Treason Keep dct-2

by Jennifer Fallon

  Jasnoff nodded with satisfaction and turned to his son. “Your mother and I will look forward to seeing you at dinner. And your wife, of course,” he added as an afterthought.

  Cratyn bowed to his father and Adrina dropped into another low curtsy as the King and his scribe strode from the room, leaving them alone. Adrina turned to Cratyn questioningly. Vonulus and Madren had spent a great deal of time instructing her on the Karien wedding ceremony, but had barely mentioned what was supposed to happen afterwards.

  “So what now, Cretin?” she asked. She waited for him to blush. This was the first time they had ever been alone, and she had no doubt the poor boy was probably dreading his marital duty. That, or he’d rather be doing it with Chastity.

  The slap, when it came, took her completely by surprise. Her head snapped back and his signet cut her cheek, leaving a thin smear of blood on the back of his hand.

  Cratyn was not blushing, he was furious.

  “Fardohnyan whore!” He slapped her again, this time even harder, and she staggered under the blow. “You will never disgrace me or the Royal House again by such a wanton public display!”

  Adrina quickly decided to forgo trading blows with him. Cratyn might be a fool, but he was stronger than she was. Such rare common sense was the last rational thought she had as her own anger exploded.

  “You will never lay a hand on me again, you gutless little turd! How dare you hit me!”

  “I dare what I please, your Highness,” he told her, his voice a quiet rage. “I am your husband!”

  “That remains to be seen! I seriously doubt your manhood is going to be up to the task. Perhaps if I simper and pout and let you call me Chastity, it will be easier for you?”

  Cratyn raised his hand to strike her again, but this time she was ready for him. She had her delicate and wickedly sharp Bride’s Blade at his throat, faster than he could credit. With eyes wide, he slowly lowered his arm.

  “That’s better,” she said, holding the thin blade to his neck with her outstretched hand. “Husband you may be, Cretin, but if you ever lay a hand on me again, I will slit your miserable throat. Do we understand each other?”

  Cratyn nodded slowly and she lowered the knife. He rubbed his neck where she had jabbed him, fingering the small bead of blood that came away on his finger. He stared at her, but his expression was far from apologetic.

  “I should not have hit you,” he conceded. “It was unworthy of me. But don’t play me for a fool, Adrina, or think your threats and a table dagger have me cowed.” He moved to the side table and poured himself a generous cup of wine before he turned back to her, his anger replaced with quiet certitude. “Did you really believe that we knew nothing of your reputation? Of your lovers? I have known since we first met what you are. Your sister’s wanton behaviour in Talabar merely played into our hands.”

  The admission stunned her. “What are you saying? You actually wanted to marry me?”

  “I married Hablet’s eldest legitimate child,” Cratyn corrected coldly. “Any issue of yours will be heir to the Fardohnyan throne.”

  “Not if my father has a legitimate son. And I have fifteen bastard half-brothers. Father could legitimise one of them any time he wanted to.”

  “If he does, they will die. The Overlord has willed it. Fardohnya will become the Overlord’s through the ascension of a Karien king to the throne.”

  “You are out of your mind if you think I will aid you in this!”

  “You are my wife, Adrina,” he insisted stubbornly, as if there was nothing further to be discussed on the matter. Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “Another thing, I will require you to order your Guard to place themselves under my command. I will be taking them to the front with me.”

  “Oh no you won’t! My father never gave you leave to use my Guard in battle. They are under my command.”

  “Then you will command them according to my wishes.”

  “The Seven Hells I will! My Guard isn’t going anywhere without me, least of all to some soggy battlefield to fight your wars for you.”

  “As you wish, Adrina,” Cratyn shrugged. “If you insist, you will accompany your Guard, but they will fight.”

  “How in the name of the gods do you plan to make me order them into battle? I’ll die before I give such an order.”

  Cratyn placed the cup down carefully and crossed his arms as he studied her. “You swear by the Primal gods. That is an offence punishable by death. You are my wife and have sworn to obey me in the eyes of my God and every nobleman in Yarnarrow. To defy me is punishable by death. If that does not convince you, I am sure it will only take your bastard half-brother and his pagans a few days to break some church law punishable by death.”

  “You hypocritical son-of-a-bitch! You have the gall to preach piety to me yet you would calmly murder my brother in the name of your pitiful god!”

  “Be careful, Adrina,” Cratyn warned. “Insulting the Overlord is punishable —”

  “By death,” she finished impatiently. “I get the idea, your Highness.”

  “Then you will do as I command?”

  Adrina could barely credit the change in him. He seemed so sure of himself, here in Yarnarrow. The blushing princeling who had almost fainted at the sight of the barely dressed Fardohnyan women was still there, underneath the confident exterior, but this was his God speaking. His faith ran so deep it was impossible to shake his belief that everything would turn out as Xaphista willed it. As the realisation came to her, Adrina forced her anger down. She could not fight this by having a tantrum. She needed to have her wits about her to find a way out of this terrible bargain.

  “I have conditions,” she said.

  “I have no need to grant you anything, Adrina.”

  “No, you don’t,” she agreed. “But you want my cooperation, and believe me, I am much more tractable when I have my own way.”

  He nodded slightly. “As you wish, what are your conditions?”

  Adrina’s mind was racing ahead, trying to think what she could ask for that would not raise suspicion. “If I am to accompany you to the Medalon border, I wish to do so in a manner befitting my station as your wife. I want my full retinue, including my ladies-in-waiting.” There! Let’s see how your precious Chastity likes roughing it on the front with a few thousand smelly soldiers, she thought.

  “I believe that can be arranged,” he conceded. “Was that all?”

  “No. I want to be included in your war council. I will not allow you to waste Fardohnyan lives without being fully informed as to your plans.”

  “Absolutely not! A council of war is no place for a woman.”

  “Suit yourself,” she shrugged. “If you refuse me, then I will stand up at dinner tonight and scream at the top of my voice that Xaphista is a lying, hypocritical bastard. Somewhat like you, I imagine. Such an act would be punishable by death, would it not? If I die, you’ll have no heir to the Fardohnyan throne and no troops to throw at the Medalonians. If you think I’m bluffing, then by all means, refuse me.”

  He thought for a moment, weighing up, no doubt, the advisability of calling her bluff, against the reaction of his Dukes to a woman in their war council.

  Finally he nodded, albeit reluctantly. “Very well.”

  “And one other thing,” she added as an afterthought. “I want every Fardohnyan under my command given special exemption by the Church. As you pointed out, they are bound to break some unknown Church law, sooner or later. It will be a lot easier for both of us if you don’t whittle away at their numbers by hanging every transgressor for some slight, real or imagined, against your precious god.”

  Although he bristled at her tone, he was not so foolish as to deny the logic of her request. He nodded.

  “That’s it then,” she said. “I will do as you ask.” For now, she amended silently.

  “I have some conditions of my own,” Cratyn told her as she turned away.

  “Such as?”

  “You will never dress in such a
provocative manner again. You will behave in a manner befitting a Karien Princess, or, Fardohnyan heir or not, I will see you stoned.”

  “Of course, your Highness,” she agreed, her voiced laced with sarcasm. “Perhaps a hair shirt would be more suitable?”

  He ignored the jibe. “And you will not speak to your half-brother, or any of your Guard unless Vonulus is present. I will not have you making your own plans behind my back.”

  Now that could prove awkward, she thought in annoyance, but she did not see a way around it. “You show a disturbing lack of trust in me, your Highness.”

  “A warranted lack of trust,” he retorted. “Do you agree?”

  She nodded slowly. “I agree.”

  “Good. In that case, you may return to your rooms and dress in something more... appropriate... for dinner. Tomorrow, I will have the nuns sent to you, to discuss the most opportune time in your cycle to consummate our marriage. I do not intend to spend one moment longer in your bed than I have to.”

  Of all that had been said in the past hour, that shocked her the most. It even hurt! How dare he!

  “Just be sure that when you do deign to come to my bed, you have some idea of what you’re supposed to do,” she retorted coldly. “As you apparently know, I have been taught the art of lovemaking by professionals. It would be most unfortunate if your much-needed heir to the Fardohnyan and Karien thrones fails to be consummated because I couldn’t stop laughing.”

  The insult hit the mark as she intended, but she swept up her skirts and strode from the room before he had a chance to answer her.

  Chapter 16

  For longer than human memory, Sanctuary had remained hidden in the mountains named for it. It had weathered nature’s inevitable passage of time, untouched by anything but the magical peace and serenity that seeped through its very walls. The vast white-spired complex had watched ages come and go, kingdoms rise and fall, mortals live and die. The gods roamed its halls at will and the Harshini who lived there sought nothing more than wisdom and knowledge and safety from the foibles of humanity.

  Nothing had ever disturbed it.

  Until now.

  Until the demon child.

  Brakandaran heard the laughter as he approached Korandellan’s chambers and winced. It wasn’t that nobody laughed in Sanctuary, on the contrary, the Harshini were happy by nature. But this was not the polite, considerate laugh of an amused Harshini. This laugh was loud and heartfelt and unmistakably female. The laughter echoed through the halls with startling clarity, turning the heads of the white robed Harshini who glided silently past him in the hall. Their black eyes were either curious or indulgent, depending on whether or not they had any knowledge of its source.

  Brak hurried on, almost afraid to discover the reason for the demon child’s mirth. Korandellan was a tolerant king – he had ruled the Harshini through some of its most turbulent history – but he was ill-equipped to handle R’shiel. She had a knack for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, asking awkward and frequently unanswerable questions, and she was totally unimpressed by the pivotal role she was expected to play in the conflict of the gods. Nor was the Harshini King easily able to deal with the fact that she was an instrument of destruction. It was hard for him to accept that the demon child’s purpose was to destroy. Harder yet for him to teach her what she needed to know to enable her to complete the task. Lorandranek, R’shiel’s father, had been driven insane by the knowledge.

  Brak opened the door to Korandellan’s chambers with a thought. The King leapt to his feet with a relieved smile at the sight of him. He and R’shiel were on the balcony, overlooking the hollow valley that Sanctuary encompassed, a crystal pitcher of chilled wine between them. Both the King and the demon child were dressed in the light linen robes that were all the protection one needed in the atmosphere-controlled vicinity of the Citadel. His black leathers seemed out of place. Brak crossed the white tiled floor and bowed to his king, who seemed inordinately glad to see him.

  “Brakandaran!” Korandellan cried. “You’re back!”

  “So it would seem.”

  “R’shiel and I were just discussing her childhood at the Citadel,” the King explained. “She has had a most interesting life.”

  Interesting is something of an understatement, Brak thought, but it did not explain R’shiel’s laughter.

  “The King asked me if I missed my mother,” she explained, as if she understood his confusion. “It struck me as rather funny.”

  “Our worthy monarch has no concept of a personality like the First Sister’s,” Brak agreed wryly. “But it’s good to hear you laughing. You’re looking much better.”

  Another understatement. He had never seen her look better. Cheltaran, the God of Healing, had done more than heal the near-fatal wound she received in Testra. It was as if he had healed her soul as well. Or maybe it was because Death had forsaken any claim on her until the life Brak had offered in return for hers was forfeited. Her violet eyes were shining, and her skin was golden rather than sallow. She had put on weight, too, now that she was eating a diet more suited to her Harshini metabolism. He realised they would not be able to keep her here much longer, and wondered if Korandellan realised it too. They would have taught her much about her Harshini heritage and the power she had at her command, but this girl was destined to destroy a god. She would not, could not, learn all she needed within Sanctuary’s peace-filled walls.

  “What news have you, Brakandaran?” the King asked. He waved his arm and a chair appeared at the table for him. Korandellan took his own seat and poured him a cup of wine with his own hand. Brak wanted to tell him it wasn’t necessary, but it would have been useless. For more than twenty years, Korandellan had been trying to prove to him that he did not hold him responsible for Lorandranek’s death. Every small gesture meant something to the King. Brak took the offered seat and accepted the wine.

  “Not good news, I fear,” he said, glancing at R’shiel. He wondered what her reaction would be to the news he carried. Much of her current serenity was a direct result of Sanctuary’s magical atmosphere. And, he privately suspected, a deliberate glamour laid on her, to take the edge off her more extreme human emotions while her body and mind recovered. That glamour would not hold if she ever realised it was there. She was easily powerful enough to break through it. Ignorance of the spell was the only thing protecting the gentle Harshini from her violent human side.

  “Are the Kariens still planning to invade Medalon?” Korandellan asked with concern. The mere thought of a war made him pale. It wasn’t cowardice; it was simply part of being a Harshini. A part that neither Brak nor R’shiel, being half-human, were susceptible to.

  “It’s worse than that,” Brak told him. “They have allied with the Fardohnyans.”

  Korandellan shook his head, tears glistening in his totally black eyes. “Foolish humans. Don’t they realise what such a war will cost?”

  “They realise,” Brak said. “They just don’t care.”

  R’shiel frowned. “Even if the Fardohnyans don’t join in the conflict in the north, they could still send troops up the Glass River in the south. The Defenders can’t fight a war on two fronts. They barely have the numbers to fight on one, even with Hythrun allies.”

  Brak wondered who had told her about the Hythrun. Probably the demons. They could gossip like old women when something caught their fancy. Korandellan said nothing, just shook his head. He was no more able to discuss tactics than he was able to contemplate murder.

  “It’s liable to escalate beyond Medalon,” Brak agreed. “If the Fardohnyans enter Medalon from the south then they can cross into Hythria without having to go over the Sunrise Mountains. Hablet has no interest in Medalon, but he’d love to get his grubby little hands on Hythria.”

  “We must do something!” Korandellan exclaimed. “We cannot allow the entire world to be plunged into war. Perhaps if I ask the gods...”

  “Well, I don’t suggest you mention it to Zegarnald,” Brak suggeste
d. “A global conflict would rather please the God of War. In fact, I wouldn’t mind betting that he’s been giving it a bit of a nudge. It must get pretty boring looking down on all those measly little border skirmishes. We haven’t had a decent war in centuries.”

  “Your disrespect will prove fatal one day, Brakandaran.”

  Brak started at the voice as the overwhelming presence of the God of War suddenly filled the chamber. Brak should have known better than to even mention His name. Here in Sanctuary, more than any other place, to name a god was to call him. He turned in his chair but did not rise, although R’shiel and Korandellan did. Zegarnald took shape before them, so tall his golden helmet brushed the ceiling, dressed in a simple dark robe that covered him from head to toe, out of respect for Korandellan, no doubt. The Harshini were uncomfortable with weapons and Zegarnald carried at least one of every weapon his worshippers had devised, from a dagger to a longbow. Brak would have bet money he had the odd catapult stashed about his person somewhere.

  “Divine One, you honour us with your presence,” Korandellan greeted him sombrely.

  The War God smiled, if such a grimace could be called a smile. “Well, some seem more honoured than others. I would think, Brakandaran, that you of all the Harshini would be pleased to see me. I do not offend your sensibilities, as I do your king’s, yet he can find it in himself to be gracious.”

  “I’m half-human,” Brak shrugged. “What can I say?”

  “You could start by not saying anything,” Zegarnald retorted. “Particularly about matters you know nothing of.”

  Korandellan laid a restraining hand on Brak’s shoulder – a silent plea not to argue with the god. “Brakandaran means no disrespect, Divine One.”

  “On the contrary, Korandellan, that’s exactly what he intends. However, in this case, he is correct. I have been giving this war a nudge, as he so elegantly puts it.”

  “Why?” R’shiel asked curiously. She had come to accept the sudden appearance of the gods, along with a lot of other things that Brak suspected she would not be nearly so accepting of, were she outside Sanctuary’s magical walls.