Harshini (12 page)

“I know what’s going on, Adrina,” he assured her, suddenly serious. “I’ve had assassins dogging my heels since I was born. I was twelve years old before it was judged safe enough to let me sleep without an armed guard at the foot of my bed and that was only because Almodavar was convinced I was skilled enough to kill a full grown man. But I can live with
the threat of assassination and the gods know I can deal with war well enough, but I’ll tell you something that might surprise you. I wish I could trust
you
. I wish I knew what you were really after. I wish there was some simple way I could be sure about you.”

“You’ve never given me a chance, Damin,” she accused.

He was still holding her arm and when he pulled her to him, she didn’t object. She looked so open, so honest, so ingenuous, he almost believed her, and he truly wanted to believe her. But if he was wrong, it might cost him his life, although at that moment, holding her so near, her lips so close he could feel her breath on his, the prospect didn’t bother him nearly as much as it should have.

“Sire, Lord Hawksword asks that when you…Oh, I do beg your pardon, Your Highness!” Almodavar stood at the door, clearly embarrassed to find them in such an intimate embrace.

Adrina stepped away from him with a fleeting look of regret, then turned to the captain. “It’s all right, Almodavar. I was just leaving. I’ll speak to you later, Damin. When you have more time.”

“Adrina?”

She hesitated at the door. “Yes?”

“What did you want to tell me?”

“It’s not important. Some other time perhaps.”

“I’ll see you later, then?”

She nodded. “If you wish.”

When she was gone, Damin turned his attention back to the organisation of Krakandar’s defences, unable to shake the feeling that Adrina had left something very important unsaid.

Teriahna was waiting for Brak in his room when he returned from his evening meal. He was quite partial to the spicy fare of Fardohnya, and had lingered over his dinner, enjoying the feeling of repletion that comes with a good meal accompanied by an excellent wine. For a fleeting moment he regretted his indulgence, but even had she searched his room, there was nothing for her to find here.

He didn’t bother to ask how she had got past the locks. Those skills were taught to apprentice assassins. Besides, he was expecting her. She had promised to arrange to get him into the palace in the guise of a visiting lord from southern Fardohnya, come to court to find a royal bride. Brak had been surprised by her choice of disguise, but she had assured him that with so many daughters to dispose of, Hablet would see any man willing to take one of them off his hands, particularly if he was an insignificant, powerless lord who lived far, far from Talabar.

“Any luck?” he asked as he closed the door behind him. She was sitting near the window, staring
out over the gardens. The heady scent of frangipani filled the room, as it did every night once the sun went down. The room was shrouded in shadows and she didn’t turn when he spoke.

“Lernen Wolfblade is dead.” She looked at him then, her eyes curious in the gloom. “Does this alter your plans?”

“I’m not sure. What happened?” He lit the lantern on the table and dragged the only other chair in the room to the window beside her.

“He died of the pox, by all accounts. But that is neither unexpected nor surprising. What
is
interesting is that it happened nearly a month ago.”

“And you’ve only just heard of it? Who kept it quiet? The Sorcerers’ Collective should have been tolling the bells of every temple in Hythria from the moment they heard the news.”

“The High Arrion isn’t in Greenharbour. She’s in Krakandar. There was a great deal of unrest because of Damin Wolfblade’s alliance with Medalon. She went north after Princess Marla to sort it out.”

“So Marla was out of the capital when it happened, too? That’s not good.”

“Not good for Damin Wolfblade, perhaps, but it proved a stroke of good fortune for Cyrus Eaglespike. He’s named himself High Prince.”

“Without the sanction of the High Arrion? How long does he think that can last?”

“He’s got the Warlords of Greenharbour and Pentamor on his side. It’s a foregone conclusion that Narvell Hawksword will support Damin’s claim, but there is still Rogan Bearbow and Tejay Lionsclaw to consider.”

Brak nodded thoughtfully. He had been away from the politics of the southern nations too long. There was a time when he didn’t need the Assassins’ Guild to provide his intelligence.

“Why has it taken the news so long to reach you? I would have thought you’d have heard about this within a day of it happening.”

“Normally, I would expect to,” she agreed. “However, in this case, someone went to a great deal of trouble to stop the news getting out.”

“Cyrus Eaglespike?”

“Or his cronies. This isn’t the act of an opportunistic man. This has been very well thought out. I’d say they’ve been planning it for some time.”

“Perhaps. Has King Jasnoff heard about Cratyn’s death yet?”

“I don’t think so. It’s possible the news hasn’t even reached Yarnarrow yet. It’s winter in Karien, and travel will be difficult.”

“They could have sent a bird.”

“Even carrier pigeons fall prone to bad weather, Brak.”

“And your spies in Krakandar? What do they tell you?”

She smiled innocently. “What makes you think I have spies in Krakandar?”

“If you don’t, it would be the only place in the south that you have none.”

“You know far too much about us for an outsider, my Lord.”

“And you seem to be avoiding the question.”

Teriahna shrugged. “I don’t mean to. In truth, there’s not much to tell. Damin Wolfblade arrived in
Krakandar, he stayed a week or more, learnt his uncle was dead and left for Greenharbour a few days later. Adrina is with him, certainly, and so is your demon child. The news of
her
presence set the city talking, I’m told, so much so that it somewhat overshadowed the news that Damin had taken a bride. Between the demon child and the death of the High Prince, she’s managed to keep a fairly low profile. The news is out, but it’s a poor third to the other rumours currently on offer. Oh, there was one thing I neglected to mention. Damin Wolfblade contacted the Guild in Hythria.”

“Who does he want them to kill?”

“Nobody. He sent a message saying that whatever price the Guild—either in Hythria or Fardohnya—was offered to kill either him or Adrina, he would double it if the we refused the job.”

“I always thought he was a smart lad. Can you get me in to see Hablet? This is becoming urgent.”

“If he’s finished mourning.”

“Hablet is
mourning
Lernen Wolfblade?” Brak asked sceptically.

The Raven laughed. “In public. He’s probably locked himself in his rooms and is throwing a party. But he is a king, and one has to be seen to do the right thing.”

Brak fell silent, wondering how the death of the Hythrun High Prince would affect R’shiel’s plans. It was a singular waste of time, as he actually had no real idea of R’shiel’s ultimate plans. He was here on trust, and that was not an emotion that came easily when dealing with the demon child.

“May I offer you some advice before your audience with our esteemed monarch, Brak?”

“Of course.”

“Hablet is a very devout man in his own way, but he despises the Harshini. He has no wish to learn they still exist and no desire to welcome them back into his court. He finds he gets along very nicely without them.”

“Glenanaran and the others have been in Greenharbour for months. It’s no longer a secret that the Harshini survive.”

“True, but neither is it common knowledge. Oh, people have heard the rumours, and some even believe them, but their belief is based on faith not fact. You won’t get a very warm reception when Hablet realises who you are. He’ll see your presence as the thin edge of the wedge. When you deliver your news about his daughter, he’ll take it as a sign that the Harshini are already interfering in Fardohnya. Be very careful.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I’ve no doubt of that,” she said. “But it is better to be warned.”

“I appreciate your concern, my Lady.”

Teriahna leaned forward, studied him closely for a moment, then smiled. “Do you, Brak?”

There was something in the way she spoke; something in the shift of her body that set warning bells ringing in Brak’s head. She placed her hand gently on his thigh. Then she abruptly shed any pretence of subtlety and the invitation in her eyes was so blatant she might as well have cried it aloud.

“Do you really appreciate me, Brak?” she asked softly.

Brak smiled ruefully and lifted her hand from his thigh, placing it quite deliberately on the arm of her chair.

“Yes, I really do appreciate the help you’ve given me, Teriahna,” he said.

“I see,” the Raven replied, nodding her head thoughtfully. “There’s someone else, isn’t there?”

“What do you mean?”

She laughed softly. “Do you know how I came to join the Assassins’ Guild, Brak? I was a
court’esa
, and a damned good one, too. I was recruited by the Guild for a very special job. The rest, as they say, is history. But just because I’ve changed careers, it doesn’t mean I’ve lost the skills I started out with.

“There
is
someone else. I can see it in your face, plain as day. Who is it? Some impossibly perfect Harshini back in Sanctuary? Some lucky farm girl in Medalon?”

Her assumption took Brak completely by surprise. He had taken no lovers since L’rin in the Grimfield, back when R’shiel was a prisoner there. Since then he had been so consumed by his task of protecting the demon child, he’d had no time to think of his own pleasure.

“There’s no one else, Teriahna.”

“Perhaps you’re not even aware of it yourself,” she shrugged.

Brak laughed at the very idea. “You think that after several hundred years I wouldn’t notice if I’d fallen in love?”

“I think after several hundred years, you’re so used to
not
being loved, you wouldn’t know what it felt like if it ran up to you and hit you on the head.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do,” she chuckled. “But don’t let it bother you. I’m sure it will work itself out. As for me? Well,
I like to try new things. Sometimes I succeed, other

times I don’t.”

“New
things
?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve offended you, haven’t I?”

“No. I just don’t find myself referred to as a
thing
too often.”

Teriahna’s smiled faded. “You should try a stint as a
court’esa
some time, Brak. Then you’d truly know the meaning of the word.” She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable that she had spoken so freely. Rising hastily to her feet, she pushed the chair back along the polished floor with a scrape of wood against wood. “I really should be going. I’ve spent far too much time away from my other duties. I’ll bring your audience clothes around in the morning.”

Brak remained seated, guessing that she would prefer it that way. Teriahna walked to the door, stopping with her hand on the latch.

“There was one other thing I meant to tell you,” she said, turning back to look at him. Her manner had reverted to its usual professional mien. “I had a message from Starros, the head of the Thieves’ Guild in Krakandar. He said there was an old man there who was stirring up the population against the demon child. I don’t know if it’s important, but I thought you’d like to know.”

“Why would Starros send you a message about some old man in Krakandar?”

“He thought it might have been one of our people on a contracted hit. It’s not inconceivable that someone might want the demon child eliminated and that they would be prepared to pay handsomely for the job. And it wasn’t a message so much as a
reprimand. He was rather put out that I might have sent someone into his city without advising him first out of professional courtesy.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“No. Just that the old man had been preaching on street corners, subverting his people and making a general nuisance of himself. Starros thought our plan was to incite a riot of some sort and for the demon child to be killed in the ensuing chaos.”

“That doesn’t sound like your style.”

“It’s not. Crowds are much too hard to control. Particularly when you’ve worked them up into a brainless mob. Whoever the old man was, he certainly isn’t one of ours.”

“It’s probably nothing to be concerned about.”

“I agree, but I thought I should let you be the judge. I’ll see you later, then?” She turned her back to him and opened the door.

“Teriahna? Just out of curiosity, if someone did contract you to kill the demon child, would you take the job?”

She closed the door again and turned to him with a sly smile. “That would depend on how much they offered me.”

“What price would you set on the demon child’s life, my Lady Raven?”

“What would
you
pay for it?” she retorted.

He laughed humourlessly. “The ultimate price.”

“You’d pay with your life?”

“I already have.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Then I have the answer to my question, Brak. There is someone else. It is the demon child.”

Tarja knew exactly how he planned to strike his first blow against Medalon’s new masters, a plan as simple as it was fraught with danger. He also knew it would meet considerable opposition, so he kept silent until they were ready to leave Roan Vale, hugging his idea to himself as he pulled his cloak against the chill wind.

They waited in the small village for the remainder of their troops and the rest of the rebels to catch up with them. His meeting in Testra had gone well, and although Antwon could not bring himself to desert, he gave any Defender under his command who wished to flee the advancing Kariens leave to follow Tarja. Consequently, the force Tarja now had gathered to cross the border into Hythria numbered over two thousand. It still wasn’t enough to take on the Kariens, but it was a start.

“We should be ready to move at first light,” Denjon reported that evening, as Tarja stood poring over the map in the cellar. It was a singular waste of time. He had studied the map so often these past few days that every line and contour was burned into his brain.

“Now if only this damnable rain would stop, so we could get through to Hythria.”

“Aye. My scouts tell me there’s not a navigable road for miles. They’re either flooded or so boggy we’re going to have to walk most of the way.”

“And every day the Kariens are getting closer to the Citadel.”

“Well, look on the bright side,” Denjon shrugged. “The Glass River’s so full they’ll not be able to cross it for a while.”

“I’d prefer it if they couldn’t cross it at all,” Tarja said.

Denjon’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds suspiciously like a suggestion.”

“Actually, it was. Where are the others?”

“Linst is organising the supply wagons. Dorak is trying to beat some sense into your rebel friends. They’re not being very cooperative.”

“That’s because they don’t like taking anything from the Defenders,” Mandah explained as she closed the cellar door behind her. “Least of all orders.”

Tarja nodded, satisfied that they would not be disturbed for some time. He stabbed his finger at the map and looked at Denjon and Mandah.

“We have to stop the Kariens crossing the Glass River.”

“You said that already,” Denjon said, folding his arms across his chest.

“There’s only three ways they can cross,” Tarja continued. “They can build rafts and float themselves across, which is far too time consuming and dangerous. They can commandeer what trading vessels
and river boats they can find, or they can use the ferries at Testra and Cauthside.”

“They won’t find many river boats,” Mandah said. “Most of them have sailed south for the Gulf. They know what’s coming.”

“Then that just leaves the ferries,” Denjon agreed. “How do you plan to stop the Kariens using them? We don’t have enough men to fight them off.”

“We’re going to have to sink them.”

Mandah gasped. “Sink the ferries? But that would cut Medalon in half.”

“I’m aware of that,” Tarja replied evenly.

“It would stop the Kariens in their tracks, though,” Denjon mused.

Tarja nodded. “With the ferries gone, the worst they can do is turn south-west and attack Testra. The heart of Medalon is the Citadel, and until they occupy that, theirs will be a hollow victory indeed.”

“It won’t be easy, Tarja,” Denjon warned. “Even if the Kariens don’t try to stop you, our own people will. You’ll destroy their livelihood along with those ferries.”

“I know, which is why I’m only taking a few men. We’ll backtrack to Vanahiem, cross over to Testra, and then make our way overland to Cauthside. Hopefully we can take out the Cauthside Ferry before the Kariens reach it.”

“Then take the Testra Ferry out on your way back?” Mandah asked.

Tarja nodded and glanced at Denjon.

“That will take you weeks,” the captain said with a shake of his head. “The Kariens will be in Cauthside long before you.”

“The logistics of moving an army the size of the Karien host are considerable,” Tarja reminded him. “They can only move a few leagues a day, or be forced to break their army up into smaller units. The latter is unlikely. They’ll stay together, thinking their impressive size will cow the Medalonians into submission.”

“That’s a bit optimistic,” Mandah remarked with a thin smile. “The vast majority of Medalonians live south of the Glass River.”

“You’ll be cutting it fine,” Denjon said with a frown.

“I’ll hand-pick the men who accompany me. We’ve some good men out there and none of them come from the river towns or have family whose livelihood depends directly on trade across the river. It’ll ruin the merchants and families who depend on it for their wages and I don’t want any second thoughts when it comes to the crunch.”

“And the Hythrun? What do you want me to tell them?”

“I’ll leave that to you,” Tarja shrugged. “Once you get to Hythria, you and Damin can start planning the conquest of Medalon. There’s not much we can do until we find out how many men he can spare us, at any rate. I’ll join you as soon as I can. In the meantime, you can send out some other squads with orders to do whatever they must—cajole, threaten or destroy—to stop the river boats from docking on the western bank. I want every boat on the river—even those moored on this side too—safely out of reach of the Kariens.”

“You know, given enough time, the Kariens will find a way across. They’ve engineers and boat builders
aplenty and there’s more than enough timber on the other side of the river to build rafts to move their troops across.”

“I’m counting on the change of seasons. By the time the Kariens have constructed their own transport, the Glass River will be even more swollen than it is now with the spring melt from the Jagged Mountains. It’ll be far too dangerous to attempt a crossing until the flood waters have subsided.”

“I’ll come with you,” Mandah announced abruptly.

“Don’t be stupid,” Tarja retorted without thinking.

“But I was a Novice once,” she explained. “I know how to behave like a Sister of the Blade. Disguised as a Sister I can commandeer the ferry and once aboard you can take it out into the middle of the river, set fire to it, then swim ashore once it’s well and truly ablaze.”

“That may even work,” Denjon said thoughtfully.

“It’s too dangerous.”

Mandah laughed softly. “Dangerous? Tarja, I was fighting in the rebellion long before you came along and nothing much has changed that I can see. Why is it too dangerous for me and not for you?”

Tarja was unable to answer her. He could hardly admit his bravery had more to do with his desire to escape his own thoughts than it did from any innate sense of honour. Turning back to face the Kariens meant not having to continue south. It meant not having to face R’shiel for a little while longer. He was afraid to admit how much that thought relieved him.

“She has a point, Tarja. You’ll raise less suspicion travelling with a Sister than you would if you travel alone.”

“Then it’s settled. I’m going with you,” Mandah declared.

“Are you really so anxious to throw your life away?” he asked her with a frown.

“I don’t plan to throw my life away, Tarja, and I wasn’t aware that this was a suicide mission.” Her eyes challenged him to deny her accusation.

Tarja looked away first. “No, I’m not planning a suicide mission. You can come if you wish. We’ll be riding hard though. It won’t be easy.”

“If I’d wanted ‘easy’, Tarja, I would have stayed with the Sisterhood.”

Later that evening, Tarja sat in the taproom of the Roan Vale tavern finishing his meal, wondering why Mandah had accused him of planning a suicide mission. He didn’t feel suicidal. But neither did the prospect of dying unduly concern him. As he pondered the matter, he realised that the only thing he felt about death, when he consciously thought about it at all, was apathy. He did not hunger for death. He did not particularly hunger for life. He simply didn’t care.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Tarja looked up at the old man who had spoken and glanced around the room. The taproom was filled to capacity and the only spare seat was the empty bench opposite him. He wondered for a moment if the others were avoiding him.

“Suit yourself,” he replied with a shrug.

The man sat down with his foaming tankard and smiled at Tarja. He had long white hair and a disturbingly familiar air about him that Tarja couldn’t quite place.

“You look troubled, my son.”

“These are troubling times.”

“And you bear a heavier burden than most, I suspect.”

Tarja shrugged but didn’t offer a reply. He had no wish to fall into conversation with this old man, whoever he was.

“I hear you flee Medalon to join the demon child?”

Tarja looked up sharply. “Where did you hear that?”

“The rumours are everywhere,” the old man told him. “There’s not a Defender here who isn’t whispering the news to his comrades.”

That’s true enough
, he thought.
Too many of these men were there when R’shiel revealed her power. It’s long past the point of being a secret.

“Well,” the old man continued, taking a sip of his ale, “one can hardly blame you for being worried.”

“Who says I’m worried?”

“Every line on your face proclaims it, Captain.”

“Thanks for your concern, but you needn’t be worried on my behalf. We have everything under control.”

“I’m sure you do,” the old man agreed solemnly. “But nothing will ever be certain while the demon child lives.”

Tarja studied the old man suspiciously. He wasn’t so full of his own troubles that he didn’t recognise a threat to R’shiel when he heard it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean nothing,” he shrugged. “It just seems to me that the Kariens would be much more amenable if
they weren’t facing the threat of the demon child. Isn’t she supposed to destroy their God? How would you feel if you thought someone was trying to destroy everything that you held dear? One doesn’t have to be on their side to understand what drives them. I just think it odd that the Defenders are going to such pains to protect the very one whose presence caused this conflict in the first place.”

“R’shiel didn’t start this war.”

“Didn’t she? Isn’t her existence what prompted the Kariens to act? You killed their Envoy because he was trying to take R’shiel to Karien, didn’t you? Why do you defend her? If Medalon means so much to you, why not simply hand her over and be done with it? She’s your greatest bargaining chip, yet you refuse to play it. Is she so important to you that you are willing to risk your entire nation to protect her?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, old man,” Tarja scoffed, unwilling to admit that his logic made frightening sense. Could it really be that simple? Could they end this conflict now by trading R’shiel to the Kariens? Would their enemy withdraw for something so easily arranged? Tarja shook his head, unable to believe that he could even consider betraying her.

The old man looked at him closely, as if he could read Tarja’s internal conflict. Then he smiled and shrugged and took another swallow of his ale.

“You must forgive me, Captain. I let my mouth run away with me at times. I’m just an old man who sees things a little differently from younger men. What would I know? I wish you luck in your quest.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Tarja replied, pushing away the remains of his stew. For some reason he had lost his appetite.

“I just hope the demon child appreciates the sacrifice you have made for her, Captain.”

The old man downed the rest of his ale and climbed to his feet. Tarja watched him as he threaded his way through the crowd to the door, disturbed to discover how easily the seeds of doubt and treachery planted by the old man had found fertile ground inside his troubled mind.