They were expert at lying by omission—the only way a people required to honor all the gods could honor the God of Liars.
She glanced at her two companions. Damin and Mandah were not dead, but captive here, which is why they were solid entities, even though they were as much a spirit as any ghost gathering for the door to the Seven Hells to open.
And that was the danger. She turned to Damin, filled with second thoughts. “You know, maybe you shouldn’t come with me. Mandah was right when she said earlier that crossing into hell might actually kill you. I don’t want that on my conscience.”
Mandah snorted at her words.
R’shiel turned to her angrily. “You think I want you and Damin to die?”
“I was scoffing at the notion that you have a conscience.”
“What happened to you, Mandah? You used to be the nicest, most forgiving soul alive.”
“I grew up, R’shiel. I stopped playing at being a rebel and took some responsibility for my life. I have a family. I have a husband who relies on my counsel. I have a life I don’t want to lose, and it’s threatened by your selfishness.”
R’shiel had no answer to that, in part because it was true. She never intended anybody else to be hurt by her quest to find Brak. She just wanted the pain of missing him to go away.
For the first time since walking out of the Citadel all those years ago, she questioned the wisdom of trying to bring Brak back.
Behind her the door had almost dissolved in a blinding light. The spirits buzzing about her head were becoming frantic.
Was it too late to turn back? Was Brak happy?
Wasn’t that the whole point of an afterlife?
Admittedly, Brakandaran had done some bad things in his life—his very name struck fear into his enemies for good reason—but they were all for a noble cause. He’d saved countless Harshini lives. He’d saved her. He taught her and protected her, so that when she faced down Xaphista the Overlord, as the gods had created her to do, she was able to defeat him.
Death must have given Brak some credit for that . . .
She could feel the pull of the door. It was open now. The spirits were rushing through, stirring her hair with the haste of their passing. It was impossible to see what lay beyond because of the intensity of the light streaming from it. Mandah had stepped back from it, but Damin, ever fearless, was moving closer for a better look.
This was the moment, R’shiel realized. The point of no return. If she didn’t step through, then surely the deal was off. Damin and Mandah would be returned to their bodies, and the lives held in suspension by her need to bring Brak back would be restored. Death would not require a life of equal value.
He would not require a life of any value.
All she had to do was step away.
R’shiel held out her hand to Damin, although whether to stop him coming closer or to draw him in, she couldn’t really say.
All R’shiel knew is that the moment Damin grasped her hand, the door began to close, sucking everything nearby, including the loose leaves and twigs lying on the grass, into its vortex. Mandah grabbed the trunk of the nearest tree and clung to it, to prevent herself being sucked in. R’shiel staggered against the pull, appalled by the strength of it. She tried to shield herself against it with magic, but whatever magic powered this gate into hell, it was far stronger than any R’shiel could muster.
Then the door snapped closed, pulling R’shiel and Damin—who still had her by the hand—into hell.
THEY LANDED HEAVILY and skidded along the ground for a time until they came to rest against something solid. The quiet, after the rushing hiss of the door sucking souls inside, left R’shiel’s ears ringing.
She looked around, climbing to her feet. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light she realized she was back in the Citadel.
“I know this place,” Damin said, climbing to his feet beside her.
“It’s the Citadel,” R’shiel agreed. “This is the corridor outside Joyhinia’s room when she was on the Quorum for the Sisterhood.”
Damin shook his head. “No . . . this is the clearing where I met the God of War,” he said. “I wasn’t even a Warlord back then . . . I wasn’t much more than a boy. Gods, that must have been more than twenty years ago now.”
She looked at him curiously and then checked that he was still holding her hand. “You’re standing in a forest?”
“Most definitely.”
“I’m not. I’m standing in the Citadel.”
He digested that information for a moment and then he smiled. “Well, then. This is going to be interesting.”
R’shiel took a deep breath—although she suspected she just thought she was breathing the same way she just thought she was in the Citadel, and squeezed Damin’s hand. “I’m sorry you’re here, Damin. I’m sorry you got caught up in this. But I’m glad it’s you that’s here with me now.”
“That’s what friends are for, R’shiel,” he assured her. “Although I think you can confidently assume the favor you’re going to owe me for this is along the lines of parting the oceans to create a land bridge between Hythria and Denika.”
She smiled. “Oh? For a moment there I thought you were going to ask for something impossible.”
“It’s early days,” Damin said as he tucked his arms through hers. “And we only just got here. I’m sure I’ll think of something appropriate by the time we find Brak.”
R’shiel didn’t really have an answer for that, because he was right. She would owe him more than she could repay if they found Brak and got out of here alive.
Without another word, she turned toward the corridor only she could see and together with the High Prince of Hythria, they took their first steps into hell.
Chapter
63
CHARISEE MADE IT back to the bridal table before she found out what was going on. Now that Jakerlon had warned her something was afoot, she could see the signs of trouble everywhere she looked, from the subtle change in the number of guards to the fact that Adrina had not been seen since they sat down to eat.
Jakerlon assured her Rakaia’s minstrel was long gone and then he vanished, too. He didn’t want to be caught here with the Harshini any more than Rakaia did. The Harshini knew every god on sight and could probably tell when he was in the vicinity, even if they couldn’t see him.
The God of Lies clearly had no intention of explaining to anybody—human or Harshini—what he was doing at her wedding.
She took her seat beside Frederak, who smiled at her as she sat down.
“Did you enjoy your dance, my dear?”
“I did,” she said, smiling back at him. Adrina was right. However unpleasant Braun Branador and his son, Olivah, were, Frederak was a sweet old man. “Would you like more wine?”
“If I drink much more I’ll nod right off.”
He’d already nodded off more than once this evening, so she couldn’t see how another cup would make much difference. Charisee poured his wine with her own hand, one eye on the wine, one eye on the crowd who were ever so gently being surrounded by a mix of Greenharbour Raiders and palace guards.
It wasn’t until the High Arrion walked into their midst, with Kiam Miar and his enormous dog by her side and a dozen or more white-robed Harshini behind her, that the wedding guests noticed anything amiss.
A moment later the orchestra stopped mid-tune. Charisee glanced over to find her half-brother Gaffen, the Fardohnyan-born Warlord of Greenharbour, commanding the conductor to cease the music. Once that was done, he stepped down from the orchestra podium and walked over to join Kalan, whose appearance had drawn the attention of every man, woman, and child in the palace forecourt. Her presence alone should not have been enough to raise the alarm—she was the High Prince’s sister, after all, and had officiated at the wedding ceremony earlier. But with Kiam Miar beside her, dressed not as a wedding guest but in the close-fitting black leathers everyone associated with his guild, she became someone to be wary of.
Whate
ver was going on, Kalan was making no secret of the fact that the Sorcerers’ Collective had the support of the Assassins’ Guild.
By now, an expectant silence had fallen over the crowd.
“My lords and ladies, I apologize for interrupting your festivities.” The High Arrion glanced over at Charisee and Frederak. “I particularly want to apologize to the lord and lady of Highcastle.”
With every eye suddenly fixed on them, Charisee bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment of the apology, although she still had no idea what Kalan was apologizing for or why the Harshini were here. For that matter, what did this have to do with the Assassins’ Guild?
Although she silently willed him to look her way, Kiam didn’t once glance at her. Even Broos seemed to know this was serious. He stood beside his master, his ears alert, his whole body radiating leashed power, waiting for Kiam’s order.
“Some time earlier this evening, my nephew, Prince Jazrian of the House of Wolfblade, the Crown Prince of Hythria, went missing . . .”
A concerned buzz ran through the crowd. Charisee’s heart skipped a beat. That’s why Adrina was missing from the wedding feast, she realized. She was searching for Jaz.
“While his disappearance may simply be the result of a youthful prank, I’m sure you’ll all agree the life of our young prince is not something we are prepared to gamble with. To that end, the Sorcerers’ Collective has offered to assist in finding him as quickly as possible. We’ll be doing this by eliminating any question that he has been the victim of foul play.”
Another mutter ran through the crowd, this one much more self-serving. It had just occurred to everyone what the Harshini were here to do.
“My friends here,” she continued, indicating the dozen or so white-robed Harshini who stood patiently—and smilingly—behind her, “will look into each of your minds. They are interested only in information regarding Jazrian’s whereabouts and have sworn to protect any other secrets they may stumble across in the process.” That raised a nervous titter from her audience, which Kalan ignored. “As you are examined and cleared by the Harshini, you will be permitted to leave. Anybody who does not wish to have their mind examined in this manner may decline. There will be no stigma or guilt assumed if you do so.”
She placed her hand on Kiam’s shoulder then, adding with a smile that was more threatening than anything else she had said or done this night, “In fact, our youngest brother, and Jazrian’s favorite uncle, has kindly offered his expert services in the area of interrogation, to those who feel having their minds probed by the Harshini is an unwarranted invasion of their privacy.”
The threat was clear and explicit. Submit to the Harshini or summit to much harsher questioning by the Assassins’ Guild. Charisee doubted there would be many takers, although she was tempted to put her hand up. That way at least, she would be able to speak to Kiam again.
You evil, thoughtless bitch, she told herself with despair. Jaz is missing and all you can think of is being alone with Kiam instead of worrying about what Adrina must be going through right now.
“I didn’t hear any of that,” Frederak complained. “What’s going on?”
She leaned in close to his ear. He smelled of old sweat and stale wine. “Prince Jazrian is missing.”
“Why?”
“A very good question, my lord!” Gaffen shouted to him as he approached the table. “That’s what the Harshini are here to find out!” He turned to Charisee and smiled sympathetically. “Sorry about this.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Gaffen,” she assured him. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
He shook his head. “Not at this point. I’ll have someone escort you and your . . . husband back to the palace.”
“Shouldn’t we be probed by the Harshini before we leave?” Make it sound like the idea doesn’t frighten you to death, Charisee.
Gaffen shook his head and gave her a wan smile. “The Harshini have enough to do and I’m pretty sure you and Frederak haven’t had time to kidnap anybody today, Rakaia. Although I can promise you we’ll be looking very closely at your new grandson.” He waved a couple of guards forward and gave instructions to have the newlyweds escorted back to the palace. As she rose to her feet, Charisee glanced around at the chaos. Her wedding day had been ruined, but it didn’t matter because it really hadn’t been a celebration in the first place.
She suddenly felt ill. Charisee knew in her heart of hearts that something terrible had happened to Jaz. He wasn’t the prank-playing type. Marlie might think up such a scheme, but Jazrian would never be so foolish.
Had Jakerlon known? He was a god. Surely if something had happened to the child, he would know what it was?
But there was no sign of the God of Liars and even if she spotted him in the crowd, how could she explain who he was, how she knew him, or how he knew about what had happened to Jaz?
“Can you take me to Adrina?” she asked Gaffen as he turned to leave.
He thought about it for a moment and then nodded and turned to one of his men. “Escort Lord Branador to the palace and then take Lady Branador to the High Princess. She is in the Main Hall.”
The Raider saluted and then bowed to Charisee as his companion maneuvered Frederak’s wheeled chair from behind the table. The two of them then lifted the chair between them and carried him up the broad palace steps, leaving Charisee to follow in his wake, wishing there was something she could do to help Adrina other than tell her more lies.
Because “Don’t worry, Adrina, I’m sure Jaz will be found any moment, safe and sound” was almost as big a lie as the one she lived every day, pretending she was Rakaia.
As she reached the top of the steps, she turned to look down over the palace forecourt, which now resembled less a wedding celebration and more a prison camp, as Gaffen’s men moved in. Kiam was standing in the middle of it all, almost as tall as the calm Harshini, come to scan the guests’ minds, his hand on Broos’s collar as he waited for someone to be foolish enough to refuse the benign probing of the Harshini.
As if he felt her eyes on him, he looked up. For a moment their eyes met and then he looked away.
“This way, your highness.”
Charisee turned to follow the guards who had reached the top of the steps with Frederak’s chair. She followed him inside, glad she’d seen Kiam one last time, even if she hadn’t found an opportunity to speak with him.
She closed her eyes for a moment, imprinting his face on her memory, and then followed her new husband inside, hoping the memory of Kiam was enough to see her through her wedding night.
Chapter
64
WITH THE PROBLEM of the bastard princess taken care of now that the ludicrous price the Assassins’ Guild was asking to rid the king of his embarrassment had been paid, Naveen Raveve now had time to concentrate on tying up the king’s other “loose ends.”
The wedding should have happened yesterday in Greenharbour, which meant soon the problem of the bastard would be taken care of and he would no longer need to fret over it.
Naveen had debated quite a few ways of taking care of the “loose ends” problem. His solutions ranged from simply walking into the Harem with an armed escort and putting all the royal women to the sword—not the slaves, of course; they could be sold for a tidy profit—to infecting them with something contagious in the hopes they all might die of disease. The former was too brutal and obvious, the latter far too difficult to control with no guarantee of success.
Poison was out of the question. The king didn’t want to advertise his hand in this affair. A mass poisoning would demand an investigation and a scapegoat that Naveen simply didn’t have the time to organize.
He was still pondering the problem as he entered his office after breakfast, only to find a priestess from the temple of Jelanna waiting for him, along with several members of the Talabar City Council.
Naveen sometimes regretted ever suggesting a city council. It was one of the suggestions he’d made when he beca
me the king’s chamberlain. It was part of his plans to improve efficiency. A city council, he’d argued, would reduce the number of petitioners complaining to their king about potholes in the roads, the smells coming from the meat works district, or who was supposed to deal with the backed-up sewage pipes after a storm.
For a while there, his plan had worked. But then the city elders had gotten far too enamored of their position on the council, and while the petitioners had been reduced, the problems they were complaining about hadn’t. These rich merchants, upon whose good will the king often relied when he needed money, now felt as if they had a direct conduit to the king.
Naveen took a seat behind his desk, bowing first to the Goddess of Fertility’s priestess—an old hag dressed in a white hooded robe who looked as if she hadn’t been fertile for decades.
“My lady, gentlemen, to what do I owe this honor?”
“The king has left the city,” the priestess said.
Naveen nodded slowly. “I am aware of that, my lady.”
“Our understanding is that he will not return in time for the Festival of Jelanna,” Master Gabynix said. He was a bloated, middle-aged man who owned several wool mills and a number of looms, mostly producing the poorer quality fabrics peasants seemed to favor. Or maybe they didn’t favor the rougher fabrics so much as could not afford anything else. Either way, the man was obscenely rich. Naveen respected that.
“The king has gone to the Citadel to renegotiate the terms of the peace accord signed after the end of the Karien-Medalon war,” he reminded the merchant and his council cronies. “He regrets his inability to be here for the celebrations, but will honor the goddess with the Harshini queen in the Temple of the Gods and give thanks for her bounty and, of course, his most precious gift from the goddess, the Crown Prince Alaric.”
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