“Your Highness.” The sergeant reappeared and held back the tent flap for her. Adrina stepped through, glaring at the man to make certain he was aware of her displeasure. The man smiled in return and left her alone with the Warlord.
Damin Wolfblade sat at a small desk, writing something that seemed to take all his concentration. Adrina waited, dripping onto the thick carpet that covered the floor of the tent and looked around. An inviting brazier stood in the centre of the tent and she itched to step closer, but refused to give him the satisfaction. A thick tapestry, of exquisite Hythrun geometrical design, divided the tent in two, concealing the sleeping quarters. Besides the writing desk there was a large table covered in maps against the far wall, and near the brazier, a pile of thick cushions surrounding a small, low table. The Hythrun were fond of sitting on the floor.
She turned her attention to the Warlord then and tried to study him without being obvious. He was a typical Hythrun: tall, blond and well muscled from hours spent in the saddle. But that was the limit of her favourable impressions. He had the distinctive Wolfblade profile and an air about him that reeked of arrogance.
He looked up finally and frowned. He apparently had as low an opinion of her, as she had of him. “Your Highness.”
“My Lord.”
He put down his quill and stood up. “I’m sorry. Is it raining? Please, give me that cloak. You must be freezing.”
Is it raining? She could barely hear herself think over the downpour pounding on the taut, oiled canopy. She shed the cloak, dropping it on the floor behind her, hoping it ruined his damned carpet, and stepped closer to the brazier. Adrina found herself looking up at him. That was disconcerting. She had been able to look Cratyn in the eye.
“Don’t take me for a fool, my Lord. You probably waited until it was pouring before you sent for me! You might find such mindless games amusing, but I merely find them a sign of your inability to grasp the finer points of courtesy regarding the treatment of prisoners of rank.”
Damin looked her up and down, making her very aware of the flimsy, sodden outfit, then shrugged. “I suppose it won’t serve my purpose if you catch pneumonia and die.” He pushed back the tapestry dividing the tent and pulled a woollen shirt and trousers from a trunk. “Get out of that ridiculous costume. It ill suits a woman of your rank, in any case. You can get changed in there.”
Adrina snatched the clothes from him and walked behind the tapestry. She peeled off her wet skirts, deliberately dropping them on the centre of the bed before emerging into the main part of the tent. Her shivering stopped once she was wrapped in the warm shirt, and although it was clean, the faint smell of him lingered on it. The golden collar was icy around her throat.
“Please, sit down.”
Adrina did as he suggested, taking the cushion closest to the fire. Steam rose off her hair as the brazier warmed her. Damin offered her a cup of mulled wine, which she stared at warily.
“It’s not poisoned. We’ve already established that it won’t serve my cause for you to die.”
She took the cup and sipped the wine, the welcome warmth flooding through her. “Your gallantry is overwhelming, sir.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Adrina. I’m being practical, not gallant.”
“You will address me in a manner befitting my station, my Lord. I did not give you leave to address me so informally.”
Damin lowered himself onto the cushions opposite with surprising grace for one so tall. “I’ll address you any way I please, madam. You’ll find few in this camp who care about your station. Your only value at present is your worth as a hostage. That requires that I keep you alive. It does not require me to bow and scrape and cater to your every idiotic whim.”
“In Fardohnya, good manners are not considered an ‘idiotic whim’,” she pointed out frostily.
“I’ll bear that in mind when I next visit Fardohnya. In the meantime, I suggest your curb your tendency to think every person you meet is beneath you. The Medalonians have little patience with nobility. They judge people by their actions, not an accident of birth.”
“Ah! And that’s what you’re doing here, I suppose? You so impressed these atheist peasants with your heroic actions that they could not wait to welcome you into the fold?”
“What I’m doing here is not the issue. The question is, what are you doing here, your Highness.”
“I was going home.”
“You were betraying the Kariens?”
“Don’t be absurd. It is simply that... there are a number of conditions of the Karien-Fardohnyan Treaty that have not been met to my satisfaction.”
“Call it what you like, your Highness, I imagine Cratyn will consider it treason.” Damin drank his wine thoughtfully. “That’s what they call this place you know – Treason Keep. Rather appropriate, don’t you think?”
Nice, Adrina reminded herself. I have to be nice. He’ll send me back to Karien in a heartbeat unless I can convince him to protect me.
“I... I cannot return to Karien, my Lord.” She lowered her eyes as she spoke and made sure she added a touching catch to her voice.
“Why not?”
“My life there was intolerable.”
“So you fled to Medalon dressed as a court’esa, accompanied by nothing more than a slave and a child?”
“I just wanted to escape. I didn’t really stop to think.” Now that was the truest thing she’d ever said. If she’d stopped to think, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.
He obviously didn’t believe a word she said. “There are those who think this alliance is merely a ruse, that your father is simply aiding the Kariens so he can cross into Medalon and then turn south into Hythria.”
“Well, if he is, it’s news to me.” Adrina sipped her wine to hide her alarm. Was Hablet’s treacherous nature so famous that a Hythrun could read him so easily? She composed her features before continuing. “The Defenders don’t have the troops to fight a war on two fronts. If you release me immediately, when I reach Talabar, I will speak to my father. I should be able to stay his hand.”
“Perhaps,” Damin said doubtfully.
Adrina wasn’t sure what else she could do to convince him. “I’ve no love for Karien, my Lord. I just want to go home.”
“Does Cratyn know you were planning to leave him?”
“No. After I discovered what had happened to my troops I made some rather foolish threats. It was then that I decided I should leave.”
“Are you with child?”
“Of course not! What a stupid question!”
“Oh? If you were with child, and Cratyn has his eye on your father’s throne, you might simply be taking the shortest route home, to ensure the child is born on Fardohnyan soil.”
Damn him! Where had he gotten that idea? How could some ill-bred warlord from a thousand leagues away see things so clearly?
“Cratyn had some... difficulty... in fulfilling his conjugal duties.”
To her surprise, he laughed with genuine humour. “Poor Cratyn. An inexperienced Karien princeling is no match for a court’esa-trained Fardohnyan princess.”
“No match at all, I fear.”
For a fraction of a second, they were not enemies, but conspirators, sharing laughter at the expense of a hated adversary. The moment lasted just long enough for an uncomfortable silence to descend between them.
“I don’t trust you, Adrina. You’re trying to play both ends against the middle. You claim to be running home, yet a week ago you were standing at Cratyn’s side, throwing your troops into battle for him. You are allied in marriage with Karien on one hand, while offering to hold back your father’s troops with the other. You expect me to believe Cratyn doesn’t know where you are. I know he’s inexperienced, but nobody is that stupid. Your story is so full of holes I could use it as a fishing net.”
“Perhaps the intricacies of politics are beyond you, my Lord,” she suggested with saccharine sweetness, forcibly hiding her annoyance. Her tale had sounded quite reasonable
when she’d tried it out on Tamylan. She never expected a Hythrun to have even a basic grasp of politics.
“I understand you better than you think. You’re Hablet’s daughter. Treachery has been bred into you.”
“Don’t make the mistake of judging me by my father.”
“I’m not likely to. I have a feeling you are far more dangerous.”
For some contrary reason, his comment pleased her. “You can’t keep me here forever, my Lord. Eventually you will have to release me.”
“Not until I’m good and ready, your Highness. And not until I can see a profit in it.”
“I do not intend to sit here and wait upon your mercenary pleasures, my Lord,” she retorted, silently cursing her temper. Be nice.
“I suggest you rethink your position, your Highness. Right now, you can wait on my mercenary pleasures, or you can go back to your husband. Neither prospect bothers me unduly.”
Adrina did not answer. She sipped her wine to hide her expression, afraid that Damin Wolfblade meant exactly what he said.
Nice, she said silently. I have to be nice to him.
“I have asked for your protection, my Lord,” she said with a demure smile. “Is that too much to ask?”
“The Kariens are prepared to go to war over the death of an Envoy, your Highness. I hate to think what they’ll do over their crown princess.”
“But you could protect me,” she suggested with wide-eyed admiration. In her experience, there were few men who could resist a woman who believed in him so ardently.
Damin Wolfblade was apparently one of them.
“Protect you? And while we’re protecting you from the wrath of the Kariens, your Highness, who’s going to protect us from you?”
Chapter 35
Mounted on sorcerer-bred Hythrun horses, R’shiel and her companions reached the small village of Lilyvale in time for dinner on the first day. Joyhinia, Mahina and Affiana rode in a covered wagon, one Garet suggested they replace with something more auspicious as they neared the Citadel. Although the wagon slowed them a little, Joyhinia was incapable of sitting a horse safely, so they sacrificed speed for the assurance that the First Sister would reach the Citadel in one piece.
R’shiel rode with Brak for most of the way, letting the horse set its own pace as she listened to him explain the dangers of drawing on her power to bend others to her will. If he was trying to scare her, he succeeded, but he said nothing to change her mind. There simply wasn’t enough time to reach the Citadel and convince the Quorum to accept Joyhinia’s resignation and Mahina’s appointment any other way.
Garet Warner rode with them for a time. He had, somewhat reluctantly R’shiel thought, agreed with her plan, despite Tarja’s objections. The discussion regarding this trip to the Citadel, held hastily and heatedly as the Medalonians prepared for the coming battle, had been strained. R’shiel was fairly certain that if she had waited until after the battle, Jenga and Mahina would have objected, and certainly Tarja, with Brak’s assistance, would have found any number of ways to prevent it. As it was, everyone was so distracted by the knowledge that the Kariens were on the move that her desperate plan was spared close scrutiny.
“The gods’ power is the power of all things natural,” Brak was saying, sounding just like Korandellan. “It’s at its most effective when used to enhance a natural occurrence.”
“A convenient way of getting around the facts,” Garet said.
“The gods are a natural force, Commandant.”
“So anything can happen, and you blame a god for your misfortune. Don’t you people have free will?”
Brak appeared to be enjoying the conversation with the atheist Defender. He seemed to forget about R’shiel. “Kalianah can make two people fall in love, but not against their will. Dacendaran can encourage a thief to steal, but he could not easily make a thief of an honest man.”
“You truly are adept at seeing miracles in the mist,” Garet remarked.
R’shiel listened to the men and realised Brak had not forgotten about her at all. He was trying to remind her of the dangers of what she was planning to do. The gods could amplify a yearning or bring about an event that might occur eventually without their help, but to use their power to force an unnatural event was akin to swimming upstream against the river of magic. In doing so, all the slime and filth that had sunk to the bottom of the river was stirred up and brought to the surface. That was why she had been nauseous when she felt the Karien priests working their coercion. She noticed Garet’s sceptical expression and turned to him.
“You don’t believe any of this, do you Commandant?”
“I believe that you believe every word. I never cease to be astonished at the facility of humans to rationalise perfectly natural events and award them divinity.”
“You’ve seen demons, yet you refuse to believe in them,” Brak pointed out. “Isn’t that your way of rationalising away something you don’t understand?”
“I’ve seen creatures I cannot explain and illusions that are masterful, but that is hardly enough to turn me into a pagan. Watch even a moderately talented illusionist in the markets of the Citadel and you will be convinced that a woman can be cut in two and then put together again. Believing a thing doesn’t make it real.”
“Yet you’re going to help us,” R’shiel said. “If you think this is just trickery, why bother?”
“My decision is based on logic, not faith, R’shiel. Medalon is facing an enemy that the Sisterhood is not in a position to deal with. I support Lord Jenga because we are more likely to survive with him in charge than a committee of selfish women grasping for their own political survival.”
R’shiel frowned, but Brak seemed more than satisfied with the commandant’s answer. “Assuming we succeed, how soon can the rest of the Defenders be mobilised?”
“Fairly quickly,” Garet assured him. “I’ll get things moving in anticipation of your success at the Gathering. If you achieve your goal, I can have the first of them under way in a matter of hours.”
“And if we fail?” R’shiel asked.
“Then I will turn those same men on you and claim I was simply playing along with you to gain your confidence and learn your plans,” he replied calmly.
“No wonder Joyhinia always thought you were dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” he shrugged. “I doubt that, R’shiel. But I am a survivor, and all the heathen trickery in the world cannot alter that.” Garet kicked his horse forward to the head of their small column, leaving R’shiel to stare after him thoughtfully.
“Now there’s a rare creature,” Brak remarked.
“What do you mean?”
“I think Garet Warner is the only truly honest human I have ever met.”
It was mid afternoon some days later when Dacendaran appeared. They were traversing the open plain, on a road that slowly wound its way south towards Cauthside, and the ferry that would take them across the Glass River. The day was overcast and chilly, with the sharp smell of impending rain hanging in the still air. R’shiel, with Brak and Garet on her heels, had ridden ahead of the wagon. The weather was making Wind Dancer nervous and she wanted to give the mare a chance to stretch her legs.
She found Dace waiting by the side of the road, sitting cross-legged atop a large grey boulder. He waved as she neared him, his fair hair tousled, his motley clothing as mismatched and ill-fitting as R’shiel had ever seen it.
The God of Thieves had not been much in evidence while R’shiel was at Sanctuary. There was little amusement in those peaceful, hallowed halls for a god who thrived on larceny. Dacendaran preferred the company of humans. Although she knew he was a god – could sense it now that she knew what to look for – she found it hard to think of him as anything but the impudent lad who had befriended her in the Grimfield. She smiled as she reached the boulder, genuinely pleased to see him.
“Dace! What are you doing here?”
“I came to see how you were faring out in the big wide world. Hello, Brakandaran
.” Brak reined beside her followed by Garet who glared at the boy suspiciously. The wagon and its attendant guards were still some way back.
“Dacendaran.”
“Who’s that?” Dace asked, pointing at Garet.
“Commandant Garet Warner, meet Dacendaran, the God of Thieves,” R’shiel said, smiling at Garet’s expression.
“This is one of your gods?”
Dace clapped his hands delightedly. “He’s an atheist!”
“And you shouldn’t be here,” Brak scolded. “Go away, Dace.”
“But I want to help! There are noble deeds afoot and I want to be a part of them!”
“If you really want to do something noble, go steal a few of Xaphista’s believers,” Brak suggested. “You are not going anywhere near the Citadel with us.”
Dace frowned. “Brakandaran, at some point in the past few centuries, someone must have mentioned that mortals do not dictate to the gods. I will go where I please!”
“Will someone please explain who this child really is?” Garet demanded.
“Ah, how I do like a non-believer!”
“Dace, listen to Brak, please,” R’shiel pleaded. “Do something to annoy Xaphista if you must help, but there is nothing you can do here.”
The god sighed melodramatically. “I suppose. I’m obviously not wanted here.”
“Stop being such a baby,” R’shiel said.
The god grinned. “I make a poor substitute for the God of Guilt, don’t I?”
“The God of what?” Garet asked incredulously.
Even Brak smiled. “Commandant. I suggest you either ignore this entire exchange or start believing in the Primal gods.”
“I think I’ll ignore it,” he said with a frown. He turned his mount and rode back toward the wagon.
“Did I upset him?” Dace asked innocently.
“No more than you usually upset people,” Brak said. “Why did you let him see you?”
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