Treason Keep (25 page)

“I see.” He turned to Tarja questioningly. “What do you want to do with them?”

“That’ll be up to Jenga. For now, I suggest we find some place to hold them until morning.” Thunder rumbled louder as another storm rolled in. Tarja glanced up at the sky with a frown. “Put them in the Keep. They’ll be out of the rain, at least. We can make more permanent arrangements tomorrow.”

Tarja began issuing orders to his men. Damin watched them being herded toward the Keep, wondering about Adrina’s paradoxical behaviour. The woman had cold-bloodedly plotted the murder of the Hythrun High Prince, yet she’d ordered the remainder of her troops to surrender, rather than see them come to harm. Suddenly he was very glad that he had not made it to the princess’s door.

He had a feeling the only way to face Her Serene Highness, Adrina of Fardohnya, and survive, was stone cold sober.

Although discovery by the Medalonians had been a risk, Adrina had not really expected it, and was therefore unprepared for her sudden change of circumstances.

For two days, she paced her prison cell impatiently, waiting for something to happen. Meals were delivered regularly by silent, grim-looking Defenders, but they refused to answer her questions. A wan, desperate smile—the precursor to establishing a rapport with her guards—was a wasted effort. Each shift was made up of different men entirely, and once they had left she never saw them again. Nor was Tamylan allowed to leave the chamber, although the slave didn’t seem nearly as bothered by captivity as her mistress. The waiting began to wear on Adrina’s nerves, and she found herself reassessing the intelligence of her captors. They were smarter than she had given them credit for.

The only advantage her isolation provided was the chance to consolidate her plans to deal with the Medalonians. Her first problem, she acknowledged readily, was Damin Wolfblade. She had always
imagined him to be something of a dandy, powdered and spoilt, as used to having his every whim indulged as his uncle was. She had known he was a Warlord, of course, but she had pictured him as a figurehead. A gloriously armoured fop who sat astride his decorative stallion while others did the work for him. That assessment had been wildly inaccurate. He was a damn sight more ambitious than his uncle, and all together too certain of his place in the world. But he was still a man, she reminded herself, and a Wolfblade at that. The family was too inherently degenerate for the differences to be more than skin deep.

Tarja Tenragan, on the other hand, had been a pleasant surprise. Dark-haired, handsome and remarkably well mannered, his worst fault, she decided, was his attitude to poor Mikel. He obviously commanded a great deal of respect in the camp, and his opinion would carry a lot of weight with the Lord Defender when it came time to decide her fate. If she could engineer a meeting with him alone, she was certain she could entice him to see things her way. She might even enjoy it.

There were good reasons for avoiding such a dangerous game with Damin Wolfblade. He was a prince of Hythria, for one thing, and while it was perfectly acceptable to entertain oneself with the lower classes, frivolous liaisons between members of the nobility were frowned upon. Such a complication between the heir to the Hythrun throne and the Fardohnyan King’s eldest daughter didn’t bear thinking about. The most compelling reason, however, was that while Tarja might be seduced by her
court’esa
-trained skills, Damin would more than
likely see straight through them. He probably had a
court’esa
as a nursemaid.

No, she would not play that game. She would pick the easier target. If only someone would please put the target where she could reach it…

Adrina plotted and planned and rehearsed her story a thousand times, but day after day she was left alone with nothing but Tamylan and her own anxiety for company.

By the time they finally came for her, Adrina was seething. Nothing was going according to plan. She had been locked up, her possessions stolen, her demands ignored and her imagination had had time to devise all sorts of dreadful fates in store for her. When finally a sergeant opened the door, without knocking, to escort her downstairs, she turned on him, fully prepared to give him a piece of her mind.

“I demand to see someone in authority!”

“Certainly, your Highness,” the man replied calmly, although he didn’t bow. Hardly surprising. These Medalonian peasants had no experience with royalty. “I’m here to take you to Lord Wolfblade.”

“I want to see the Lord Defender!”

“That will be up to Lord Wolfblade, your Highness. You’d better wear this. It’s raining and you’ll ruin that fur.”

Adrina snatched the plain, but serviceable woollen cloak from the man and threw it over her shoulders. She still wore the flimsy
court’esa
costume and it was ill suited to the bitterly cold chamber. The fur cloak she had brought with her from Karien was the only thing that had kept her from freezing to death.

“If Lord Wolfblade had any manners he would come to me!”

The man smiled, as if her posturing amused him and led the way down into the main hall. Two more Defenders fell in behind as they crossed the hall and stepped outside into a torrential downpour. Even wrapped in the Defender’s cloak, Adrina was drenched in seconds.

She stumbled along beside the Defenders as they walked through the camp, her sodden skirts hampering her steps. The slave collar was cold against her skin and her hair was plastered to her head, the braid slapping wetly against her back with every step. The hem of her skirt was splattered with mud and she was shivering uncontrollably by the time they reached the edge of the neatly laid out Defender’s tents and crossed the open ground between the two camps. She squinted through the rain, trying to pick out any tent that looked as if it belonged to a prince, but there were no banners flying, no obvious declarations of rank. When they finally reached their destination, it proved to be a plain tent, larger than those surrounding it, but bearing nothing to indicate its occupant was of noble blood.

“Wait here,” the Defender ordered as he stepped inside, leaving Adrina standing in the rain.

Adrina fumed, but did as she was told, certain this little expedition was nothing more than an attempt to humiliate her. For the first time in months Adrina found there was someone she hated more than Cratyn.

“Your Highness.” The sergeant reappeared and held back the tent flap for her. Adrina stepped
through, glaring at the man to make certain he was aware of her displeasure. The man smiled in return and left her alone with the Warlord.

Damin Wolfblade sat at a small desk, writing something that seemed to take all his concentration. Adrina waited, dripping onto the thick carpet that covered the floor of the tent and looked around. An inviting brazier stood in the centre of the tent and she itched to step closer, but refused to give him the satisfaction. A thick tapestry, of exquisite Hythrun geometrical design, divided the tent in two, concealing the sleeping quarters. Besides the writing desk there was a large table covered in maps against the far wall, and near the brazier, a pile of thick cushions surrounding a small, low table. The Hythrun were fond of sitting on the floor.

She turned her attention to the Warlord then and tried to study him without being obvious. He was a typical Hythrun: tall, blond and well muscled from hours spent in the saddle. But that was the limit of her favourable impressions. He had the distinctive Wolfblade profile and an air about him that reeked of arrogance.

He looked up finally and frowned. He apparently had as low an opinion of her, as she had of him. “Your Highness.”

“My Lord.”

He put down his quill and stood up. “I’m sorry. Is it raining? Please, give me that cloak. You must be freezing.”

Is it raining?
She could barely hear herself think over the downpour pounding on the taut, oiled canopy. She shed the cloak, dropping it on the floor
behind her, hoping it ruined his damned carpet, and stepped closer to the brazier. Adrina found herself looking up at him. That was disconcerting. She had been able to look Cratyn in the eye.

“Don’t take me for a fool, my Lord. You probably waited until it was pouring before you sent for me! You might find such mindless games amusing, but I merely find them a sign of your inability to grasp the finer points of courtesy regarding the treatment of prisoners of rank.”

Damin looked her up and down, making her very aware of the flimsy, sodden outfit, then shrugged. “I suppose it won’t serve my purpose if you catch pneumonia and die.” He pushed back the tapestry dividing the tent and pulled a woollen shirt and trousers from a trunk. “Get out of that ridiculous costume. It ill suits a woman of your rank, in any case. You can get changed in there.”

Adrina snatched the clothes from him and walked behind the tapestry. She peeled off her wet skirts, deliberately dropping them on the centre of the bed before emerging into the main part of the tent. Her shivering stopped once she was wrapped in the warm shirt, and although it was clean, the faint smell of him lingered on it. The golden collar was icy around her throat.

“Please, sit down.”

Adrina did as he suggested, taking the cushion closest to the fire. Steam rose off her hair as the brazier warmed her. Damin offered her a cup of mulled wine, which she stared at warily.

“It’s not poisoned. We’ve already established that it won’t serve my cause for you to die.”

She took the cup and sipped the wine, the welcome warmth flooding through her. “Your gallantry is overwhelming, sir.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Adrina. I’m being practical, not gallant.”

“You will address me in a manner befitting my station, my Lord. I did not give you leave to address me so informally.”

Damin lowered himself onto the cushions opposite with surprising grace for one so tall. “I’ll address you any way I please, madam. You’ll find few in this camp who care about your station. Your only value at present is your worth as a hostage. That requires that I keep you alive. It does not require me to bow and scrape and cater to your every idiotic whim.”

“In Fardohnya, good manners are not considered an ‘idiotic whim’,” she pointed out frostily.

“I’ll bear that in mind when I next visit Fardohnya. In the meantime, I suggest your curb your tendency to think every person you meet is beneath you. The Medalonians have little patience with nobility. They judge people by their actions, not an accident of birth.”

“Ah! And that’s what you’re doing here, I suppose? You so impressed these atheist peasants with your heroic actions that they couldn’t wait to welcome you into the fold?”

“What I’m doing here is not the issue. The question is, what are
you
doing here, your Highness.”

“I was going home.”

“You were betraying the Kariens?”

“Don’t be absurd. It is simply that…there are a number of conditions of the Karien–Fardohnyan Treaty that have not been met to my satisfaction.”

“Call it what you like, your Highness, I imagine Cratyn will consider it treason.” Damin drank his wine thoughtfully. “That’s what they call this place you know—Treason Keep. Rather appropriate, don’t you think?”

Nice
, Adrina reminded herself.
I have to be nice. He’ll send me back to Karien in a heartbeat unless I can convince him to protect me.

“I…I cannot return to Karien, my Lord.” She lowered her eyes as she spoke and made sure she added a touching catch to her voice.

“Why not?”

“My life there was intolerable.”

“So you fled to Medalon dressed as a
court’esa
, accompanied by nothing more than a slave and a child?”

“I just wanted to escape. I didn’t really stop to think.” Now that was the truest thing she’d ever said. If she’d stopped to think, she wouldn’t be in this predicament.

He obviously didn’t believe a word she said. “There are those who think this alliance is merely a ruse, that your father is simply aiding the Kariens so he can cross into Medalon and then turn south into Hythria.”

“Well, if he is, it’s news to me.” Adrina sipped her wine to hide her alarm.
Was Hablet’s treacherous nature so famous that a Hythrun could read him so easily?
She composed her features before continuing. “The Defenders don’t have the troops to fight a war on two fronts. If you release me immediately, when I reach Talabar, I will speak to my father. I should be able to stay his hand.”

“Perhaps,” Damin said doubtfully.

Adrina wasn’t sure what else she could do to convince him. “I’ve no love for Karien, my Lord. I just want to go home.”

“Does Cratyn know you were planning to leave him?”

“No. After I discovered what had happened to my troops I made some rather foolish threats. It was then that I decided I should leave.”

“Are you with child?”

“Of course not! What a stupid question!”

“Oh? If you were with child, and Cratyn has his eye on your father’s throne, you might simply be taking the shortest route home, to ensure the child is born on Fardohnyan soil.”

Damn him! Where had he gotten that idea? How could some ill-bred warlord from a thousand leagues away see things so clearly?

“Cratyn had some…difficulty…in fulfilling his conjugal duties.”

To her surprise, he laughed with genuine humour. “Poor Cratyn. An inexperienced Karien princeling is no match for a
court’esa
-trained Fardohnyan princess.”

“No match at all, I fear.”

For a fraction of a second, they were not enemies, but conspirators, sharing laughter at the expense of a hated adversary. The moment lasted just long enough for an uncomfortable silence to descend between them.

“I don’t trust you, Adrina. You’re trying to play both ends against the middle. You claim to be running home, yet a week ago you were standing at Cratyn’s side, throwing your troops into battle for him. You
are allied in marriage with Karien on one hand, while offering to hold back your father’s troops with the other. You expect me to believe Cratyn doesn’t know where you are. I know he’s inexperienced, but nobody is that stupid. Your story is so full of holes I could use it as a fishing net.”

“Perhaps the intricacies of politics are beyond you, my Lord,” she suggested with saccharine sweetness, forcibly hiding her annoyance. Her tale had sounded quite reasonable when she’d tried it out on Tamylan. She never expected a Hythrun to have even a basic grasp of politics.

“I understand you better than you think. You’re Hablet’s daughter. Treachery has been bred into you.”

“Don’t make the mistake of judging me by my father.”

“I’m not likely to. I have a feeling you’re far more dangerous.”

For some contrary reason, his comment pleased her. “You can’t keep me here forever, my Lord. Eventually you will have to release me.”

“Not until I’m good and ready, your Highness. And not until I can see a profit in it.”

“I do not intend to sit here and wait upon your mercenary pleasures, my Lord,” she retorted, silently cursing her temper.
Be nice
.