Harshini Read online

  “You can’t kill me,” he scoffed. “You’re Harshini.”

  “I am the demon child, Hablet. I’m only half-Harshini, and believe me, the human part of me has no qualms about removing people who stand in my way.”

  Hablet rubbed his beard thoughtfully then his eyes narrowed. “If I send my fleet to relieve this siege of Adrina’s, I want something in return.”

  “You’re hardly in a position to negotiate, Your Majesty.”

  “You think so? Try getting my fleet to move past the end of the docks without my help.”

  Reluctantly, R’shiel had to concede that he had a point. “What do you want?”

  “I want a son. I want a legitimate son.”

  “I can’t grant you that.”

  “Oh, so there are limits to what you can do? Well, in that case, Adrina and her damned barbarian can rot in Greenharbour and you can kill me now. It won’t make much difference either way. If I’m dead, Wolfblade gets my throne, but he won’t be in a position to claim it, will he?” Hablet chuckled nastily, daring her to do her worst.

  R’shiel considered the matter. If she acceded to his demand—assuming Jelanna agreed to cooperate—then she would lose her ability to unite Fardohnya and Hythria on Hablet’s death. On the other hand, all she really wanted to do was get to the Citadel.

  It didn’t really matter who ruled Fardohnya, just so long as they weren’t at war with Damin. He couldn’t spare any troops to aid Tarja in ridding Medalon of the Kariens if he was embroiled in a war with either his cousin or his father-in-law. Time was of the essence and she didn’t have any spare to waste arguing with Hablet.

  “Very well. I will speak to Jelanna. That’s the best I can do. But the first hint that you are exceeding your mandate, Your Majesty, and I will personally see to it that your son withers and dies in the womb.”

  Hablet nodded. If he believed her threat, he didn’t appear bothered by it. All he wanted was finally getting the heir he craved. He beamed at her happily. “I find myself suddenly warming to you, demon child. I shall issue the orders today and we shall set sail for Greenharbour by week’s end. I shall place Gaffen in command. He was always fond of Adrina.”

  “Gaffen?”

  “The second eldest of my baseborn sons. He and Tristan were always finding trouble with Adrina. Speaking of which, you’ve not mentioned him. I cannot believe he stood idly by while Adrina ran off with a Hythrun Warlord.”

  R’shiel glanced at Brak warily before she answered the king.

  “Tristan is dead, Your Majesty, as is most of the Guard you sent north with Adrina. They were killed fighting the Medalonians.”

  The king paled. His voice was like ice when he finally spoke. “What were they doing fighting the Medalonians?”

  “I believe it was on Prince Cratyn’s orders. It was following their death that Adrina fled Karien.”

  Hablet was silent for a long time. His anger was a palpable thing. “Once the situation in Hythria is resolved, you will be confronting the Kariens, yes?”

  “They need to be pushed out of Medalon, certainly.”

  “Then you have found yourself an ally, demon child. No child of mine, baseborn or otherwise, dies in such a manner without a reckoning.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The Convocation of the Warlords to elect the High Prince of Hythria finally took place four days after Damin and Adrina returned to Greenharbour. Tejay Lionsclaw had arrived, bearing news that she had met the demon child, and that when last heard of, R’shiel was heading for Fardohnya to speak with King Hablet.

  The news did little to ease Damin’s mind. It was bad enough that she had vanished without warning, but to learn that she was heading for Fardohnya made things even worse. He knew as well as anyone what was likely to happen should he win the election. Inviting Hablet to come to his rescue, the man who had spent the past thirty years trying to figure out how to invade his country, the man who had tried to hire assassins to have him killed, didn’t strike Damin as a particularly prudent move.

  “You look very…”

  “What?” he snapped as Adrina walked into his dressing room. “Foolish?”

  “I was going to say dashing, but foolish will do, if you prefer.”

  Actually, he felt like an idiot. One of the reasons he had spent as little time at court as possible was his dislike of dressing in such cumbersome finery. He wore white, the traditional colour reserved for the High Prince, from his knee-high calf leather boots to his gloriously embroidered jacket and short cape that was heavy and uncomfortable and totally unsuited to Greenharbour’s humid climate. The gold coronet around his forehead was uncomfortably tight and the ceremonial sword he wore owed more of its weight to its gem-encrusted scabbard than it did to its blade. In a fight it would be as useful as a knitting needle. It was Adrina who insisted he dress the part of High Prince for the Convocation, and she had found a surprising ally in Princess Marla.

  She smiled and stepped forward to adjust the coronet, which eased the pressure a little, then she smoothed his fair hair down. “You look every bit the High Prince.”

  “Looking the part won’t win me the title.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Gods, how I hate all this pomp and ceremony!”

  “Well, you’d better get used to it, my love.”

  The endearment caught him by surprise. “My love?”

  “Well, I can’t go on calling you the Evil Barbarian Bastard forever, can I?”

  He laughed. “No. I suppose not.”

  Adrina sat down on the small settee and curled her legs up under her to watch him finish dressing. Since their return from Dregian Castle, and their argument on the beach, she had been a different person. Or perhaps he was seeing a side of her that she had never shown him before. The change in her scared him, not because of what she had become, but because he was afraid it wouldn’t last. The new Adrina was everything he could have wished for in a consort. She was intelligent, charming and determined to secure his throne, whatever the cost. How much of that was because she cared for him, and how much was simply her desire to see Cyrus Eaglespike brought down, he didn’t dare ask.

  “Explain something to me, Damin. Why do you have an election for the High Prince? Isn’t it a hereditary title?”

  “Yes, but there’s frequently been more than one contender. Twins are fairly common in my family, and the first born is not always the most suitable for the job.”

  “Twins? Gods, you’re not telling me I’m likely to have twins, are you?”

  He smiled at her alarmed expression. “Kalan and Narvell are twins. Even Lernen was a twin, although his brother died in infancy.”

  “But didn’t Lernen name you as his heir? Surely, in that case, there would be no need for an election?”

  “The Convocation is a formality, more often than not,” he agreed. “It makes the Warlords feel they have a say in things. In this case, however, there are two contenders.”

  “How can Cyrus seriously think he’s a contender if Lernen named you his heir? I can understand him jumping in when he thought you’d vanished into Medalon, but now that you’re back, you’d think he’d just bow out gracefully.”

  “Cyrus doesn’t do anything gracefully, least of all admitting he was wrong. No, he will fight this to the bitter end. He’s come too far to give up now.”

  “I wish I could come with you. There are a few things I’d like to say to Lord Eaglespike.”

  “Which is why it’s a good thing you’re not coming with me.”

  She smiled. The old Adrina probably would have thrown something at him. “Just be careful what you say, Damin.”

  “I won’t let him get to me.”

  “I don’t care if he gets to you. Just don’t let him win.”

  He reached for her and pulled her gently to her feet. She didn’t resist. He drew her close and kissed her, still amazed how good it felt to be able to do that without fear of having her slide a knife between his ribs. She laid her head on his ches
t and he held her for a moment.

  “You’d better come back in one piece,” she warned, looking up at him. Her emerald eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

  “I’ll do my best, Your Highness.” He kissed her again and put his arm around her shoulder as they walked back out into the main chamber of his apartments. Or rather their apartments now—Adrina had moved in the day they arrived back in Greenharbour. Almodavar was waiting for them, dressed in full battle gear. Adrina frowned when she saw him.

  “Almodavar! Aren’t you ready yet?”

  “He’s not coming with me,” Damin explained. “I’m leaving him here to protect the palace.”

  “But you need a Guard of Honour!”

  “And I have one. But if things don’t go his way, Cyrus may make his move before we leave the Sorcerers’ Collective. I don’t intend to make the same mistake I made the last time. Almodavar is staying here to ensure your safety.”

  “You need him more than I do,” she insisted.

  “The matter isn’t open for negotiation, Adrina.” He kissed the top of her head and let her go. “I’ll see you later. When it’s all over.”

  She nodded but didn’t answer him. Almodavar opened the door for him and he stepped into the hall without looking back.

  “Damin!”

  He stopped and turned to her. “Yes?”

  She hesitated for a moment, opened her mouth to say something, closed it again, then shrugged helplessly. “Be careful.”

  He wondered what she had really wanted to say. Whatever it was, she had obviously changed her mind. He smiled mockingly and bowed to her with all the flair of a court dandy. “As her Highness commands.”

  She frowned at him then turned to his captain. “Get him out of here, Almodavar. That coronet is obviously stopping the blood flow to his brain.”

  Even Almodavar grinned, which had the unfortunate effect of making him look fiercer than normal. “This way, my Lord.”

  Damin straightened up and met her eye. She smiled at him. It was a genuine smile, without guile or artifice. Suddenly it didn’t seem to matter what else the day might bring.

  The Hall of Convocation in the Sorcerers’ Palace was a room used for the election of the High Prince and the confirmation of Warlords. It was a windowless, nine-sided room, not particularly large, but lavishly decorated. Seven of the wall panels depicted the crests of the Warlords of Hythria in mosaic tiles of gold, silver and semiprecious stones. The doors broke the eighth panel, but when closed, they formed the diamond symbol of the Sorcerers’ Collective. The panel opposite the door was fashioned from a sheet of solid gold and was embossed with the snarling wolf’s head of the Wolfblade House. A massive candelabra suspended from the ceiling, which took two acolytes almost an hour to light, provided the only illumination.

  In the centre of the room was a nine-sided table, with nine gilt stools arranged around it. Like the walls, the table was split into panels that were inlaid with the colours of the seven provinces, the Royal House and the Collective. Marla had brought him here for the first time on his tenth birthday to impress upon him the importance of his heritage.

  Damin took his seat—not under the Wolfblade crest, but under Krakandar Province, represented by the rampant kraken of his late father, Laran Krakenshield. Although he had never known his father, Damin still mourned his loss at times. By all accounts Laran had been a strong and ruthless man. He could do with such an ally today. He realised that he would need to find a suitable replacement for himself in Krakandar. If he secured the title of High Prince, the province would need a new Warlord.

  The other Warlords took their places, all dressed in finery to rival Damin’s. In fact, next to Toren Foxtalon’s gem-encrusted armour, Damin felt quite ordinary. Cyrus, who was also dressed in white, avoided meeting his eye, as did Conin Falconlance. Rogan simply nodded in his direction. Tejay smiled at him and Narvell didn’t look at him at all, too busy scanning the faces of the other Warlords with a threatening scowl. Damin felt a rush of affection for his younger half-brother. It was odd to think that Narvell was feeling protective of him, rather than the other way around.

  Kalan was the last to arrive. She was dressed in a simple black robe, her only adornment the diamond-shaped pendant of her office. As soon as she entered, the doors swung shut behind her without any visible effort on her part. Wordlessly, the Warlords took their places. The High Arrion placed her hands on the table in front of her and closed her eyes.

  “We meet to elect a new High Prince. May the gods grant us wisdom.”

  “May the gods grant us wisdom,” the Warlords echoed with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

  Kalan opened her eyes and sat down, then studied the gathering for a moment before continuing. “According to the will of the late High Prince, Damin Wolfblade is his legal heir, by right of blood. Are there any other candidates?”

  Although the statement was one of tradition, all eyes turned expectantly to Cyrus. He nodded slowly and rose to his feet.

  “Lord Eaglespike?”

  “I offer myself as a candidate, my Lady.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “By right of blood.”

  “Your great-great-grandmother was a Wolfblade, Lord Eaglespike. By right of blood, Lord Wolfblade has the stronger claim.”

  “I merely mention my blood tie to validate my claim, my Lady. My reason for offering my candidacy however, is because I believe Lord Wolfblade has committed treason.”

  Terse silence met Cyrus’ startling claim.

  “That is a serious accusation, my Lord.”

  “No more serious than the actions of Lord Wolfblade.”

  “Can you substantiate your claims?” Narvell demanded, leaping to his feet “If not, I suggest you sit down before I decide to—”

  “Narvell, shut up,” Kalan snapped, for a moment addressing her twin, rather than the High Arrion addressing a Warlord.

  “Kalan!” he objected. She was the older twin by a mere twenty minutes, but she had always been the dominant one.

  “Sit down, Hawksword,” Rogan added. “Cyrus will dig his own grave without any help from you.”

  Narvell reluctantly sat as Cyrus turned to Rogan. “Are you threatening me, my Lord?”

  “No, Eaglespike, I’m not threatening you. You’ll know about it if I do.”

  “As I was saying, before I was interrupted,” Cyrus continued, looking pointedly at Narvell, “Damin Wolfblade has committed treason. He cannot, therefore, be allowed to take the throne, regardless of the will of the late High Prince.”

  “Would you care to elaborate, my Lord?”

  “He made an unauthorised alliance with a foreign power and then he married a Fardohnyan.”

  “At least he married,” Tejay remarked with a chuckle. “Which is more than you can say for poor old Lernen.”

  Cyrus didn’t appreciate her levity. “This is a serious matter, my Lady. You would do well to treat it as such.”

  “I’m trying to take this seriously, Cyrus, and I would, if this wasn’t such a joke.” She turned to Damin. “What say you, Lord Wolfblade? Is Cyrus right? Did you make an unauthorised alliance with a foreign power? I think we all know by now that you married a Fardohnyan.”

  “Guilty on both counts,” Damin replied calmly.

  Cyrus stared at him, making no attempt to hide his surprise. “You admit to your crimes?”

  “I don’t know that I’d call them ‘crimes’, cousin, but I certainly did make an alliance with Medalon and I believe you’ve already met my wife.” Cyrus still had enough honour left in him to squirm a little under Damin’s scrutiny. Damin wondered if he had figured out yet how she had escaped. “I plead mitigating circumstances.”

  “What mitigating circumstances?” Conin Falconlance scoffed. “What could possibly justify such actions?”

  “I was asked to aid Medalon. I was ordered to marry Adrina.”

  “By whom?”

  “In the former case, Lord Brakandaran of the Harshini asked for m
y aid. In the latter it was the demon child. As she had been placed in my care by Zegarnald himself, I could hardly refuse, could I?”

  Cyrus laughed sceptically. “You expect us to believe the God of War singled you out and asked you to aid the demon child?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s preposterous! What proof have you?”

  “Call Glenanaran, if my word isn’t good enough. You’ll take the word of a Harshini, won’t you? He was with us when we crossed into Medalon and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind calling up the God of War so you can cross-examine him.”

  Only Kalan and Narvell knew that he had spoken with Zegarnald. With the exception of Cyrus, the other Warlords seemed quite overawed by the revelation. Lord Eaglespike glanced around the table, shaking his head.

  “Am I the only one here who finds this fantastic tale unbelievable?”

  “No, you’re the only one here with a vested interest in having us deny it,” Tejay pointed out. “I believe Damin, and when it comes down to it, I’d rather have a High Prince who speaks to the gods than one who uses my name to perpetrate mischief.”

  Cyrus was looking decidedly uncomfortable. He obviously had not expected Tejay to learn of his deception, just as he expected to come to this meeting with Adrina as a hostage.

  “Well, Lord Eaglespike?” Kalan asked. “Shall I call on the Harshini to bear witness to Lord Wolfblade’s defence?”

  Cyrus shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, my Lady. Lord Wolfblade is a man of honour.”

  “An honourable traitor? You flatter me, my Lord.”

  The Warlord ignored the comment and remained standing. “There is still the issue of his marriage to that Fardohnyan. He may have married her on the orders of the demon child, but that doesn’t make the situation any less intolerable.”

  “What’s your objection, Cyrus?” Tejay asked cheerfully. “That she’s Fardohnyan, or that you can’t seem to keep her in your dungeons for more than a few hours without losing her?”

  Cyrus kept his temper with admirable restraint. “Anything I have done, my Lady, I have done for the good of Hythria.”