Harshini (7 page)

“So, you are Adrina of Fardohnya?” she accused without preamble.

“Yes, Your Highness, I—”

“I thought you were married to Cratyn of Karien?”

“I was, but—”

“How in the name of the gods did you happen to marry my son?”

“I—”

“Mother!”

“Have you lost your mind, Damin!” Marla demanded, turning on him. “Whatever she did to trap you into this marriage, it must be undone immediately! I will not jeopardise everything we have worked for, just because you were taken in by some Fardohnyan whore!”

“If you would let me explain…”

“
Explain
? You think you can offer any explanation that will satisfy me? And while you’re at it, you might like to think of what you’re planning to tell your uncle and the Warlords! Lernen will have a fit when he hears of this. I can’t begin to think of what the Warlords are going to say!”

“Mother—”

“All my life I have done nothing but try to secure your throne. It was bad enough your abandoning your province to go chasing off to Medalon. Your unauthorised and ill-timed treaty with the Defenders had the Warlords howling for your blood. And now, after I spend months trying to win them over on your behalf, you throw it all away for the sake of a woman. And a foreigner at that!” She turned suddenly and glared at Adrina. “No, not just any foreigner! You had to go and marry the most notorious harlot on the whole continent!”

Adrina looked to Damin for support. He sat on the edge of the gold-inlaid desk, listening to his mother’s rage with barely concealed amusement. It annoyed her intensely that instead of defending her he thought it was funny.

“Are you finished yet?” R’shiel asked quietly, from the back of the room. She had been studying the books in the bookcases that lined the walls of the
library, but now she turned to them, the command in her voice impossible to deny.

Marla glared at her. She was not used to having her authority challenged.

“And who are you to tell me what to do?”

“I am R’shiel té Ortyn.”

“So you claim!” the princess scoffed. “You’re no Harshini! What right do you have to use the name of the Harshini royal family?”

“Lorandranek was my father.”

“That’s absurd!” Kalan declared. “You’re human. If Lorandranek was your father, that would make you the…” Her voiced trailed off as she realised what she was about to say.

“Yes?” R’shiel prompted.

“It’s not possible!”

“You of all people, should know that it
is
possible,” Damin pointed out.

“What are you talking about, Damin?” Narvell asked.

“Tell him, Kalan.”

Kalan glanced at her twin and shrugged. “If this young woman is really who she claims to be, then she is…the demon child.”

Narvell looked impressed by the news, but Marla was not so easily persuaded. “
This girl
? The demon child? Damin, they must have fed you something in the north that affected your reason. You surely don’t believe it, do you?”

“R’shiel
is
the demon child, mother. She was placed in my care by Zegarnald himself.”

Kalan stared at him with astonishment. “You spoke to the God of War?”

“In the flesh.”

“He spoke to me, too,” Narvell admitted. “It’s why I turned back.”

“This is unprecedented.”

“Everything about me is unprecedented,” R’shiel remarked. “So, if we’re through with the histrionics, perhaps we can start again. Princess Marla, I think you owe your daughter-in-law an apology. She’s really not that bad. As for you, High Arrion, you and I need to have a talk. Damin, can you do something about rooms for us? Your mother was right about that much at least—we all stink like horses. Perhaps once everyone has had a chance to clean up and calm down, we can sort this out like rational human beings.”

Princess Marla stared at R’shiel with undisguised horror, although whether it was because she found herself face-to-face with a legend, or simply R’shiel’s high-handed manner, Adrina could not tell.

Damin knocked on the door of the rooms adjacent to his that his Chief Steward had allocated to Adrina and opened it without waiting for an answer, a little surprised to find it unlocked.

The room had been his mother’s once, on the rare occasions she had lived at Krakandar when he was a child. It was furnished in her impeccable taste: the rooms airy and light; the rugs imported from Karien; the crystal made in Fardohnya; the red granite floors polished to perfection. Not a piece of the whitewood furniture was out of place; not a vase or lamp did not belong here.

He followed the sound of voices through the sitting room and into the dressing room beyond. Adrina was standing before the full-length mirror, examining herself critically. She was dressed in a long, sleeveless robe that fell softly to the floor in a cascade of emerald silk. Her slave was moving about in the next room, tidying up after her mistress’ bath. She turned sharply as she caught sight of her husband in the mirror.

“Damin!”

“I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Don’t you know how to knock?”

“I did knock.”

“Oh…” She straightened her gown and studied him for a moment. “There’s something different about you…I know what it is. I’ve never seen you so clean. You almost look civilised.”

Damin had not given much thought to what he wore. A white silk shirt, trousers and polished boots hardly seemed to warrant such admiration. But compliments, even backhanded ones, were a rare thing from Adrina, so he chose not to make an issue of it.

“Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes, thank you. Your sister sent along the dress. I don’t know who it belonged to before me, but it’s an adequate fit.”

“Well, if you need anything, just ask Orleon, my Chief Steward. He’ll see that you get it.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll have a seamstress sent to you tomorrow. You’re going to need a suitable wardrobe.”

An uncomfortable silence settled on them as Damin wondered how to broach the subject he’d come here to speak about. Adrina was a volatile and unpredictable woman. He had no way of knowing how she would react to what he had to say.

“I’m sorry about my mother. She shouldn’t have spoken the way she did.”

“We both knew this wasn’t going to be easy, Damin. Her reaction was nothing less than I expected.” She smiled suddenly, her eyes glinting. “I will console myself with the thought of my father’s
reaction when he hears about it. I imagine your mother will seem quite reasonable by comparison.”

“That’s true,” he agreed, relieved things were going so well. “But, I do have a favour to ask.”

“A favour?”

“We caught Marla off-guard today. You may not have heard the worst of it. It would be…easier…”

“If I bite my tongue and let her insult me?” Adrina finished for him.

“Something like that.”

He expected her to explode at that point, but to his astonishment, she nodded her agreement. “Don’t worry, I’ll behave.”

“You
will
?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I plan to survive this farcical arrangement, Damin, and to do that, I’ll need your mother on my side. You’d be surprised how charming I can be when the mood takes me.”

Actually, Damin wouldn’t have been surprised at all. She could be very disarming when she wanted something. “Well, if you can win Marla over, you’ll have the whole of Hythria at your feet.”

“That’s the plan,” she agreed. “And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, you should be safe enough here in the palace. I’ll have Almodavar hand-pick your bodyguards. You have to promise you won’t try leaving the palace without them.”

Adrina scowled, but nodded. “I suppose.”

“I’ve already arranged for a message to go to the Assassins’ Guild,” he added. “I plan to hire them before someone else thinks of it. They are very loyal employees.”

“You mean they stay bought.”

“It’s the same thing in the end.”

She sighed, as if the realisation that life would be difficult for some time to come had just dawned on her. Damin could not fathom her mood.

“Well, if you’ve everything you need, I’ll see you at dinner. I’ll have Orleon send someone to show you the way.”

“Damin,” she called as he turned to leave. “Why are your mother and the High Arrion here in Krakandar? I know R’shiel arranged for Zegarnald to turn Narvell back, but that doesn’t explain the other two.”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, a little surprised that she’d asked. He reminded himself, yet again, not to underestimate his wife.

“Well, I suggest you find out. I may not be an expert on Hythrun politics, but I do know the High Arrion doesn’t do anything without a good reason, and I suspect your mother hasn’t made an impulsive move in her entire life.”

It was a remarkably accurate assessment, considering her short acquaintance with his family. Damin wished for a moment that he could trust her. She would make a daunting High Princess—if she didn’t try to murder him first.

“We’ll find out what’s behind their presence soon enough. Once Marla has gotten over the news about you.”

“Well, if she doesn’t like the idea, tell her to take it up with the demon child,” she told him, picking up a silver-backed hairbrush. She turned her back to him and began brushing out her long dark hair.

He had been dismissed.

Damin let himself out of Adrina’s rooms, thinking on what she had said about his mother and sister. She wasn’t far off the mark. Marla did nothing without thinking it through. As for Kalan, Adrina was right about her too. The High Arrion wouldn’t leave Greenharbour without a very good reason. His unease at finding his palace steps lined with silver-uniformed soldiers from the Sorcerers’ Collective still lingered.

“My Lord?”

Damin turned to find Orleon coming towards him at his usual, unhurried pace. The old man was as much a part of Krakandar Palace as the stones in the walls. He never aged noticeably that Damin could see. He still seemed the same, grey-haired, eagle-eyed watchdog that he’d been when Damin was a child.

“Yes, Orleon?”

“You have a visitor, my Lord.”

From the slight tone of reproach, Damin could guess who it was. “Where is he?”

“In the Morning Room, my Lord. I suggest you go there now, while we still have the silverware.”

Damin grinned at Orleon’s expression and changed the direction he was headed. The Morning Room was on the ground floor, and he took the broad marble steps two at a time, anxious to see his visitor. When he threw open the door, the man in question was holding up a small statue to the light, examining it with the critical eye of an expert.

“It’s not worth your attention,” Damin told him, as he closed the door behind him. “You’d get more for the candelabra.”

The fair-haired man slowly replaced the statue on the mantle before he turned to Damin.

“Perhaps. But that’s inscribed with the Krakenshield crest. Too easy to trace it back to its source.”

“When has that ever bothered you?”

The man smiled and crossed the room, catching Damin in a crushing bear hug, before holding him at arm’s length to look at him closely. Older by two years, but of a much slighter build, his clothes were expertly cut of expensive silk and he wore them with the cavalier air of a nobleman. His blue eyes were bright with intelligence and a level of animal cunning that Damin had often envied as a child. He looked prosperous and happy.
Business must be good
, Damin thought, not altogether pleased by the thought.

“Welcome home, Damin. It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Starros. How’s business?”

“It’ll be better now that you’re home.”

Damin moved to the sidetable, shaking his head. “I’m sure you mean it as a compliment, old friend, but telling me that my return is going to favour Krakandar’s criminal element, really doesn’t thrill me.”

He pulled the stopper from the decanter and poured two cups of wine, handing one to Starros with a smile. The thief frowned as he accepted the wine.

“You know what I mean, Damin. All these troops from the Sorcerers’ Collective and Elasapine filling up our streets is no good for my people.”

“Maybe I should invite them to stay.”

“Maybe you should invite them to leave,” Starros corrected.

Damin looked at him curiously. “Perhaps you’d better fill me in.”

They settled into the heavily padded chairs on either side of the hearth. The fire burned low—more glowing coals than flame—but it gave off enough heat to take the chill out of the air. Damin carried the decanter with him, certain he would need another drink before Starros was through.

“The Collective troops arrived about a month ago. Kalan made quite an impressive entrance, and then declared the city under the Collective’s protection. Your mother arrived before her by a few days, and Narvell and his henchmen got here last week.”

“Why did Kalan place the city under the Collective’s protection? That only happens when a Warlord dies without an heir.”

“You’ll have to ask Kalan, I’m afraid. I tried to get in to see her, but she doesn’t entertain the likes of me since she became High Arrion.”

Damin frowned, wondering what was really going on. He’d had no chance to speak to Kalan alone since he arrived, and she had not sought him out. Even more worrying was Kalan’s refusal to see Starros. The leader of the Thieves’ Guild was—so rumour claimed—Almodavar’s bastard son. He had grown up here in the palace with them and was counted among their closest friends. Even if she could not acknowledge her friendship with Starros openly, she had never refused to see him before.

“What else has been happening since I left?”

“Not much. Things were pretty quiet until your mother got here. But then things always get sticky once she turns up.”

Damin smiled in fond remembrance. “You remember that time she arrived from Elasapine and we’d gone fishing in the fens?”

“The time she found me beating the stuffing out of you in that bog?” Starros laughed. “I remember. Gods, we must have looked a sight. All mud and blood and black eyes.”

“You were
not
beating me,” Damin corrected. “I was letting you win.”

“You were bawling your eyes out like a baby!”

“I was not!”

“You were so! And I’ll never let you forget it, either. It was the only time I ever beat you in a fair fight, Damin Wolfblade.” Starros finished his wine and held out his cup for a refill. Damin shook his head and smiled. It wasn’t really worth arguing about. He leaned over and filled the cup without getting out of his chair. Starros sipped the wine appreciatively. “So, I hear you’ve taken a bride.”

“That’s right.”

“A Fardohnyan?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, you always did like to live dangerously. Is she pretty?”

“Very.”

“Worth the trouble?”

Damin grinned. “I haven’t decided yet.”

Starros chuckled softly. “And the rumour that you have brought the demon child to Hythria? Is that true?”

Damin lowered the cup from his lips and stared at Starros. “Where did you hear that?”

“I have my sources,” the thief told him smugly.

“I’m serious, Starros. How did you hear about it so soon?”

“Soon? Hell, we’ve known about it for weeks!” He looked at Damin, his smile fading.

“Who told you?”

“It’s really bothering you, isn’t it? Nobody told me, not in the way you’re thinking. It was a bit odd, actually. About six or seven weeks ago, an old man appeared in the city. Didn’t bother anyone at first, just roamed the streets trying to convince the working
court’esa
that their eternal souls were in danger if they didn’t renounce their way of life. He stood on a few street corners and gave speeches that nobody listened to. You know the type. We average about one prophet a month in a good year, so we paid him little attention.”

“But—” Damin prompted, certain there was more to the story.

“Do you remember Limik the Leopard?” Starros asked.

“Tall fellow? Scarred hands?”

Starros nodded. “He burned them as a child.”

“Didn’t I have him flogged once for beating his wife?”

“That’s the one. Hard case through and through.”

“I remember him,” Damin said. “What’s he got to do with the old man?”

“I’m getting to that. I sent Limik out on a job…oh, about three weeks ago, I think. A certain merchant in Felt Street had a bad habit of leaving his wife’s jewellery laying about the house. In our profession, that sort of carelessness can’t be allowed to go unpunished.”

“Of course not,” Damin agreed wryly.

“Anyway, Limik’s an old hand at that sort of thing, so I sent him out to teach our merchant friend a lesson. He did the job and was on his way back to the Guild when he bumped into the old man.”

“What happened?”

“Limik went back to the house, confessed his crime to the merchant—who didn’t even realise he’d been robbed—and from that day on, he followed the old man around like a puppy, telling anyone who’d listen that he’d denounced Dacendaran, and was now a follower of another god.”

“Which other god?”

“He didn’t say. But he used the word ‘sin’ a lot.”

Damin frowned. “That sounds like Xaphista.”

“Not even Limik, in the throes of religious ecstasy, is stupid enough to use that name out loud in the streets of Krakandar,” Starros said. “But after that day, the old man changed his tune. He started talking about you. Said you’d allied yourself with the godless ones—I guess he meant the Medalonians—and that you were consorting with the demon child. Next thing you know, Kalan turns up with her troops and places the city under the Collective’s protection.”

“Where is this old man now?”

“Gone,” Starros shrugged. “As soon as I got word you were on your way home, I sent my people out to find him. He’s dropped out of sight. Vanished as if he was never here.”

“And Limik?”

“The day after the old man vanished, Limik robbed three houses and a tavern. He claims he can’t remember a thing. Threatened to knife me for even
suggesting he’d ever confess to any crime, let alone turn away from Dacendaran.”

Damin stared into his wine for a moment. “So, what’s your theory?”