Treason Keep (17 page)

He would kill his wife for him.

Tarja lay awake for most of the night, simply watching R’shiel sleeping, thinking it was a pastime he thought he would never tire of. In sleep her expression was peaceful, her breathing steady and even. The faint, familiar sounds of the camp slowly coming awake as dawn approached filtered through the canvas walls of his tent. Reality intruded rudely into his own, private, perfect world. He almost felt guilty for being so happy.

He also knew it wouldn’t last. They were on the brink of war and liable to be hanged for treason. The Gathering was almost on them and Garet Warner was already talking of returning to the Citadel to make his report. Damin kept fingering his sword threateningly every time Garet mentioned the subject, still of the opinion that the safest course of action was to slit the commandant’s throat.

The rebels were growing restless, too. The shaky truce brought about in Testra was in danger of falling apart. Tarja felt responsible for the rebels, but his position here was ambiguous. He had been welcomed back into the Defenders, his desertion if not forgiven,
then at least not mentioned, yet too much had happened for him to follow orders without question as he once had done. He was walking a fine line between loyalty to the Defenders and the responsibility he felt for the rebels who had put their lives in his hands because they believed he could help them.

And now R’shiel was back.

He loved R’shiel. He knew it as surely as he knew how to take his next breath, but he couldn’t say why that night in the old vineyard in Testra a year ago, he had suddenly realised it. He could remember wanting to strangle her. They were fighting, something that until that moment they had done a great deal. R’shiel was trying to get even with Joyhinia and didn’t particularly care how many rebels’ lives she spent doing it. Tarja remembered wanting to slap some sense into her one moment, wanting to die in her arms the next. It bothered him a little. He felt no guilt that he had grown up thinking she was his sister. No thought that would in any way cloud his love for her seemed able to take root in his mind.

He reached across to gently lift an errant strand of long, dark red hair that had fallen over her face then froze as he felt something move under the blanket. Certain he had not imagined it, he threw back the covers and yelped with astonishment. His cry woke R’shiel with a jerk.

“What in the name of the Founders is
that
!”

R’shiel glanced down sleepily. A small grey creature lay curled between them, seeking the warmth of their bodies, although Tarja’s yell had obviously
frightened it. With an incomprehensible chitter it scrambled up the pallet and wrapped its thin grey arms tightly around R’shiel’s neck, staring accusingly at him with black eyes too large for its wrinkled grey head.

“It’s only a demon,” R’shiel laughed, peeling the creature off so that she could breathe.

“
Only
a demon?” Tarja asked, his heart still pounding.

She laughed again, a rich, throaty laugh that Tarja had not heard from her in a very long time. “It’s bonded to the té Ortyn bloodline and I was the first té Ortyn it saw, I suppose.”

“So…what…it thinks you’re its mother?”

“Demons don’t have mothers, silly. They…just…come into being. She won’t be able to speak or do much at all until she’s melded with the other demons a few times.”

“She?” he wondered doubtfully, as he stared at the androgynous little creature. “How can you tell?”

“I can’t,” R’shiel shrugged, pulling the demon off her neck again as it tried to hide in her long hair. “Demon’s don’t have genders, not really. They just sort of decide along the way somewhere. I just have a feeling this one wants to be a girl.”

“You sound quite the expert.” Nothing could have made the change in R’shiel more obvious, or pointed to what she was, than waking to find a demon in his bed.

“It’s a necessary virtue, when you’ve got demons following you around everywhere you go. You’re lucky there’s only one in the bed. They were as thick as flies in Sanctuary.”

He looked at her curiously, wondering if she would elaborate. She had said little in the days since her sudden return. Not, he thought wryly, that they’d spent a lot of time talking. But her time there had wrought a noticeable change in her. She was more certain of herself. Perhaps she had finally accepted what she was. Perhaps the Harshini had done something to her besides healing the wound that almost killed her, and they had certainly done that well. Not even a hint of a scar marred the golden skin below her breast where Joyhinia had thrust Jenga’s discarded sword into her.

“I can feel it, you know,” she added softly in the darkness, as if she knew what he was thinking. “It’s like there’s a tether linking me to Sanctuary that nothing can break. I think if I was lost in a snowstorm, I’d still be able to find it.” She sighed wistfully. “I used to feel it when I was in the Citadel, but I never knew what it was. Which was probably a blessing,” she added with smile.

He wondered if this was how it would be. Would she tell him, bit by tantalising bit, or would he never hear the whole story of her stay in the magical halls of the Harshini? The little demon started chattering again, pulling on her hair. He knew he would learn nothing more for the time being.

“Is this,” he asked, pointing at the little demon with a scowl, “an event that we can look forward to on a regular basis? Waking to find demons in our bed?”

“It could have been worse, Tarja. There could have been half a dozen of them melded into a cactus, or worse.”

“
Worse
?”

“Well, they could have melded into a dragon,” she laughed. “Or a snow cat, or a Karien knight in full armour or a beehive, or a—”

“What?” he cut in abruptly. Something she said sparked the germ of an idea in his mind, but it was elusive. It hovered on the edge of his awareness, just out of reach.

“I was kidding, Tarja,” she said, looking at him oddly. “I’ll speak to Dranymire. He’ll keep the demons out of our bed if it bothers you so much.”

“No, I didn’t mean that. You were talking about the demons melding.”

“But I didn’t really mean they’d do it—”

“But they can meld into anything, can’t they?” he asked, afraid to give voice to the idea in case she thought him insane.

“I suppose,” she agreed, a little doubtfully.

“Or anyone?”

“
Who
exactly?”

Tarja sat up and began pulling on his clothes hurriedly. “Get dressed. We have to talk to Brak.”

“Tarja! What are you up to?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he told her as he tugged on his boots. “I need to talk to Brak first. Hurry up!”

She threw her hands up in disgust, but did as he asked, although she was still lacing her vest as he hurried her out into the chill morning. The little demon had vanished, thankfully—at least Tarja hoped it had. The idea of one of his men waking to find an inquisitive demon poking around in his equipment did not bear thinking about.

“Tarja!” R’shiel demanded as she ran to catch up. “What’s this about?”

“I’ve got an idea, but I need to find out if it’s possible,” he explained, as he strode through the waking camp towards the old Keep. Pink fingers scratched at the sky as dawn clawed its way over the Jagged Mountains.

“Maybe if you shared this brilliant idea, I could tell you.”

He grinned at her as he strode past the guards in front of the Keep, but didn’t answer. He pushed open the door to the old great hall and strode towards the huge hearth at the far end, and a small figure curled up near the dying embers.

“Boy!” he snapped, jerking the Karien lad awake. “Find Lord Brakandaran and tell him I need to see him urgently!”

The child nodded hastily and scrambled off the hearth. He was running by the time he reached the door.

“You bully! That child is terrified of you!”

“I know,” he agreed, taking the poker to stir some life back into the coals. “I threatened to chop his brother’s fingers off.”

“
Why
?”

He stopped stoking the fire and looked at her. “Because he’s a fanatical believer in the Overlord and if I hadn’t put an end to his antics, somebody would have killed him. Better to be terrified of me and live long enough to reach manhood, than find himself skewered by a Hythrun sword.”

She smiled at him then and moved closer. She smelled of summer and leather and their lovemaking. It was a heady and very distracting combination.

“Don’t you ever get tired of being so damned noble?” she teased.

He found himself unable to think of a suitably witty retort as she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. He dropped the poker with a clatter as rational thought began to slip away, wondering what else the Harshini had taught her. Either that, or R’shiel had inherited that magical race’s rather legendary libido.

“Can’t you two make up for lost time somewhere else?”

He felt her smile as she broke off the kiss and turned to look at Brak. The Harshini rebel was shaking his head at them. The Karien boy looked mortified.

“Hello Brak,” R’shiel said, making no attempt to leave the circle of his arms. “We weren’t expecting you so soon.”

“That’s obvious. I was heading this way when the boy found me.”

Tarja somewhat reluctantly let R’shiel go and glared at the boy. “Shoo! Go find us some breakfast!”

Mikel nodded wordlessly and fled. Brak watched him go with a frown. “I think you actually enjoy tormenting that child, Tarja.”

“I’m an evil, barbarian bastard. I have a reputation to uphold.”

Brak shook his head at the folly of humans. “The boy said you wanted to see me.”

“I need to know about demon melds,” he explained, throwing a small log on the fire as the exposed embers glowed red in the dim hall. The
dawn striped the long chilly hall with slices of dull light and their breath formed small misty clouds as they spoke.

Brak glanced at R’shiel who shrugged, her expression confused.

“Would you care to be a bit more specific?” the Harshini asked. “If we had a week, I could tell you a tenth of what I know.”

“Can they take on a human form?”

“I can’t imagine why they’d want to, but they could do it.”

“Can they imitate people? Take on a specific form?”

Brak’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I’ve got a bad feeling I know where this is leading, Tarja, but yes, they can imitate people. Before you get too enamoured of the idea, let me explain a few things. The more complex the shape, the more demons it takes, and the shorter length of time they can hold the meld. If you’re thinking of doing what I suspect you’re thinking of doing, it won’t work. A human form is hard enough. To create one that walks and talks convincingly would take dozens of demons and you’d be lucky if they could maintain it for more than a few hours.

“That’s assuming they would agree to such an idiotic idea. Then you have the problem of getting the meld to act the way you want. Your demon meld could say the wrong thing at the wrong time and blow the whole illusion.”

“But it’s theoretically possible, isn’t it?” Tarja insisted.

Brak nodded reluctantly. “Theoretically.”

R’shiel listened to the conversation, her eyes wide. “Founders! You’re thinking of replacing Joyhinia with a
demon
meld?”

“Not permanently,” he told them, trying hard to contain his enthusiasm. “Just long enough to get through the Gathering. If Joyhinia can stand up in front of the Gathering then she can appoint Mahina as the new First Sister.”

R’shiel stared at him and then at Brak, her mind obviously racing. “It might work.”

Brak threw his hands up in despair. “
R’shiel
! You’re as bad as he is!
Think
about it. The only way it would work is if you went with the demons to the Citadel. And you’d need Joyhinia with you, too—they couldn’t copy her convincingly with her so far away. You’d be putting everyone in danger, starting with yourself. Besides, Dranymire would never agree to anything so dangerous. The demons are bonded with the Harshini to protect them, R’shiel. Not aid them in committing suicide.”

R’shiel seemed unfazed by Brak’s tirade. “I didn’t say it would be easy, Brak. I just said it might work.”

The Harshini shook his head in disgust. “Korandellan must have suppressed your ability to think, along with your emotions, R’shiel.”

Tarja glanced at R’shiel curiously, wondering what he meant. R’shiel simply shrugged. “Zegarnald said I needed toughening up, Brak. Just think of this as…training. Of course, if you don’t want to help—”

Brak sighed heavily. “Gods! I don’t believe this. This is rank stupidity. It is insane.”

Tarja nodded in agreement, his enthusiasm for the idea waning a little at the thought of sending R’shiel
to the Citadel. He had not considered that when the idea came to him. Perhaps it was a crazy idea. “Well, it was worth a try. But I won’t do anything to endanger R’shiel.”

“It’s not your place to decide what might endanger me. Besides, it might well be the only chance we have.” R’shiel’s enthusiasm for the idea seemed to be increasing in direct proportion to his growing reluctance.

“Listen to Tarja,” Brak told her. “You might be the demon child, but you’re a long way from being invincible. It was worth considering, but it won’t work. Forget it.”

“You’re right, it would never work,” she agreed, capitulating with suspicious speed. “We’ll have to think of something else.”

Before he could question her willingness to drop the matter so easily, the Karien boy returned bearing a tray with steaming mugs of tea. Tarja took the tray from the lad before he dropped it and handed out the mugs. R’shiel smiled at him innocently over the rim as she sipped the steaming brew.

But something about that smile, full of ingenuous sweetness, sent a shiver of apprehension tingling down his spine.

Mikel emptied the bucket of water from the well in the corner of the old Keep’s yard into another bucket, grumbling as the icy water splashed his trousers. Today was not going well at all.

First, Tarja had so rudely awakened him to find Lord Brakandaran, and then Mahina had snapped at him for being late with her tea. And then the soldiers on the Keep gate had teasingly refused to let him pass when she sent him with a message for Lord Jenga. And then Lord Jenga had yelled at him when he almost got himself trampled by the horses milling about in one of the vast corrals south of the camp.

No, today was not going well at all.

To add to his misery, the atmosphere in the Defenders’ camp had changed noticeably following the return of the Hythrun Warlord and his two unexpected companions. For one thing, Tarja was smiling a lot these days, which made him a little less fearsome but didn’t alter Mikel’s loathing for him. If anything, it increased it. How
dare
he look so smug! As for the pair who had returned with Damin
Wolfblade, Mikel had been horrified to hear someone say they were Harshini.

Mikel found that hard to swallow. Did they think him a child to believe such wild stories? Everybody knew that the Harshini were monsters with wart-covered skin, sharp pointed teeth and drooling mouths who ate wicked Karien children, particularly if they wavered in their devotion to the Overlord. Lord Brakandaran looked just like any other man and the pretty lady was more beautiful than Lady Chastity, so she couldn’t possibly be a Harshini monster. Mahina had introduced her as Lady R’shiel and warned him to treat her with respect, or suffer the consequences. The Lady had smiled at him pleasantly, but otherwise paid him little attention. Had it not been for her obvious attachment to Tarja, he could have almost allowed himself to like her.

Mikel hefted the bucket and turned towards the hall, muttering miserably to himself, but he had only taken a few steps when a scratching sound behind the well caught his attention. Glancing around to ensure he was unobserved, he put down the bucket and walked cautiously around the stone lip of the well. A heap of rubble from the crumbled outer wall was piled up on the other side. He heard the sound again and moved toward the source, wondering if it was a cat, or perhaps a fox who had inadvertently wandered into the Keep. He hoped it was a cat. He liked cats. Perhaps he could catch it and keep it for a pet…

The area near the well was one of the warmest in the Keep, with the forge on the other side of the wall. It would be a good place to hide. Mikel listened hard,
trying to hear over the rhythmic clanging coming from the smiths on the other side. The scratching sound came again, louder this time, from a dark hole formed by the fallen masonry. With a careful hand, Mikel reached into the darkness.

Whatever it was, it bit him with a force that made him cry out in pain. He scrambled backwards around the well, tripped over the bucket and landed on his backside in a puddle of icy mud. His hand was bleeding profusely and throbbing, and tears of fright and pain and humiliation were streaming down his face. Laughter wafted down from the guards on the wall-walk who had looked down at the commotion. A grey streak emerged from the rubble with a screech and bolted past him towards the Keep. He watched it race past and into the arms of the Lady R’shiel.

She caught the creature with a smile and turned to Mikel. “Don’t worry, I think you frightened her as much as she frightened you.”

Mikel stared at the little monster with wide eyes. He didn’t know what it was, but it was clinging to R’shiel, chattering unintelligibly in a screeching voice and pointing at him with huge black accusing eyes.

“Oh look, you’re hurt.”

She shooed the creature away and it literally vanished into thin air. Mikel traced the star of the Overlord on his forehead to ward off evil as the Lady walked over to him and squatted down, smiling reassuringly.

“Here, let me look at it,” she said. He held out his throbbing hand wordlessly, too afraid to do anything else. She took his hand in her own and almost instantly the pain vanished. He snatched his hand
back in astonishment. The bite was gone, the skin as smooth as if it had never been broken.

Mikel screamed.

R’shiel waved back a curious guard come to see what all the fuss was about. She sat back on her heels until he ran out of breath and then smiled.

“Feeling better?”

“Wha—what did you do to me?” he demanded. Had she used magic on him? Would he be condemned to drown in the Sea of Despair for eternity because she had infected him with evil spirits? Mikel was weak with fear at the prospect. “You used the power of the pagan gods on me!”

“Never fear, little one, it’s the same power as that of the Overlord, so it shouldn’t do you any lasting harm.”

Mikel shrank away from her. She didn’t look like a monster, but she could use magic—and the little creature, who was obviously some sort of evil-spawned monster, had run to her for comfort.
Perhaps she
was
Harshini. Maybe under those close-fitting leathers was warty skin that peeled when you touched it and gave you diseases that had no cure and made you do nasty things to people and turned you into—

“I said, your name is Mikel, isn’t it?”

Mikel forced away the terrifying images that filled his head. He nodded, afraid that if he didn’t answer her, she would turn him into a beetle.

“And your brother? Where is he?”

Mikel’s eyes narrowed at the question.
Why does she want to know that?

“The Hythrun have him,” he told her sullenly.

“It must be pretty scary for you, Mikel. You’re a long way from home and surrounded by strangers. I know how that feels.”

Try as he did to despise her, he knew she meant what she said. She really
did
understand how he felt. The thought frightened him. Had she used more magic on him?
There is only the Overlord,
he reminded himself. He was relieved when the prayer came so easily. Xaphista was still with him.

“Nothing scares me,” he declared defiantly.

She laughed. “Maybe nothing does, at that. Are you all right now?”

He nodded and suffered her assistance as he climbed to his feet. As soon as she let him go, he snatched up his empty bucket and ran back to the hall as if all the demons of the Harshini were on his heels.

Several days later the Medalonians held their most important meeting since Mikel had been in the Defender’s camp. Everyone was in attendance. Tarja and Lord Jenga, Sister Mahina and Garet Warner, Ghari, Lord Wolfblade and the mean-looking Captain Almodavar, and Lord Brakandaran. The only one missing was the Lady R’shiel. Mikel didn’t know where she was. Perhaps even the Medalonians were afraid to share their battle plans with a Harshini magician. They obviously did not share the same feeling for the small Karien boy who served them. Mikel moved among the adults, filling wine cups and collecting empty platters left over from their meal. Nobody seemed to notice him. The hall was cold—it was not possible to seal all the cracks in the draughty
old ruin—and torches sputtered fitfully, flaring occasionally as an errant draught fanned them into brightness. The fire did little to relieve the chill. If anything, it made the gathered people look more sinister, but if it was the cold or fear that made Mikel shiver, he couldn’t say.

“This may sound like a stupid question,” Lord Brakandaran was saying as Mikel silently filled his cup. “But has anyone thought to offer the Kariens a settlement?”

“
What
? You mean offer them
peace
?” the Hythrun Warlord gasped with mock horror. “Bite your tongue, man!”

“Perhaps not so stupid,” Sister Mahina mused. “They must have realised by now that even if they win, it will be an expensive victory. Perhaps they would consider a peaceful settlement.”

Tarja shook his head. “I doubt it, but I suppose it’s worth a try.”

“At the very least, it might delay them for a while,” Jenga agreed. “That would take us well into winter before the first attack. Those big warhorses, weighted down with armour, will be a liability rather than an asset if it snows. Even a decent rainstorm will turn the battlefield into a quagmire.”

“I’ll be very disappointed if they agree,” Damin said. “And surprised. They’ve too much at stake to withdraw at this point.”

“You’re right,” Garet Warner said in his soft, dangerous voice, which seemed to startle the Warlord. Damin Wolfblade didn’t seem to like the commandant much. “The banner flying over their command tent is Cratyn’s, not Jasnoff’s. He’s young
and he needs to prove himself. Agreeing to a settlement would imply weakness. He won’t back down.”

“And what of the Fardohnyans?” Mahina asked. “Perhaps they might persuade him?”

Garet shook his head. “Again, I doubt it. They were sent to Karien as the Princess’ Guard, and the first thing Adrina did was bring them to the border to aid her husband. They obviously share a common purpose.”

“Adrina?” Damin Wolfblade asked in surprise. “I thought he married Cassandra?”

“He married Adrina,” Brak confirmed. “She left Talabar with Cratyn several months ago. Her progress up the Ironbrook was something of an event, I hear.”

“Gods!” Damin muttered. He looked concerned.

“Is that a problem?” Lord Jenga asked.

“It could be,” Brak answered. “Adrina is Hablet’s eldest legitimate child. Adrina’s son could claim the Fardohnyan throne.”

“Who cares?” Mahina asked. “Our problem is here and now, not whether or not there is a Karien heir to Fardohnya.”

“Our problem could be Adrina herself,” Damin warned them. “If she’s half as bad as her reputation suggests, then she’s the one to look out for, not Cratyn.” The Warlord glanced at his captain who nodded in agreement.

“Do you know her?” Tarja asked Damin curiously.

“No, thank the gods! She was in Greenharbour a couple of years ago for my uncle’s birthday.”
Suddenly he grinned. “Despite my uncle’s wishes, and a number of dangerously close calls, I managed to avoid an encounter with Her Serene Highness.”

“How bad can the woman be?”

“Bad,” Damin assured him. “She’s got the body of a goddess and the heart of a hyena. Hablet offered a dowry beyond the dreams of avarice—and he still couldn’t marry her off. Adrina married to the Karien Crown Prince is not a happy prospect. I wonder how poor Cratyn is coping.”

“He can’t be doing too badly,” Garet said. “She’s followed him to the front with her troops. Maybe she’s found her soul mate.”

“If she has, then I’m packing up and going home now,” the Warlord announced, although Mikel didn’t think he was serious.

“I’d like to meet the woman that makes you turn tail and run, Damin,” Tarja chuckled.

“Does it really matter?” Mahina asked, obviously annoyed by the banter between Tarja and the Warlord. “We were discussing the advisability of sending an emissary to the Kariens, I believe?”

“Assuming we do, who would we send?” Jenga asked. “I’m in no mood to give them a hostage, should they not honour our flag of truce.” Mikel was quite offended at the idea that his prince would do any such thing. How dare they impugn Cratyn’s honour!

“What about the boy?” Lord Brakandaran suggested. All eyes turned to Mikel curiously. He quivered under their unrelenting gaze.

“Are you crazy?” Tarja said.

“It’s no crazier than some ideas I’ve heard lately.”
He turned back to the others to explain. “His return could be considered a gesture of good faith. The child has been here for months and he will tell the Kariens everything he’s seen. It might give them pause, even if your offer of peace falls on deaf ears.”

“But he’s a child,” Jenga objected.

“All the more reason to send him home.”

All eyes turned at the sound of the imperious voice and Mikel was suddenly forgotten. The Crazy Lady descended the stairs regally, dressed in a long, high-necked white gown. She had icy blue eyes and a haughty expression and surveyed the room as if everyone in it was beneath contempt.

“You will bow in the presence of the First Sister!” she snapped.

Instinctively, the stunned Medalonians almost did as she demanded. Lord Wolfblade’s jaw was hanging slackly in astonishment and Tarja wore an expression of such hatred that it made Mikel take a step backwards. Only Lord Brakandaran didn’t seem startled by her appearance.

“Impressive, Lord Dranymire,” he said.

Suddenly the Crazy Lady seemed to wobble and her expression changed from contempt to amusement.

“Spoilsport!” R’shiel accused, stepping out of the shadows on the staircase. She looked at the others who still sat frozen in various poses ranging from amazement to outright shock, and laughed. “You should see your faces!”

“Humans are far too easy to impress,” the Crazy Lady remarked, in a male voice much deeper than the one she had spoken with a moment ago.

Mikel was certain he had been swallowed up whole and sucked into some sort of pagan hell. The Crazy Lady wobbled again and Mikel watched in horror as she literally fell apart. Then the room was swarming with little grey creatures like the one that had bitten him by the well. The creatures fell about laughing in high twittering voices, as if they were privy to some marvellous prank. It was more than Mikel could cope with. He screamed in terror as the creatures neared him.

His scream brought the others out of their torpor. They all began talking at once but Mikel could make no sense of what they were saying. He didn’t try. He could hear someone crying and it took a little while to realise it was he. R’shiel walked toward him, pushing the monsters out of her way impatiently. He shied away from her in fear.

“I’m sorry, Mikel. I didn’t mean to frighten you. They’re demons, that’s all. They won’t hurt you.” She turned impatiently. “You’re scaring the poor child to death. Be gone!”

The demons vanished almost instantly, shocking the grown-ups almost as much as Mikel. “
The Overlord will protect me. The Overlord will protect me. The Overlord will protect me
,” he chanted softly as the tears streamed down his face.

“Let the boy take the message to the Kariens, Lord Jenga,” she pleaded. “Send him home. He doesn’t belong here.”