“Then perhaps,” Brak suggested ominously as he finished the last of his oysters, “it’s time Hablet acquired a conscience.”
CHAPTER 10
The storm was loud outside, battering against the walls of the tavern where Mikel and Jaymes were staying with R’shiel. Although the low-ceilinged taproom was warm, the fire smoked badly. Their new Medalonian mistress didn’t seem to notice the choking haze, the bad food, or the watery ale. She was deep in conversation with another young woman she had arranged to meet here, who she had introduced earlier as Mandah. The two of them had their heads close together as they talked, although Mikel sensed there was little friendship between the women. Mandah was a year or two older than R’shiel, with long blonde hair, pretty eyes and an air of calm serenity about her that Mikel had never encountered before.
They had been on the road for weeks now, pushing hard to cross the Hythrun border before word of their flight reached the Citadel—or worse, the Kariens. This night, in a run-down tavern in the small, poor village of Roan Vale, was the first break in their relentless journey. R’shiel had come here to meet with Mandah, to organise the remainder of the pagan rebels to join them in Krakandar. At least, that’s what he’d heard her telling Lord Wolfblade. The rest of their party was camped several leagues from the town, sheltering around an isolated farmhouse they had commandeered.
“My Lady?”
R’shiel looked up from the mug of ale she was nursing. “Yes, Jaymes?”
“The innkeeper says your rooms are ready. Shall I take your saddlebags up?”
“If you like.”
Jaymes glanced across at Mikel, then picked up R’shiel’s bags and headed for the staircase at the back of the room. Mikel ate the strange-looking stew the inn provided, and listened as one of Mandah’s men came in to report.
“The road to Bordertown is blocked by a rockslide,” the man said. “You can either winter here in Roan Vale, or attempt to go further east, through Lodanville, and cross the border there.”
“Winter here? I don’t think so. How long will it take if we go through Lodanville?” R’shiel asked with a frown.
“It will add at least a week, my Lady.”
“It can’t be helped, I suppose. I’ll have to speak with Lord Wolfblade, but I think we’ll have no choice but to turn east in the morning.”
The rebel bowed and crossed to a table on the other side of the room, where he joined his companions and gave them the news. They didn’t look happy. One of them complained that the demon child was going to lead them through every village in Medalon before they reached the border. But it was a half-hearted complaint. They knew as well as anyone that the weather was to blame for their delay.
Mikel swallowed the last of his stew and moved around to the other side of the hearth, where the smoke seemed less suffocating, wondering why these rebels seemed so ambivalent. He always imagined that the Medalonians were like the Kariens—united under one purpose. In reality, there were more factions than he could count. There were the Defenders, and the Sisterhood, and the pacifist pagans, and the pagan rebels…and somewhere in amongst all that was the rest of the population, caught in the middle of the power struggle.
“Psst!”
Mikel jumped at the sound and looked behind him. In the darkness beside the hearth, under the woodpile, two large, liquid black eyes stared out at him.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed. “Go away!”
The demon blinked, but didn’t move.
“Begone!” Mikel commanded in a firm whisper. That was what R’shiel said when she wanted the demons to leave. It must have something to do with her being Harshini. It had absolutely no effect when Mikel tried it. The demon simply cocked its head to one side with a look of blank incomprehension on its leathery face.
Mikel looked around nervously. Although the tavern was full of pagan rebels, Mikel didn’t know them well enough to trust their reaction if they spied the creature. “You have to leave!” he insisted, this time speaking Medalonian, hoping the demon might understand that language. “Go back to R’shiel!”
At the mention of R’shiel, the demon began to chitter excitedly.
“Be quiet!”
“Who are you talking to, Mikel?”
Mikel spun around guiltily. “No one, my Lady. I—I thought I heard something in the woodpile.”
“Probably rats,” R’shiel murmured. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, my Lady.”
“Then go and get some sleep, Mikel. We’re leaving at first light.”
He climbed to his feet without looking back at the woodpile and crossed the room until he was standing before R’shiel. “Do you mind if I check the horses first, my Lady?”
R’shiel smiled at him distractedly. “If you like.”
Mikel let himself out into the battering rain and ran the short distance to the stables. Lightning streaked the sky as the rain hammered down. He was shivering and soaked to the skin by the time he pushed the large wooden stable door shut behind him.
“It’s a sour night to be out and about, lad.”
Mikel started at the voice and spun around, squinting in the darkness. The voice belonged to an old man sitting on a haybale. He was wrapped in a tattered dark cloak, smoking a long pipe that gave off a sweet-smelling and vaguely familiar scent. Mikel studied him suspiciously. He looked like some sort of vagabond who had taken shelter from the storm, too poor to afford the inn.
“Who are you?”
“A friend.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Oh, yes, you know me, Mikel.”
“How do you know my name?”
The old man smiled and rose to his feet with a grace that belied his age. He stepped closer to Mikel, his long white hair flowing over his shoulders like a silken waterfall. His eyes were piercingly bright in the gloomy stable.
“No matter, lad. I merely wanted to see that you are well.”
“Why would you care?”
“I care about all my people,” the old man said with a smile.
Despite his suspicions, Mikel found himself drawn to the man. There was something about him, some seductive quality he could not define, which made him want to throw himself into the old man’s arms and lose himself to the security and warmth of his presence.
“What do you want?”
“Nothing,” the old man shrugged. “A moment of your time perhaps. A chance to talk. You travel with the demon child, I see.”
“Who told you that?” Mikel demanded.
He smiled. “Nobody told me, Mikel. I can feel her presence. You are very privileged to be counted among her friends.”
Mikel’s chest swelled a little at the compliment. “R’shiel trusts me.”
“I’m sure she does. It is a rare honour indeed. But don’t you worry that she is leading you into danger?”
“R’shiel is just trying to…” His voice trailed off, as he realised that he actually had no idea what R’shiel was trying to do.
Smiling, the old man sucked on his pipe for a moment.
“She’s helping her people,” Mikel said with determination.
“She is trying to destroy your God.”
“Which god?”
The old man sighed. “It is a sad world indeed if you have to ask that question, Mikel. R’shiel is trying to destroy the Overlord. She was created for that purpose.”
“Why would she want to do that?”
“That is not important,” the old man shrugged. “Merely that you are aiding her. Don’t you worry for your eternal soul?”
“But the other gods said—”
“Ah, yes. The other gods. Well, who am I to deny what the other gods have said? All I can do is warn you, I suppose.”
“Warn me about what?”
“You are aiding the demon child. When the time for retribution comes, your God will remember that you turned on him.”
Mikel opened his mouth to object, but the words wouldn’t come. He had turned on his God. He
had honoured Dacendaran, the God of Thieves, and was personally acquainted with Kalianah, the Goddess of Love. And Gimlorie, the God of Music, had taught him how to sing.
“I didn’t mean to,” Mikel said in a small voice that was almost drowned out by the storm.
The old man smiled and opened his arms wide. “Xaphista forgives you, my son.”
Mikel ran to him, sobbing. Wrapped in the warm embrace of the old man, he felt such an overwhelming love for his God that everything he had done in the past seemed insignificant. The Overlord was the one true God—the only God. He could not understand how he had ever lost sight of that fact.
After a long while, his tears ran out and he looked up into the eyes of the old man.
“What must I do?” he asked.
Mikel returned to the tavern in a state of elation. His whole being was filled with love for his God, his mind focused only on the task before him. The rain had eased as he let himself into the smoky taproom, and his small hand clutched his dagger. He was filled with purpose and the secure knowledge that this was right.
R’shiel still sat at the table talking with Mandah, although they had been joined by another man. He could hear what they were saying, but the voices were muffled as if he was listening through a waterfall.
“The Defenders are planning to cross the Glass River at Testra,” R’shiel was telling them. “If you meet them on this side at Vanahiem, you can tell them which way we went. Hopefully, by the time they cross the river, the roads will be clear and they can get straight through to Hythria.”
The innkeeper must have overheard them. He hurried forward, pushed Mikel out of the way and bowed to R’shiel, his expression horrified.
“Forgive me, my Lady, if I misunderstood you, but surely you’re not planning to bring these men through here?”
“Why not?”
“But the Kariens will be pursuing them! We’ll be slaughtered if they think we were harbouring traitors.”
Mandah looked up at the overwrought tavern keeper with a smile. “Woran, you’ve been harbouring rebels here since before I was born.”
“That’s not true! This is a respectable establishment.”
“This is a flea-ridden, rat-infested hovel,” the man at the table laughed.
“But if the Karien priests should hear of it…And what of the other people here in Roan Vale? Can’t you send the Defenders by another route?”
“It will be all right, Woran,” Mandah assured him.
Mikel moved closer to the table. The dagger felt warm and comforting in his hand. Mandah spied him and frowned. “Look at you, child, you’re drenched!”
R’shiel looked up at him with a shake of her head. “Go stand by the fire, Mikel. You’ll catch your death if you sleep in those wet clothes.”
Mikel didn’t answer. He stared at the demon child, seeing nothing but the woman who was destined to destroy his God.
“Mikel? What happened to you?”
He turned slightly to find Jaymes standing behind him. His brother seemed a stranger. Everyone in the room seemed to be a stranger.
“Come on,” Jaymes said. “Let’s go dry you out.”
Mikel let Jaymes lead him to the fire without resisting. He looked over his shoulder at R’shiel, but she had resumed her conversation with Mandah and the other rebel. The dagger burned with unfulfilled longing in his grasp.
“What were you thinking?” Jaymes asked as he peeled Mikel’s sodden cloak from his shoulder. “Look at you! You’re blue with cold and stiff as a board.”
The demon who had been hiding in the woodpile chittered at him in concern as Jaymes shook out his dripping cloak. Mikel stared at the creature for a moment in confusion. Its appearance made him lose his train of thought and he suddenly began to notice how cold and wet he was. He moved closer to the fire and glanced across the room at R’shiel. She caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye and smiled.
He smiled back with the odd feeling that he had meant to do something important, but could not for the life of him remember what it was. He realised then that his hand was still clutched around the hilt of his dagger, his grip so tight that his fingers were cramping.
Mikel let it go, wondering why he was holding it.
PART 2
THE MEN WHO WOULD BE KINGS
CHAPTER 11
Krakandar turned out to be nothing like Adrina imagined. She had somehow developed the impression that Damin’s home was some sort of isolated, rustic abode with minimal amenities and barely literate servants, all scurrying about in rat-infested, thatchcovered huts. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, but she was unprepared for the large, walled city that confronted her some six weeks after she fled the border with Damin and Tarja.
Krakandar’s population numbered close to twenty thousand. The city had been carefully planned and was laid out in a series of concentric rings. Not only that, but it was, even to the untrained eye, impregnable. There were three rings, each one protected by progressively more complex defences. The inner ring housed the palace and most of the government buildings, including a huge store, which was filled as insurance against a siege each year at harvest time. Just prior to the harvest, the past year’s grain was distributed to the poor, and come harvest, Damin explained, the warehouses were filled again for the following year. The central ring was mostly housing, the residences progressively more imposing the closer one got to the inner ring. The vast outer ring was the home to the markets and industries of the city.
Built on a small hill, the palace commanded a view of the entire city, which sprawled across the surrounding slopes with geometric precision. The city was well maintained and constructed of the local dark-red granite, which they quarried not far from the city and formed one of Krakandar’s major exports.
Damin told her this as they rode towards the city, the pride in his voice taking her by surprise. He obviously loved his home, and as they rode under the massive portcullis that protected the main gate, it was apparent the citizens of Krakandar loved their Warlord in return.
Almodavar had sent word ahead that they were coming and for entirely selfish reasons, Adrina was looking forward to finally reaching their destination. More than a month in the saddle, living off trail rations and what meat they had been able to hunt along the way, had left her tanned and fit—but desperate for the trappings of civilisation. She had even managed to put on a bit of weight, she thought with despair. When Krakandar came into view, all she could think of was a hot bath, clean hair and the smell of something else besides leather and horses.
As word spread through the city that the Warlord had returned the citizens of Krakandar lined the streets to catch a glimpse of him. It was only a few at first but as the news ran ahead of them, the crowd grew larger. The people stopped working and pushed forward to see him, waving and calling out to Damin, who returned their greetings with a grin, obviously delighted by the warmth of this welcome. Adrina rode behind him, with R’shiel at her side, unaccountably put out by his popularity. The demon child was looking about her with wide-eyed wonder. She could be utterly ruthless when the need arose, but she still showed traces of the young girl underneath when it was least expected.
“Well, the peasants seem fond of him,” Adrina remarked sourly.
R’shiel laughed. “You really are determined to make this as difficult as possible, aren’t you?”
“I’m making things difficult? Don’t try blaming me, R’shiel. This was your idea, not mine.”
“He adores you, you know.”
Adrina looked at Damin’s back and scowled. He was waving to the people, calling out a greeting to a familiar face in the crowd. “Damin loves himself, R’shiel,” she retorted. “And his horse. He would probably be upset if anything happened to Almodavar, but that’s about as far as it goes. He likes you because you are the demon child and your friendship will help him claim his throne. His only interest in me is political.”
R’shiel raised her brow with a quizzical expression. “Is that w
hat those noises coming from your tent were? Political negotiations?”
Adrina frowned, trying to think of some cutting rejoinder. Then the silliness of the conversation struck her and she smiled reluctantly. “All right, I admit I’ve been…negotiating…more than is wise, but there wasn’t much else to do for entertainment, was there?”
“I’m sure you could have found something a little less dangerous if you wanted to, Your Highness. Honestly, you’re as bad as Damin. I should wave my arm and do something Harshini to make you both see sense.”
“Why don’t you?” she said aloud, but she had wondered before why the demon child had not simply called on her power to bend them to her will.
“Just between you and me, I don’t know how.”
“But you’re the demon child! Doesn’t that make you omnipotent?”
“Omnipotent, maybe, but it doesn’t mean I know very much about my powers. Brak says I lack finesse.”
“R’shiel, can I give you some advice?”
“If you think it will do any good.”
“When you’ve turned someone’s life upside-down, killed their husband, ordered them to marry an enemy prince and told them to risk their life by announcing the fact to the entire world, please don’t tell them you don’t know what you’re doing. It’s very unsettling.”
R’shiel smiled, but didn’t answer as they rode under the portcullis of the second ring.
The ride through the central ring took even longer. The crowd had grown so large that troops had been sent out from the palace to hold the crowd back so that Damin’s party could have a clear path. The palace guards surprised Adrina. Unlike the Raiders Damin had with him on the border, these men were uniformed in dark-red leather breastplates embossed with a large hawk.
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