Harshini (5 page)

“Fine,” Brak agreed impatiently. “Let’s go see her, then.”

“You have seen her already, my Lord. I am Teriahna. I am the Raven.”

The first thing Tarja remembered on waking was that R’shiel was in danger. The thought hit him like a body blow and he jerked upright, only to discover he was tied to the wagon bed on which he lay. He could not understand how he came to be there. Nor did it make any sense that he was obviously moving. The wagon jolted beneath him, hitting a bump in the road and he cried out as his head slammed into the wagon bed.

“I think he’s awake.”

Tarja was confronted by the odd spectre of a strange bearded face he didn’t recognise, which stared at him from the wagon seat. He struggled to sit up, but the ropes hampered his movement. The wagon halted and the man swung his legs around and squatted down beside Tarja, staring at him with concern.

“Captain? Sir? Do you know where you are?”

“Of course I don’t know where I am,” Tarja croaked. All he could see was a leaden sky, the sides of the wagon and the face of the Defender bending over him. His voice was hoarse and he was thirsty enough to drink a well dry. “Water. Get me water.”

The trooper hurried to fetch a water skin. Tarja coughed as cold water spilled down his parched throat.

“Am I a prisoner?” he asked.

“Not that they’ve told me, sir.”

“Then why the ropes?”

“Oh! Them? That was to stop you hurting yourself, sir. Soon as Cap’n Denjon gets here, we can untie you.”

“Denjon? Denjon is here?”

“Yes, he’s here.” Tarja turned to the new voice and peered at the familiar face studying him over the side of the wagon. Denjon grinned at him. “Welcome back.”

“What’s happened? Where are we? Where’s—”

“Slow down, Tarja,” Denjon cut in. “Untie him, Corporal.”

The trooper did as he was ordered and quickly released the ropes that bound him. Tarja tried to sit up, appalled at the effort it took. He glanced around and was astonished to discover himself in the midst of a Defender column that snaked in front and behind the wagon as far as he could see. He didn’t recognise the countryside around him. They were no longer on the undulating grasslands of the north, but advancing through the lightly wooded plateau of central Medalon. The Sanctuary Mountains loomed too close to the west. Tarja shook his head in confusion.

“How are you feeling?”

“Weak as a kitten,” Tarja confessed. “And completely lost. What’s happened?”

“I’ll explain what I can, but one thing at a time. We’re about to make camp for the night. I’ll fill you in over dinner.”

“Where’s R’shiel?”

Denjon shrugged. “On her way to Hythria, as are we, my friend. Which reminds me. She gave me this before she left.” He reached into his red jacket and withdrew a sealed letter. “She said I should give it to you when you woke up. It might explain a few things.”

He handed the letter to Tarja and remounted his horse, shouting an order to make camp as he cantered off. Tarja broke the seal on the letter anxiously, hoping the contents would throw some light on the confusion threatening to overwhelm him. He vaguely remembered a battle. He must have dreamt he had taken a sword in the belly, but nothing explained what he was doing tied to a wagon under an open sky, surrounded by Defenders.

The letter was written in R’shiel’s impatient scrawl.

Tarja
, it began without preamble.
If you are reading this, it means you survived. You were wounded trying to help me, and I tried to save your life. The Harshini part of me helped heal your wound, and the demons should do the rest. Brak says they’ll leave you when you’re well.

He read the paragraph twice. Most of what she had written made no sense. He had been wounded, it seemed, and she had used her magic to heal him. He could not understand the part about the demons, though. Shaking his head, he read on.

I have gone on ahead to Hythria with Damin and Adrina. I want their marriage to bring peace to the south, but I must support Damin in Hythria. I might learn about my destiny there, too. I’ll explain why it’s so important when I see you. Founders, how I hate
being the demon child! I wish I could have stayed with you…

I sent Brak to Fardohnya to tell King Hablet that his daughter is now the future High Princess of Hythria. That might stop him invading Hythria through Medalon come spring.

Tarja smiled. Damin and Adrina were married. He wondered what R’shiel had threatened them with to make that happen.

You must know by now that I killed the Karien prince and Lord Terbolt the morning after you tried to rescue me, so the Kariens will probably want my head even more now.

We’ve arranged to meet you all in Krakandar. From Damin’s side of the border you’ll be able to plan retaking Medalon. The thousand men you have now is too few to do anything but annoy the Kariens, but with Hythrun help, we’ll make those Karien bastards pay for invading Medalon.

Denjon is on our side, but be careful of Linst.

R’shiel

R’shiel had killed the Karien Crown Prince? Had she learnt nothing since their days in the rebellion? He read the letter again, wishing he could recall something—anything—of the past weeks. But Tarja’s memories stopped abruptly at the point where he had fallen in battle and there was nothing in the intervening period but a black, featureless abyss.

Sitting around a small fire later that evening, Tarja got the rest of the story from Denjon and Linst. His head was reeling by the time they finished telling
him of R’shiel’s confrontation with the Karien priests, of her abrupt decision to accept the legacy of her Harshini blood and everything else that had happened since then.

They told him of the wound that almost killed him but could not explain either the absence of any evidence of the wound, or why he had lain unconscious for so long, other than they had instructions from R’shiel to restrain him for his own protection. Denjon spoke with awe of the demon-melded dragon that had taken Brak south, and of his uneasiness over the unknown fate of the Karien prisoners they had left behind.

“So that’s about all there is to tell,” Denjon concluded with a shrug. “When Lord Wolfblade told us that Lord Jenga had ordered you to mount a resistance against the Kariens, and with Lord Terbolt and the Karien prince dead, it seemed prudent to follow the Lord Defender’s orders.”

Tarja studied Denjon in the firelight. “I’m not sure he planned for us to flee to Hythria.”

“We’re risking our necks for you, Tarja. A bit of gratitude wouldn’t go astray,” Linst grumbled.

“You don’t sound very happy about this, Linst.”

“
Happy
? Of course I’m not
happy
about it. But I’m even less happy about taking orders from those Karien bastards, so here I am, ready to fight alongside a thousand other deserters. You know, Tarja, until you came along, nobody even thought of breaking their Defenders’ oath. Now it’s a bloody epidemic.” He threw the remains of his stew onto the fire and stood up. “I have to check the sentries, although why we cling to Defender discipline is beyond me. It’s not
as if we’re ever likely to be welcomed back into the Corps, is it?”

He stalked off into the darkness, leaving Tarja and Denjon staring after him.

“He always was a stickler for the rules,” Denjon remarked in the uncomfortable silence that followed.

“How many of the others feel like him?”

“Quite a few,” Denjon replied. “He’s right about one thing, though. It isn’t easy for a Defender to walk away from his oath.”

“I never asked you to follow me, Denjon.”

The captain laughed humourlessly. “No,
you
didn’t. But R’shiel set half the camp on fire just by waving her arm around, then turned on us, bursting with Harshini power and asked us what we were planning to do. Taking your side seemed the prudent thing to do at the time.”

He frowned. Something else bothered him about R’shiel, some feeling or emotion he could not place. A vague uneasiness that lingered on the edge of his mind, just out of reach.

“So, how far are we from Testra? That is where you’re planning to cross the river, isn’t it?”

Denjon nodded. “Less than a week. Now you’re up and about, we can make better time. Do you think you can sit on a horse?”

“I’m damned if I’m going to spend any more time in that wagon. I can ride.”

“Good. We’ve picked up quite a few of the Defenders you left the border with along the way. We number close to thirteen hundred now.”

“Thirteen hundred against the Karien host isn’t many.”

“I know,” Denjon agreed. “But that’s where your Hythrun friends come in. With their help, we might have a chance.”

Sleep eluded Tarja for a long time that night. Waking from weeks of unconsciousness to find everything so radically changed was extremely disconcerting. He tossed and turned on the cold ground as the stars dwindled into dawn, trying to pin down the uneasiness that niggled at him like a tiny burr. Everything Denjon had told him, he reviewed over and over in his mind. But what bothered him came from another source. Something else was wrong…or different. Something he could not define.

All he knew for certain was that it centred on R’shiel.

After a full day in the saddle, Tarja realised how weak he was, but he was consumed by a restless energy that made it impossible for him to take the rest he needed. He could not understand the reason for his restive mood and the blank, dark hole in his memory unsettled him more than he was willing to admit.

All he could think of was getting to Hythria. His mind raced, making plans and rejecting them as he tried to figure the best way to hamper the Karien occupation force. The fact that he had no idea what sort of assistance they would receive from the Hythrun once they crossed the border made his task almost impossible. Damin might only be able to spare him a few centuries of Raiders, or he might be able to bring the full weight of the massive Hythrun war machine to his aid. There was simply no way to tell.

He drove Denjon mad when the other captain
gave the order to make camp each evening, insisting they had at least another hour of daylight. Denjon was amused the first night, patient the second, and told him bluntly to mind his own business the third.

But Tarja’s recovery seemed to bolster the morale of the men. He had been a popular officer once, known as a promising officer, a fair man and tipped to be the next Lord Defender. To see him back among them, wearing his red jacket and brimming with nervous energy, revived the spirits of men who up until then had had little more to do than contemplate their new status as outlaws.

Five days after Tarja woke, they were within sight of Testra. Tarja suggested sending an advance party forward to reconnoitre in the town, while the bulk of their force waited out of sight to avoid drawing attention to their number, although Denjon seemed certain that news of their desertion could not have reached this far south yet.

“We can’t risk riding into Testra in force,” Tarja insisted.

“Yesterday you were all for riding through the night to get here. Now you want to add another day to the trip while you go sightseeing,” Linst complained.

“I don’t
want
to wait,” Tarja corrected. “I just think it would be stupid to reveal ourselves until we know we’re in the clear. Besides, there’s still a garrison in Testra. If they’ve heard of the surrender, they might want to join us.”

“Reluctant as I am to spend another day on this side of the river,” Denjon said, “I’m afraid I agree with Tarja.”

Linst glared at both of them for a moment then shrugged. “As you wish.”

When he left them, Denjon turned to Tarja. “Do you think he’s having second thoughts?”

“You can count on it,” Tarja agreed. “Who’s in command in Testra?”

“Antwon, I think.”

“I know him. He won’t like the idea of surrender.”

“Not liking the idea of surrender is not the same as being willing to desert,” Denjon pointed out.

“Still, it’s worth sounding him out. Every Defender we get out of Medalon now is another man we can put into the field later on.”

“Aye. And you’d best get some rest. You look ready to drop.”

“I’m fine.”

The practised lie came easily to him now. It was much simpler than trying to explain that he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop his mind from running around in circles, or prevent the confused images that flashed in front of his eyes, catching him unawares.

Something had happened to him. Something to do with R’shiel and her damned Harshini healing. But whenever he thought of R’shiel, a myriad conflicting and seemingly impossible memories surfaced. Some of them were real memories, he was certain of that. Others were like a nightmare. They were the ones where he imagined R’shiel in his arms. The ones where he loved her—not like the sister he had grown up believing her to be—but as her lover.

The absolute certainty that he would never feel that way towards his sister was the only thing that kept him sane.

“The main wharf looks new.”

Teriahna chuckled softly at Brak’s comment. They were walking along the waterfront of Talabar amidst the morning bustle of the busy port, for no better reason than the privacy such a public place offered. The sun beat down on them and the wharves were crowded with frazzled-looking merchants and barechested, sweat-sheened sailors shouting boisterously at each other as they unloaded their cargoes.

“Ah, now there’s a story behind that,” she told him as they sidestepped a gilded litter carried by four muscular slaves. “The Princess Adrina tried her hand at sailing Hablet’s flagship, the
Wave Warrior
, so the story goes, and ended up ramming the dock. If you believe the rumours that’s why Hablet packed her off to Karien.”

“And if you don’t believe the rumours?”

“Then he married her to Cratyn because Adrina, more than any of his children, is cast in the same mould as her father. If he was up to something nasty and needed an ally in Karien, Adrina would be the one for the job.”

Brak did not offer any further comment on Adrina. He had not told Teriahna the news he carried from Medalon. As far as anyone in Fardohnya knew, Adrina was still in the north. That Cratyn was dead, Adrina now married to Lord Wolfblade and Hablet’s eldest baseborn son was a casualty of the Karien–Medalonian war, was news he would prefer not to break until Adrina was safely across the border into Hythria, where Damin could protect her from her father’s wrath.

“So, what do you know to be
fact
about Hablet’s treaty with Karien?”

“Not much more than anyone else, I’m afraid,” she admitted. “He gave them the Isle of Slarn, we know that for certain, and there’s been no shortage of timber for shipbuilding since the princess left. According to the treaty, he’s supposed to attack Medalon from the south come the northern spring, and he’s certainly mustering his army for an invasion.”

“But?” Brak asked, sensing there was more she had not told him.

“But he’s got his officers studying Hythria, not Medalon.”

“You think he seriously intends to invade Hythria?”

“He’s never likely to have a better chance. He can’t go over the Sunrise Mountains—Tejay Lionsclaw makes certain of that. The Hythrun defend their ports too well to risk a naval invasion, and until the Kariens declared war on their neighbour, Medalon had the Defenders to deter him from taking that route. But with the Defenders tied up on their
northern border, and the Warlord of Krakandar up there with them, Hythria is wide open.”

Brak nodded. Adrina had said almost the same thing.

“Why is Hablet so determined to invade Hythria?” Brak asked. “It can’t just be greed. He’s richer than any man alive.”

Teriahna seemed amused by the question. “Don’t you know? It isn’t wealth that drives Hablet, it’s fear.”

“Of what?”

“He doesn’t have a legitimate heir.”

“That’s not a reason to invade Hythria.”

“It is if you’re afraid that your next heir is likely to be Hythrun.”

Brak stopped and stared at her, afraid she had already heard about Damin and Adrina, but then he realised that even if she had, Hablet had been planning this invasion long before the two of them met. “How could that be?”

“Hythria and Fardohnya have not always been separate nations, Brak. You should know that.”

“Fardohnya split from Hythria before I was born,” Brak pointed out. “And believe me, I was born a very long time ago.”

“They formally became separate nations during the reign of Greneth the Older Twin,” she reminded him. “That was about twelve hundred years ago.”

Brak nodded. “Greneth was the twin brother of Doranda Wolfblade, as I recall.”

“Ah, you do know your history then. Well, the split was quite amicable by all accounts. Greater Fardohnya, as it was known then, was a huge country; much too vast to govern effectively. Hythria
was the largest province, governed by the Wolfblade family. Greneth married his sister Doranda to Jaycon Wolfblade, gave them Hythria to rule as the High prince and princess.”

Brak found himself impressed by Teriahna’s knowledge, but no closer to the knowledge he sought. “I still don’t see…”

“Then let me finish,” she chided. “As part of the agreement to separate the two nations, Greneth signed a pledge that in the absence of a male heir to the Fardohnyan throne, the eldest living Wolfblade would automatically inherit the crown. The agreement has never been revoked.”

“I’ve never heard of it before.”

“Well, until now, there’s been no need to worry about it. Hablet is the first Fardohnyan king in twelve hundred years who’s failed to get a son.”

“How many others know about it?”

“Enough that Hablet is worried. When your king keeps producing daughters, people start going through the archives. We only stumbled across it recently ourselves. Like you, we were curious about Hablet’s obvious obsession with Hythria.”

“I’m still not certain I understand what he hopes to achieve by invading Hythria.”

“He needs to destroy the Wolfblade line. If there is no living Wolfblade, there is no heir. If there is no heir he can legitimise one of his bastards.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler, not to mention cheaper, to hire one of your assassins?”

“Are you kidding? Do you have any idea what we charge for assassinating a High Prince? Trust me, an invasion, even a prolonged one, would be cheaper.”

Brak smiled, not entirely certain she was joking.

“Anyway,” Teriahna continued, “he tried that, and we refused. Call it professional ethics, but we draw the line at kings and princes. The death of a ruling monarch tends to create unrest and draws unnecessary attention to the Guild and that’s bad for business. We are strictly apolitical.”

“What a comforting thought,” he remarked wryly.

She smiled. “I forget you are Harshini, sometimes, my Lord. Does all this talk of killing distress you?”

“Not as much as it should,” he admitted. “So how long has Hablet known about this forgotten law?”

“A long time, I think. He made Lernen Wolfblade an offer for his sister Princess Marla when he first took the throne. You can imagine Lernen’s reaction. He agreed to the offer at first and then changed his mind and married Marla to some rustic Warlord from the north of Hythria, just to add to the insult. Hablet has never forgiven him for that either.”

“So, for the sake of a forgotten law and a thirty-five-year-old insult, Hablet is going to invade Hythria?”

“That’s about the strength of it,” she agreed. “If Damin Wolfblade and Narvell Hawksword are killed protecting Hythria, which is a real possibility, and Lernen dies, which is also likely to happen sooner rather than later, according to my sources, there are no more male Wolfblades and Greneth’s pledge is void.”

“Marla has other sons.”

“Stepsons,” Teriahna corrected. “She has only two natural-born sons and neither of them has an heir. If they die, the Wolfblade line is at an end.”

“And if her daughters have sons?”

“Then they’d have as much claim as Hablet’s daughters, no more. The pledge specifies a Wolfblade male and even Narvell’s claim is tenuous, because he took his father’s name when he became the Warlord of Elasapine.”

“You seem remarkably well informed on the matter of Hythrun bloodlines.”

“It’s my job. Besides, I’ve been looking into the matter lately. The Guild might be apolitical, but we are hardly politically naive. The machinations of kings and princes affect us closely. We have a vested interest in keeping things stable.”

“Hence your reluctance to assassinate them.”

“I see you understand our position.”

Brak nodded, wondering how much he should tell Teriahna. For that matter, it wouldn’t be long before she learnt of it anyway. Once Damin reached Hythria, the news would spread like a grass fire.

They had reached the end of the wharf and took the carved stone steps up to the paved road that circled the harbour. Brak glanced over his shoulder, surprised at the distance they had covered. He had been so engrossed in the conversation he had not noticed.

“Are you hungry? There’s a tavern not far from here that serves the best oysters in Fardohnya.”

Brak nodded his agreement distractedly. The Raven led the way a little further up the road to a small tavern with an arched entrance, over which was carved the words “The Pearl of Talabar”. The tavern was cramped, but clean and cool and Teriahna was obviously well known. The owner hurried forward to greet them and showed them to a
private booth in the back that gave them a clear view of the rest of the room.

“Now,” she said decisively, once they were seated. “I have answered your questions. I think it’s time you answered a few of mine.”

“If I can.”

“What are you doing in Talabar?”

“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I was sightseeing?” he asked with a faint smile.

“No, I don’t suppose I would. Nor do I think you sought out the Guild to kill someone for you. So there has to be another reason.”

“There is.”

She let out an exasperated sigh. “Well? Do I have to drag it from you?”

He smiled. “I’ve come from Medalon.”

“Medalon? That’s an odd place for a Harshini to be.”

“Not really. The Harshini who survived the Sisterhood’s purges still live in Medalon.”

“Everyone believes the Harshini are extinct. Except you, of course. You are thought to be the last. And we all thought you long dead.”

“The Harshini are not dead.”

“So where are they?”

“I like you, Teriahna, but I don’t trust you that much.”

She nodded, her eyes glittering mischievously in the gloom. “I didn’t seriously think you’d tell me, but it was worth a try.”

The conversation stopped as the tavern keeper arrived with two platters of chilled oysters. Teriahna tucked into her meal with gusto, slurping the oysters
from their shells with obvious relish. The tavern keeper left with a small, indulgent smile at the Raven. She caught his look and smiled.

“I grew up around here. Mornt is an old friend,” she explained, wiping her chin.

Brak picked up a shell and tipped the juicy contents down his throat. Teriahna was right. Seasoned with something he could not identify, it was delicious.

“Rumour has it the taste is the result of the oyster beds being in a direct line of Talabar’s sewage outlet.”

Brak almost choked on the oyster as she burst out laughing.

“I’m kidding, Brak. Mornt has a secret recipe that he guards with his life. We’ve been offered a small fortune to torture the information out of him. We refused, naturally, and let Mornt learn of our refusal. Now we eat here for free.”

“A small price to pay for your life. I never realised the tavern business was so cutthroat.”

“You’d be surprised what we get asked to do.”

“No doubt.”

She swallowed another oyster. “So, you come from Medalon and the first thing you do is seek out the Assassins’ Guild. Why?”

“You’re the best source of intelligence in Talabar.”

“Flattery is not an answer. Just where were you in Medalon exactly?”

“The northern border.”

“So how goes the war? Are the Defenders winning? They ought to. They deserve their reputation, by all accounts.”

“Medalon has surrendered, Teriahna.”

She made no attempt to hide her shock. “
What
? Why would they surrender?”

“It’s a long story, and one I have no intention of trying to explain. But the fact is, Medalon has surrendered and is now in the hands of the Kariens.”

“Gods!” she muttered with concern. “I knew I should have kept some people in the north. Hablet’s not going to be happy when he learns of this. He was hoping the Kariens would keep the Defenders occupied for years.”

“I’ve other news that’s going to please him even less. Tristan is dead. He was killed in the only major confrontation between the two armies.”

She shook her head. “Now that’s bad news. He would have made a good king if Hablet could have found a way to legitimise him.”

“It’s not the worst of it,” he warned.

“You mean there’s more? I can’t think of anything that would upset Hablet more.”

“Prince Cratyn is dead too.”

“I doubt he’ll lose much sleep over
that
news.” Then she frowned. “So Adrina is a widow now?”

“Not exactly.”

“Gods, Brak! Getting anything out of you is like pulling teeth! What do you mean,
not exactly
?”

“She’s remarried,” he said, keeping his voice deliberately emotionless. “To Damin Wolfblade.”

Teriahna laughed. “Is this your idea of getting even for that comment about the sewage pipes?”

He didn’t answer. The silence was heavy as Teriahna realised that he was serious.

“Dear gods! How did that come about?”

“The demon child ordered it.”

“The
demon child
? Now I
know
you’re joking.”

Once again, he let the silence speak for him. The Raven studied him closely for a moment, then pushed her platter away. “This is no joke, is it? There really is a demon child? Who is he?”

“She. Her name is R’shiel.”

“That’s a Medalonian name.”

“That’s right.”

“The demon child is
Medalonian
? Gods! That’s a strange turn of events—an atheist who’s descended from the gods. So, what gives the demon child the right to interfere in something that is likely to destabilise every nation on the continent?”

“She’s on a mission from the gods—quite literally. I believe her eventual plan is to bring peace to every nation on the continent, not destabilise them.”

“Then she has an odd way of going about it.”

“You think so? If what you’ve told me is true, it seems the perfect solution. Hablet has no son, which makes a Wolfblade his heir. That heir is now married to his eldest daughter.”

“Oh, I agree, it’s a solution none of us would have imagined, but how do you think Hablet is going to take the news? He wants to obliterate the Wolfblade line, not welcome their favourite son into his family.”

“Well, he’s going to have to get used to the idea. Can you get me into the palace to see him?”

“Probably, although I don’t suggest you use your real name. Hablet is no more likely to believe Brakandaran the Half-Breed still lives than I did.” Her expression grew serious as she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You have to understand,
Brak: it suits a lot of people to believe the Harshini are gone. They represented a way of life that is long past, and while kings publicly lament their passing, privately they are rather pleased the Harshini aren’t around to act as their conscience any more. Especially kings like Hablet.”