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  “And just exactly what does my appearance herald?”

  Korandellan did not answer immediately. When he did, he completely changed the subject. “The demon child lives.”

  “Cheltaran healed her, then?” It was a relief to learn that his journey had not been in vain.

  “Yes... and no.”

  The vague reply surprised Brak, and worried him. “What do you mean?”

  “When the demons brought R’shiel here she was on the brink of death. No, even more than that, Death had her by the hand and was leading her away. Cheltaran healed her wounds, but Death does not like to be cheated, particularly by the God of Healing. They are having something of a... disagreement... over the demon child’s fate.”

  “That sounds ominous. Where does that leave R’shiel?”

  “She lives, but only just. Death holds one hand, Cheltaran the other.”

  Brak sagged against the balcony. “But it’s been months!”

  “I know. But now that you are here, we should be able to resolve the conflict.”

  “You want me to step into an argument between Death and a god? Thanks for the vote of confidence, your Majesty, but I think you vastly overrate my powers of persuasion.”

  The King turned to him, his expression serious. “I overrate nothing, Brakandaran. A compromise of sorts has been worked out to solve the problem. Unfortunately, none of us is capable of carrying it out.”

  “Compromise? What compromise?”

  “A life for a life,” Korandellan told him heavily. “Death will relinquish his claim on R’shiel, if another life is given in her place.”

  Brak closed his eyes for a moment as the weight of the task Korandellan asked of him pressed on him like a falling building.

  “You want me to choose?”

  “I do not ask this of you lightly, Brakandaran, but I have no choice. I cannot take a life, even indirectly. You are the only one who can make the decision.”

  “And to think I used to imagine my human blood would never be an asset to the Harshini,” Brak remarked sourly. “Fine. I’ll go out and pick some helpless, worthless human. That should satisfy Death.”

  Korandellan’s golden skin paled at his callousness. “It is not that simple. Death demands a soul of equal value.”

  “Then I’ll make sure I pick an obnoxious brat. That should even things up.”

  “A soul of equal value, Brakandaran. Death drives a hard bargain. He wants a soul whose loss will mean as much to the demon child as her loss will mean to us.”

  “Is there a time limit on this absurd bargain, or will the poor sod drop dead the moment I name him?”

  Korandellan shook his head in despair. “I cannot comprehend your ability to make light of this, Brakandaran.”

  “I’m not making light of anything. I might be capable of making such a decision, Korandellan, but I certainly don’t find it easy. It’s an eminently reasonable question.”

  “And one I cannot answer. You will have to ask Death yourself. I’m sure he will be reasonable.”

  “Oh! You think so?”

  “Please, Brakandaran! Do not think to approach Death with such an attitude.”

  As a race, the Harshini were a bridge between the gods and mortal man, but it was Korandellan who carried the full weight of that bridge on his shoulders. Brak appreciated his predicament, but found it hard to sympathise, given the burden the King had just handed him.

  “Don’t worry. Even I am not that stupid. Can I see R’shiel?”

  “Of course.” The King smiled faintly and placed his hand on Brak’s shoulder. “You did well to find her, Brak. I know the remorse that fills you seems hard to live with, but ultimately, if she succeeds, R’shiel will free the Harshini. Your actions will have saved your people.”

  “All but one,” Brak reminded him grimly.

  R’shiel té Ortyn, the demon child who had caused Brak so much anguish – even before she was born – lay not far from Korandellan’s chambers. The room was large and airy, filled with flowers and scented candles, as if the cheery atmosphere could somehow compensate for the battle being waged over her life. Two Harshini sat with her, watching the faint rise and fall of her chest, as if waiting for something to happen. As Brak approached they bowed silently and withdrew, the expectant joy in their black eyes at his coming making him feel unworthy.

  She lay on the crisp white sheets wearing a simple robe of pale blue. Her dark red hair had been braided with care and lay coiled on the pillow. She appeared whole and unmarked. As unnaturally perfect as any Harshini.

  She was breathing, but barely. Brak watched her for a time then turned to Korandellan.

  “You’ve not spoken to her yet?”

  “She’s been unconscious since she arrived. Once the... decision is made, Death will release her.”

  Brak considered his next words carefully before he spoke. “Korandellan, have you considered the possibility that it might be better if you let Death have her?”

  The King’s head snapped up in shock. “Of course not! Why would I do that?”

  “She may look Harshini, your Majesty, but this girl is not what she seems. She was raised by the Sisterhood. She is spoilt, manipulative and can be utterly ruthless when she’s in the mood. And those are her good points.”

  “If Xaphista prevails, the Harshini will be destroyed.”

  “You’ve no guarantee that won’t happen, even if she lives. You don’t know her like I do. Believe me, she’s not the stuff saviours are made of.”

  “You don’t like her?”

  “I don’t trust her,” he corrected.

  The King studied R’shiel for a moment and then looked at Brak. His expression was troubled. “Be that as it may, I cannot let her die. We will not survive long enough for another demon child to reach maturity, even if such a child was born tomorrow. I have no choice.”

  “Then the gods help us all,” Brak muttered to himself.

  Chapter 2

  Her Most Serene Highness, Princess Adrina of Fardohnya, took special care with her appearance this morning. There wasn’t much she could do about the black eye, but she could disguise the rest of her bruises. Her slaves fussed over her nervously, as wary of her foul mood as they were of their uncertain future. Their mistress had done many things in the past to incur the wrath of the King, but last night’s escapade was spectacular, even for Adrina.

  “Has anybody seen Tristan?” she snapped, pushing away the young, dark-haired slave who was trying to fix a diaphanous veil to her head with jewelled pins and trembling fingers.

  “No, your Highness,” Tamylan replied calmly, relieving the girl of the task. With a firm hand she pinned on the veil. Adrina yelped impatiently.

  “Be careful! Where in the Seven Hells is he? I’ll be damned if I’ll take the blame for this alone.”

  “I believe Tristan was last seen beating a hasty retreat towards the South Gate, your Highness,” the slave told her, barely able to conceal her amusement. Adrina glared at her in the mirror. Tamylan had been her constant companion since they were children. She had a bad habit of forgetting her place. “I imagine your brother was seized by an overwhelming desire to rejoin his regiment at Lander’s Crossing.”

  “Coward,” Adrina muttered. “When I get my hands on him...” She pushed Tamylan away, stood up and glanced at her reflection, satisfied that she had done her best under the circumstances. Her skirt was green, Hablet’s favourite colour, and the deep emerald shade brought out the green in her kohl-darkened eyes, even with the unbecoming bruise. The bodice was a shade or two lighter and edged with delicate pearls, exactly matching the larger pearl that nested in her bare navel. She could do little about her pounding head but she had gargled half a bottle of cologne to rid herself of the sour aftertaste of mead. She smoothed down the skirts nervously and turned to Tamylan. “How do I look?”

  “As lovely as ever, your Highness,” the slave assured her. “I’m sure the King will be so overcome by your radiant beauty that he’ll completel
y overlook the fact that you ran his flagship into the main wharf last night.”

  “Tamylan, have I told you that you’re dangerously close to pushing me too far?” She was no mood for Tamylan’s eternal good humour. She wasn’t in the mood for much of anything. She just wanted to crawl back into her bed and hide under the covers until her father forgot about her.

  “Not for an hour, at least, your Highness.”

  A knock at the door saved Tamylan from a tongue-lashing. Gretta, the slave who had been so carefully trying to fix her hair, answered it hastily. The young girl bowed low as Lecter Turon, the King’s Chamberlain, entered, scurrying out of his way as he waddled into the room.

  The Chamberlain mopped his perpetually sweating bald head and bowed to Adrina. “The King is waiting for you, your Highness,” the eunuch announced in his gratingly high-pitched voice. “I have come to escort you.”

  “I know the way, Turon. I hardly need an obsequious little toad like you to guide me.”

  “Your Serene Highness, I speak the truth when I say that never have I looked forward to a duty more.” He was positively beaming at the prospect of her trying to explain her way out of this one.

  Adrina decided not to dignify his jibe with a reply. She flounced past him in a swirl of emerald skirts and marched into the hall, snapping her head up haughtily. That was a mistake. The hangover she was trying to ignore objected violently to the sudden movement and sent a wave of blinding pain across her forehead. She strode ahead; not waiting for Turon, deliberately taking long strides, knowing the tubby little eunuch would have to run to catch up. It was petty, but he deserved it for taking so much pleasure in her misfortune. Servants and slaves scurried out of her path as she marched through the long black and white tiled halls of the Summer Palace.

  It took nearly twenty minutes to reach her father’s reception room, and Turon panted heavily in her wake. There were a disconcerting number of lords and ladies in attendance in the vast outer chamber, standing around the tall, potted palms in jewelled clusters like beetles around scattered honey drops. They stared at her as she strode past, their expressions ranging from smug humour to simmering anger. Even the slaves wore expressions of intense interest, as they manned the large fans that moved the humid air around, but did little to cool the oppressive heat.

  She did not wait for permission to enter, but marched straight up to the delicately carved sandalwood doors of her father’s office. The guards opened them as she approached. Turon was forced into an undignified run to catch her so that he could enter the chamber first to announce her arrival. Two steps ahead of the Chamberlain, she ordered the guards to close the doors behind her, and was gratified to hear Turon’s indignant yelp as the obliging guards slammed the doors in his face.

  Hablet looked up as she entered and smiled. That was not a good sign. The King was prone to violent outbursts when enraged, which usually dissipated as quickly as they started. But he was beyond anger now and into a quiet rage that manifested itself in a deceptively calm demeanour.

  She had only ever seen him this angry once before. That time, her bastard half-brothers Tristan and Gaffen had stolen the statue of Jelanna, the Goddess of Fertility from the Goddess’ Temple and mounted it on the roof of the most notorious brothel in Talabar. She had half-expected Hablet to kill them when he learnt of their escapade. Her father was sly, dishonest and opportunistic, but he was very devout. He was also desperate for a legitimate son, certain that his baseborn sons’ jests would make Jelanna strike him impotent as a punishment for their disrespect. He need not have worried. Hablet had sired another half-dozen or more children since then, although he still did not have the legitimate son he craved. Maybe that was Jelanna’s revenge.

  “Adrina,” Hablet said through his dangerous smile.

  “Daddy...”

  “Don’t you ‘daddy’ me, young lady.” This was worse than she thought.

  “I can explain...”

  “You can explain, can you?” Hablet asked, picking up a sheath of parchment from his gilded desk. The sunlight streamed in from the tall open windows, catching the gilt and reflecting it painfully back in her eyes. There were no chairs in the room other than the seat that the King occupied, so she had no choice but to stand in front of him like an errant slave. “Explain what exactly, my dear? How do you explain this bill I have from Lord Hergelat for seven hundred gold lucats? It seems you sank his yacht. Or this one?” he added, holding up another leaf from the pile on the desk in front of him. “Lord Brendle claims you ran his dhow aground, too. He wants twelve hundred lucats. And then of course, Lady Pralton wants compensation because Lord Brendle’s dhow was carrying a load of her vintage wine, which is now sitting at the bottom of the harbour, making a lot of fish rather happy, I imagine. Not to mention the twenty-eight injured slaves manning the oars of the Wave Warrior when you rammed the dock. Captain Wendele estimates the damage to the Wave Warrior to be between five and six thousand lucats.”

  He threw the bills on the desk. “As for the dock, it will take the engineers a week or more to work out what that will cost to repair, assuming they can find a way to get the Wave Warrior off it, without dismantling the whole damned structure! Would you care to hear what the Merchant Guilds are claiming they’ll lose with the main wharf out of commission?” Hablet’s voice had been growing steadily louder as he spoke, until he was shouting at her. She cringed, although more from the effect it had on her hangover, than for fear of him.

  “But Daddy —”

  “A party!” he yelled. “It’s the Feast of Kaelarn, Daddy, and we want to have a party! I said you could have a damned party, Adrina. I didn’t say you could ruin me!”

  Now he was exaggerating. Even the staggering cost of her escapade would not dent Hablet’s enormous wealth. “I haven’t ruined you, Father, I–”

  “As if I don’t have enough problems! I’ve got the damned Hythrun allying with Medalon. I’m at an extremely delicate point in my negotiations with the Karien Crown Prince...”

  Now that’s a lie, Adrina thought impatiently. The Kariens wanted Hablet’s cannon, and access to the Fardohnyan Gulf through the port at Solanndy Bay, which her father controlled. They were prepared to put up with quite a bit to get what they wanted. What Hablet really meant was that he had just raised the price again.

  With the unexpected alliance of Hythria and Medalon, and the certain invasion of Medalon by the Kariens to avenge the death of their Envoy, Hablet’s eyes had lit up with glee, thinking of the profit to be made. The Karien army was vast and even with the aid of the Warlord of Krakandar, the Defenders were sadly outnumbered. With the promise of the new weapons from Fardohnya – Adrina doubted her father had any intention of actually delivering them – Karien would be invincible. That left Hablet with two almost unheard-of opportunities. Not only could he demand vast amounts of timber from the Kariens to sustain his fleets, but while Medalon was occupied with the Kariens, Hythria lay open – all but undefended along its northern border.

  Hablet cared nothing for Medalon, but the prospect of taking on the Hythrun was very tempting. The origins of the feud between Fardohnya and Hythria were lost in antiquity, but in recent years had much to do with the fact that the vast majority of the Fardohnyan fleet was engaged in acts of piracy, and the rich Hythrun traders were their favourite targets.

  This latest, ill-advised deal with the Kariens was doomed to failure, Adrina thought. No amount of tall timber, iron ore, gold, or anything else the resource-rich Kariens could offer made it worth dealing with a nation of mindless fanatics. The Hythrun might be arrogant and belligerent, their High Prince might be a degenerate old pervert, but at least they believed in the same gods.

  “... and now, thanks to your irresponsible recklessness, I have half the nobles in Talabar asking for your head! What possessed you to think you knew how to sail my flagship!”

  Adrina realised with a start that she had not been listening to him.

  “I didn’t think...”

  “Wel
l that’s pretty bloody obvious!” Hablet sagged back in his chair, as if his tirade had exhausted him. He scratched at his beard and glared at her. “Who else was involved in this fiasco?”

  For a moment, Adrina nobly considered taking the entire blame for this disaster upon her own shoulders. It had been her idea, after all. She quickly decided against it. From his expression, she could tell that her father probably knew everything and lying would simply make things worse.

  “Tristan,” she admitted, albeit reluctantly, even though the miserable coward deserved to be implicated for abandoning her.

  “And...?” Hablet prompted impatiently.

  “And Cassandra.”

  “Ah, Cassandra,” Hablet repeated with a dangerous smile. “I was wondering when we’d get around to her.”

  “She wasn’t on the boat when it... when the accident occurred,” Adrina pointed out cautiously. Cassie had been a reluctant accomplice to the caper, and Adrina felt honour bound to defend her younger sister.

  “I’m aware of that,” Hablet said evenly. “Do you know where she was?”

  “She came back to the Palace.” Adrina wondered if Cassie had actually done what she promised, or had found further mischief out of sight of her older siblings.

  “Oh, Cassandra came back to the Palace, all right,” Hablet agreed. “In fact, Cassandra was so drunk that she decided it would be a good idea to find out what sort of lover her fiancé was. She sneaked into his rooms and tried to seduce him like an alley whore and now the whole damned Karien delegation is threatening to call off the deal. How could you do this to me?”

  The news did not surprise Adrina. Cassandra was a passionate young woman who had been talking about nothing else but the visiting Karien Prince all week.