That was the name of her nemesis.
Wrayan Lightfinger.
CHAPTER 38
The temple devoted to the God of War in Cabradell was far less pretentious than the temple in Greenharbour. At this late hour it was deserted, lit only by a single candle burning on the altar at the far end of the hall. Near the doors were two tall pillars covered with spikes to allow worshippers a chance to prick a finger on their way out of the temple, leaving a blood sacrifice—however symbolic—for their god.
Brak wasn’t sure what had brought him here tonight. He certainly had no intention of offering the God of War a sacrifice. As far as he was concerned, Zegarnald was getting plenty of satisfaction from the war currently brewing between Fardohnya and Hythria. He didn’t need any of Brak’s blood spilt to add to his joy.
Maybe he missed Ollie’s company, he wondered, walking further into the temple. Piled in front of the altar were a number of dead animals, ranging from cats and dogs to a newborn kid, left by petitioners seeking more than a simple blessing from their deity. The young Fardohnyan bandit had driven Brak insane on their journey here with his credulous, wide-eyed acceptance of everything he heard, and his foolish, romantic notions about being a spy. But he’d been company of sorts and Brak hated being alone with his thoughts. Ollie kept his mind on other things and in that regard, he missed the young man sorely.
Stepping up to the altar, Brak saw that scratched on the wall, like some sort of chaotic abstract mural, were the names of generation after generation of firstborn sons offered to Zegarnald by their fathers the night of their birth. That custom, along with the Hythrun propensity to solve most of their problems by fighting about them, had a lot to do with the God of War’s fondness for these people.
The Halfbreed was intrigued by what the War God was really up to, and although he tried hard to convince himself it was none of his business, Brak knew, in his heart, that if he could do anything to foil Zegarnald’s plans, he’d probably do it. The gods didn’t often directly interfere with the mortal world. The results were never what they hoped and often catastrophic. If the God of War was meddling now, then he had a reason, and Brak would dearly like to know what it was.
So he had come here tonight, it dawned on Brak at that moment, to ask the god outright what he was up to, and be done with it.
“Zegarnald!”
Brak waited a moment and then called again.
“Zegarnald!”
“Well, well,” the god remarked, appearing before Brak in a blaze of light. “Lord Brakandaran té Cam in my temple. And without being invited. Or dragged here against his will.”
“Do you mind?” Brak complained, raising his arm and averting his eyes. Zegarnald was almost too bright to look upon, his golden armour emitting a light of its own. It wasn’t necessary. It was an affectation, Zegarnald glorying in his growing power. And gloating about it.
“What can I do for you, Brakandaran?” the god asked curiously, as he faded to a more tolerable luminescence. “Can I assume that now you have abandoned your foolish dalliance with the followers of Dacendaran, you have come to beg my forgiveness? And perhaps ask for my patronage?”
Brak lowered his arm now he no longer needed to shield his eyes, amused by the very idea. “Now why would I want your patronage, Zegarnald? You’re far too demanding a god for my liking. At least Dace just wants his followers to steal something. And he doesn’t ask for blood, either, even a symbolic amount.”
“If you do not seek my patronage, Brakandaran, what are you doing in my temple? Why did you summon me?”
“Maybe I just wanted to talk.”
“In seven hundred years you have never just wanted to talk, Brakandaran.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
Zegarnald glared at him. “I have not the time to waste, while you entertain yourself with riddles at my expense. Why did you summon me?”
To ask you what the hell you’re playing at, was Brak’s first thought, but he was too familiar with the gods to expect an answer to such a direct question. Getting anything out of a god required subtlety. “Actually, I came to congratulate you, Divine One. You may have finally arranged things so that Hablet of Fardohnya will achieve what no Fardohnyan king has ever managed to do before—reclaim Hythria and unite the two kingdoms for the first time since Greneth the Elder divided Greater Fardohnya and awarded it, and his twin sister, to Jaycon Wolfblade twelve hundred years ago.”
“Was it really so long ago?” Zegarnald asked. “It’s so hard to keep track of these things.” The god hesitated, frowning. “What do you mean, Hablet will reclaim Hythria? I’ve arranged no such thing. I expect the Hythrun to resist the Fardohnyan invasion with every man they can muster. It will be a glorious and epic struggle that will go on for years and be honoured by generations of my followers.”
“I have no doubt that was your intention,” Brak agreed. “But you messed up somewhere. Not only has Voden’s little dalliance with the plague cost you tens of thousands of believers, it devastated Hythria’s militia. They’re down to a fraction of the numbers they could muster before the epidemic. And just to make it really interesting, what’s left of your Hythrun army of desperate defenders is going to be led by that well-known disciple of mediocrity, Lernen Wolfblade. Somehow, I think Hablet might prevail a little more quickly than you planned, don’t you?”
Zegarnald was obviously confused. “Is not the Wolfblade scion leading the Hythrun forces?”
“From what I hear, it wouldn’t help your cause much if he did. He’s a regular chip off the old block, by all accounts.”
“You are mistaken, Brakandaran. I have taken some pains to ensure the Wolfblade heir is a worthy successor to the throne. And a devout follower of his god. He seemed most anxious to honour me when I spoke to him.”
Brak was shocked. “You appeared to Damin Wolfblade? In person?”
“I can appear to anybody I please.”
“Isn’t that crossing the line? I mean, it’s one thing to arrange circumstances to suit your agenda, Divine One, but if you start sticking your nose in too closely, won’t the other gods think they can do the same?” Brak’s brow creased in concern at the thought. “I can just imagine what Kalianah would do if she thought she had a free hand to make people fall in love on her whim. You might find your armies otherwise engaged when you sound the battle cry if the Goddess of Love had been let loose among your followers with the idea that it’s open season on your believers.”
He watched the apprehension grow on the War God’s face. Long experience had taught Brak that the easiest way to upset him was to suggest the Goddess of Love was trying to encroach on his territory.
Zegarnald shook his head in denial. “You are wrong, Brakandaran. Kalianah would not dare interfere with my war. Even she knows what is at stake here.”
“We are talking about the same Kalianah, aren’t we?” Brak enquired with a raised brow.
The God of War thought it over for a little longer, clearly not pleased. “Have you been speaking to her?” he demanded. “Putting ideas in her head?”
“Of course not, Divine One!” Brak assured him. “You know me. I never get involved in your business if I can avoid it.”
“So you claim.”
“So how did he take it?”
“How did who take what?” the god asked in confusion.
“The Wolfblade lad. When you appeared to him.”
“He was honoured. Naturally.”
Brak eyed the god doubtfully. “Well, you would think that, wouldn’t you? What did you tell him?”
“Just that I supported his endeavours.”
Brak swore under his breath. “Oh? Is that all?”
Zegamald drew himself up self-righteously. “I have not interfered in another god’s domain, Brakandaran,” the god insisted. “I don’t know why you’re so upset. The lad was quite moved to meet his god.”
“I’ll bet he was,” Brak agreed sourly. “So moved, he’ll probably lead every man un
der his command to their deaths in your honour, because he thinks you’re on his side.”
“I am not unaware of the risk. In fact, I have provided him with a mentor to ensure he puts up a decent fight. As you say, it would be a pity if the conflict ended too soon.”
Brak stared at him suspiciously. There was something else going on here, more than just the God of War playing games to bolster his disciples. “What’s the real reason for this war, Divine One?”
“I need Hythria and Fardohnya, both, ready to tackle the real enemy.”
“Who?”
“Xaphista.”
For once, Brak was stunned into silence. Of all the motives he’d imagined Zegarnald had for stirring up this conflict, the god of the Kariens was the last thing he’d have thought of.
“There will be a confrontation, Brakandaran,” the War God continued. “It will not happen for a time yet, but there will be a confrontation, and when it comes, the fate of every nation on this continent will hang in the balance. Already, plans to deal with the threat of Xaphista are in motion. You’ve even had a hand in them, unwittingly.”
That sounded ominous. “I’ve had a hand in them?”
“Indirectly,” the god agreed.
Brak wasn’t sure he wanted to know what that meant. “And how exactly is a war between Fardohnya and Hythria supposed to weaken Xaphista? If they wipe each other out, you’ve just handed the Overlord the whole continent on a platter.”
“No human has fought a proper war in more than a generation. The nations of the south have grown lax. Their devotion wavers and their warriors grow fat. To face the final battle, they will need experience.”
That Zegarnald was probably right about the Hythrun and the Fardohnyans lacking real experience in battle didn’t make his actions any easier to live with.
“There’s a name for this inconvenient state of affairs, you know,” Brak reminded him. “It’s called peace.”
“It is not peace.” the God of War corrected, almost choking on the word. “It is complacency.”
“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Zegarnald, but your timing’s a little off. Your precious, well-trained scion isn’t old enough to lead anybody anywhere. His uncle is in charge, and Hablet of Fardohnya will walk all over Lernen Wolfblade like a well-worn doormat. Between Lernen and all those fat warriors, this little war you’ve stirred up will be lucky if it lasts a month.”
The God of War didn’t appear amused. “A situation you would find to your liking, I suspect, Brakandaran,” he accused.
Brak couldn’t help himself. He smiled. “You know me, Divine One. I find the machinations of the gods an endless source of entertainment.”
“Then perhaps,” the god suggested, clearly irritated by his smirk, “I should find something else to keep you amused.”
In the blink of an eye the walls around Brak faded, replaced by tall, snow-tipped pines. A bitter chill sharpened the air and his breath frosted as he exhaled in surprise.
Below him, a white palace rested on a small island near the edge of a lake, the water reflecting the torchlit palace in its obsidian surface so perfectly it appeared as if the lake itself was on fire. Dotting the plain surrounding the lake and the nearby town were countless camp fires, stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see.
Brak knew immediately where he was. That was the Winter Palace down there and near it the city of Qorinipor. The camp fires were Hablet’s army, gathering for the invasion.
He was back in Fardohnya.
CHAPTER 39
Despite all his best efforts, Hablet of Fardohnya and his trusty eunuch, Lecter Turon, had little success in keeping his daughter away from Axelle Regis. With uncanny accuracy, every time the general even looked like visiting the palace, Adrina was there, fluttering her eyes coyly at Lord Regis as if he was the only man in Fardohnya worthy of her attention.
Hablet knew exactly how she did it. Adrina might be a shrew among her peers but she was very careful of her slaves. And remarkably considerate of them. Consequently, she had access to palace gossip that would not normally reach the ears of the highborn. Because of her generosity and consideration and because she championed the cause of any lesser creature she considered mistreated, the palace slaves quickly became Adrina’s co-conspirators as much as her lackeys. If the cooks were ordered to prepare an extra place for dinner, Adrina knew about it before the dining room staff had a chance to rearrange the seating. If a groom met Lord Regis at the palace steps and led his horse away to be rubbed down and fed, Adrina was descending the staircase—a vision of loveliness—greeting him with those devastating green eyes, before any slave out in the stables had the time to take so much as a currycomb to the beast.
It was yet another sign of her astuteness, the king knew. Confined to the harem and informed only of what her father wished her to know, the young princess had found a way to get information independent of official channels and used her advantage every chance she could.
Not for the first time, Hablet lamented the capricious will of the gods that had given him a firstborn with all the qualities he wished for in a son and then deposited them-most inconsiderately—in a daughter.
And this evening—yet again—Adrina had foiled all his efforts to exclude her. She sat opposite Axelle Regis, flirting with him so openly Hablet wondered why she didn’t just shove the silverware aside, throw herself at the young man and suggest he take her, right here on the dinner table.
Even more troubling was Axelle Regis’s reaction to Adrina’s open flirtation. He responded just enough not to offend the princess, but was very guarded in the presence of the king. That indicated the general was in possession of a disturbing degree of political acumen. Just the sort of thing a king wants in a general, but damned inconvenient when your eldest daughter is looking at him with those dangerous bedroom eyes.
Hablet would have been happier if Axelle had responded to Adrina the way any red-blooded man should have, or better yet, if he’d run like hell at the first hint the king’s daughter was interested in him. Either would have left Hablet certain where Regis stood on the matter. Unfortunately, Axelle Regis did neither, which immediately made the king suspicious and that meant Lord Regis’s career was likely to be a glorious but short one, which was a shame really, because Hablet genuinely liked the general. But the King of Fardohnya would tolerate no rivals and a man of Axelle’s obvious ability aligned with the eldest daughter of a king with no male heir was a temptation too rich for most men.
“What do you think, Daddy?”
Adrina’s question jerked Hablet out of his disturbing train of thought. “What?”
“Lord Regis and I were discussing hunting, Daddy,” she explained. “Weren’t you listening? He was telling me he thinks the chase is better than the kill. Whereas I think the kill is the best part …” Her voice dropped to a low purr and although she was supposed to be speaking to her father, Adrina’s eyes were firmly fixed on Regis. “You know what I mean … when you’re all hot and sweaty and breathing hard and you’ve finally cornered your quarry and you can see the fear … the excitement in their eyes … taste the blood …” Adrina ran her hand over her neck as she spoke, as if in the cool depths of the Winter Palace, she could feel the heat of the image she’d evoked and was obviously aroused by it.
Hablet silently cursed the custom that gave daughters like Adrina access to court’esa. She was dangerous enough without professional instruction on the art of seduction.
“So what do you think, Daddy?” she repeated, after running her tongue over her lips to moisten them. “What do you enjoy most? The chase? Or the kill?”
Before the king could answer, the door opened and one of Lord Regis’s lieutenants entered the dining room. Bowing to the king and then hurrying to his general’s side, he leaned over and whispered something into Axelle’s ear.
Lord Regis rose to his feet as soon as the young man had finished speaking. “I must beg to be excused, your majesty. I have word of a spy who has
just returned from across the border. I’d like to interview him immediately.”
“Surely it can wait, Lord Regis?” Adrina asked, disappointed. “You haven’t finished your dessert.”
“Unfortunately, it can’t wait, your highness,” Regis replied apologetically. “This is one of the bandits we recruited from the mountains around Westbrook and he’s been all the way to Cabradell. He has the first accurate assessment of Hythrun troop numbers and composition.”
“Then you’ll want to hear about it too, won’t you, Daddy?” she asked. “Why not just have him brought in here? That way you can interrogate him and I won’t have to be deprived of your company. Or yours either, Daddy,” she added with an innocent glance in the king’s direction.
“Have him brought in.” Hablet shrugged when Regis looked to him for guidance. It didn’t really matter, the king supposed, what Adrina learned about the Hythrun. It wasn’t likely to do her any good and while, like Regis, he was anxious to hear what the spy had to say, she was right. He hadn’t finished his dessert.
Regis ordered his lieutenant to bring the man to them and resumed his seat. A few moments later the officer returned with a nervous young man in tow who looked about him in open awe, and then dropped to his knees and placed his forehead on the floor when he realised he was in the presence of his king.
Hablet smiled. Abject abasement was always a good way to open a discussion with the King of Fardohnya.
“Get up, lad,” the king ordered indulgently. “I hear you bring us vital news of the enemy.”
“I do, your majesty, I do!” the young man gushed.
“What’s your name?” Regis asked.
“Ollie Kantel, my lord. I went into Hythria with Master Andaran.”
“I remember him,” the general replied. “Very experienced but rather arrogant fellow, as I recall. Is he not with you?”
Ollie shook his head. “He’s still in Cabradell, my lord. He was waiting for the rest of the Hythrun armies to arrive. So he could report on their final numbers.”
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