, I see.”

  Damin grimaced as Adrina looked him up and down, her green eyes cold. “I am not a 'wench', my Lord, I am a Fardohnyan Princess of the Blood Royal. Your loyalty to your High Prince does not entitle you to insult me.”

  “I'm sorry, Your Highness,” Rogan mumbled, quite taken back by her reprimand. “I meant no offence.”

  “Then I shall forgive you on this occasion, my Lord. My husband has need of loyal Hythrun such as you. I would not weaken his hand by insisting you be put to death for something so trivial. Not this time.”

  Damin held his breath, waiting for Rogan to explode. Did she have any idea of what she was doing? Damin knew he could count on Narvell, and probably Tejay Lionsclaw from Sunrise Province bordering Fardohnya, but Rogan could go either way. Threatening to hang him for insulting his wife was hardly the way to win him over. But the expected explosion did not eventuate. If anything, Rogan looked shamefaced.

  “I thank you for your forbearance, Your Highness,” he replied with a bow. “And now, if you will excuse me, I must pay my respects to Princess Marla and offer her my condolences.”

  They stood back to let him leave. As soon as he was out of earshot, Damin turned on his wife.

  “What in the name of the gods are you doing
?” he hissed.

  Adrina seemed unfazed by his anger. “Securing your throne.”

  “By threatening him?”

  “Rogan's a barbarian,” she said with a shrug. “He understands open threats. Subtlety would be wasted on him.”

  “And you worked that out after how long?”

  “Not here, Damin,” R'shiel warned, glancing around the hall. “Besides, I think Adrina's right. Rogan appreciates strength. She may have done you a favour.”

  Damin realised at that moment that he was in serious trouble. Adrina was bad enough. R'shiel, when the mood took her, was even worse.

  Together, they were impossible.

  * * *

  Princess Marla set the whole palace in motion to prepare for the journey south to Greenharbour. Kalan left Krakandar the day after Rogan arrived, anxious to return to the capital and gain a measure of control over the situation. No High Prince could be crowned without her approval.

  She was furious that Cyrus Eaglespike would attempt to claim a throne he knew well was not his while she was out of the city. He was a cousin, certainly, but the kinship was distant. Kalan considered him less a threat than an ambitious fool.

  Damin was not so sure. Cyrus would not have claimed the title unless he thought he could hold it, which meant the Warlords of Pentamor and Greenharbour were probably supporting him. With Narvell and Rogan both here in Krakandar, that only left Tejay Lionsclaw, who might not even be aware of the death of the High Prince. Damin had dispatched several birds and two human messengers to inform her, hoping that her constant battles with the Fardohnyan bandits in the Sunrise Mountains did not mean she was out of touch. He needed her in Greenharbour.

  Damin was almost as certain of her support as he was of Narvell's. He had sided with Tejay when her husband died and left her with four small sons, a province to rule and an heir that was only five years old. She was Warlord of Sunrise Province because, against all the objections of the other Warlords, Damin had prevailed upon Lernen to grant her the title, rather than hand it to some ambitious young stud who had little thought for the strategic importance of the province. That had been ten years ago, and the first time he had challenged the Convocation of Warlords. Although tactically sound, his interference had proved politically unwise. He had tipped his hand too early and warned the Warlords what sort of man was heir to the throne. He'd been dodging assassins since he was a small child, but after that day the only place he'd felt truly safe was here in Krakandar. And Medalon, oddly enough.

  “Damin?”

  He turned from the window as Adrina entered the study, almost welcoming the distraction. Adrina had been in an odd mood lately, although he could not fault her behaviour. Rogan was quite enchanted by her, which Damin found amazing. Adrina was a much better judge of character than he had given her credit for. It would have been so much easier if he could trust her.

  “Adrina.”

  “Your mother seems determined to pack the entire palace.”

  “You're not fighting with her again, are you?”

  “No. We just avoid each other. It's easier that way.”

  “Is there anything you need?”

  She crossed the room and came to stand beside him, looking out over the winter-browned gardens. “We need to talk.”

  “Then unlock your door tonight.”

  She had locked it every night since they had been in Krakandar, offering no reason for her sudden desire to sleep alone. It disturbed him to discover how much that bothered him.

  “I'm not going to talk to you in bed, Damin. I want to see your face in the cold light of day.”

  “This sounds serious.”

  “It is, and for once in your life, I need you to be serious.”

  He nodded, careful to keep his expression solemn. “Very well. What did you want to talk about?”

  “I want to know how long you've known that if my father has no legitimate male heir, his throne falls to you.”

  “Ah,” he said uncomfortably. “You've been talking to R'shiel.”

  “How long, Damin?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “I asked first.”

  “The truth? I learnt of it the day after we arrived in Krakandar. Marla told me.”

  “You didn't know before then?”

  “I swear I had no idea.”

  She searched his face for some hint that he was lying. “I believe you, I suppose.”

  “You're too kind, Your Highness.”

  Adrina scowled at him. “Don't start, Damin.”

  “I'm sorry. Was that all you wanted? I really should be meeting with Almodavar and Narvell. It's not that I doubt Brak, but I'm not convinced your father won't attack come spring and I have to make arrangements for the arrival of the Defenders, assuming they get here. It won't do our alliance any good if my people start loosing arrows at them the moment they cross the border.”

  “No, that's not all. I have something to tell you.”

  “Let me guess. You want a divorce?” he asked with a grin.

  Her eyes blazed dangerously. “By the gods, I wish I'd never agreed to this marriage. You are a child, Damin Wolfblade, in the guise of a man. You are incapable of taking anything seriously! How in the gods' name you expect to rule Hythria, I have no idea!”

  He was surprised by her vehemence, and a little guilty. It wasn't often that she spoke to him like this. It was foolish to deny her the opportunity now.

  “I'm sorry, Adrina. That was uncalled for. You've been keeping up your end of the bargain, and I do appreciate it. You've got Rogan wrapped around your little finger and Narvell would probably throw himself on his sword if you asked him. Even Kalan was forced to admit that once they meet you, the other Warlords might eventually come around.”

  “You didn't mention your mother.”

  He shrugged. “The best you're ever likely to get from Marla is begrudging acceptance.”

  “I could live with that if I thought you trusted me.”

  The comment puzzled him. “Trust you?”

  “You treat every word I utter with suspicion. You have done since the day we first met.”

  “Not without just cause,” he pointed out. “You lied to me then. For all I know you're lying to me now. How long have you been aware of the law that made me heir to Hablet's crown?”

  “What are suggesting?”

  “For all I know, you could have been planning this for years. You managed to manipulate Cratyn into taking you to the border. You betrayed him, fled to Medalon and gave your real name to the first Defender you met, almost guaranteeing I would come after you. All you had to do was get rid of Cratyn, marry me, wait till your father dies and I take his throne, then have me killed. You'd rule Hythria and Fardohnya.”

  “That's preposterous! I didn't kill Cratyn.”

  “No, that was the demon child. The same demon child who decided we should be married.”

  “You think R'shiel is part of some twisted plan I have to rule the world? You're insane!”

  She turned away angrily and began to walk towards the door, but he caught her arm and pulled her back. He couldn't hide his grin.

  “You can be so gullible sometimes, Adrina.”

  She punched his chest angrily. “Dammit, Damin! Can't you ever stop fooling around? Have you any idea what's going on around you? You're about to ride into Greenharbour to claim your crown from a usurper. You're likely to have assassins dogging your heels and a civil war on your hands and all you can do is play stupid, childish games!”

  “I know what's going on, Adrina,” he assured her, suddenly serious. “I've had assassins dogging my heels since I was born. I was twelve years old before it was judged safe enough to let me sleep without an armed guard at the foot of my bed and that was only because Almodavar was convinced I was skilled enough to kill a full grown man. But I can live with the threat of assassination and the gods know I can deal with war well enough, but I'll tell you something that might surprise you. I wish I could trust
you. I wish I knew what you were really after. I wish there was some simple way I could be sure about you.”

  “You've never given me a chance, Damin,” she accused.

  He was still holding her arm and when he pulled her to him, she did not object. She looked so open, so honest, so ingenuous, he almost believed her, and he truly wanted to believe her. But if he was wrong, it might cost him his life, although at that moment, holding her so near, her lips so close he could feel her breath on his, the prospect didn't bother him nearly as much as it should have.

  “Sire, Lord Hawksword asks that when you... Oh, I do beg your pardon, Your Highness!” Almodavar stood at the door, clearly embarrassed to find them in such an intimate embrace.

  Adrina stepped away from him with a fleeting look of regret, then turned to the captain. “It's all right, Almodavar. I was just leaving. I'll speak to you later, Damin. When you have more time.”

  “Adrina?”

  She hesitated at the door. “Yes?”

  “What did you want to tell me?”

  “It's not important. Some other time perhaps.”

  “I'll see you later, then?”

  She nodded. “If you wish.”

  When she was gone, Damin turned his attention back to the organisation of Krakandar's defences, unable to shake the feeling that Adrina had left something very important unsaid.

  CHAPTER 17

  Teriahna was waiting for Brak in his room when he returned from his evening meal. He was quite partial to the spicy fare of Fardohnya, and had lingered over his dinner, enjoying the feeling of repletion that comes with a good meal accompanied by an excellent wine. For a fleeting moment he regretted his indulgence, but even had she searched his room, there was nothing for her to find here.

  He did not bother to ask how she had got past the locks. Those skills were taught to apprentice assassins. Besides, he was expecting her. She had promised to arrange to get him into the palace in the guise of a visiting lord from southern Fardohnya, come to court to find a royal bride. Brak had been surprised by her choice of disguise, but she had assured him that with so many daughters to dispose of, Hablet would see any man willing to take one of them off his hands, particularly if he was an insignificant, powerless lord who lived far, far from Talabar.