Treason Keep (7 page)

Tarja shook his head. The last thing they needed was Damin Wolfblade threatening to kill Garet Warner. With Garet’s assistance, it would be far easier
to fool the Quorum into believing all was well with the First Sister and his help was essential if they were to eventually replace her. And if the Kariens really
had
allied with Fardohnya, their only hope of preventing a southern incursion was Damin’s Hythrun Raiders.

Not for the first time since Joyhinia had won the First Sister’s mantle, Tarja wished he had let her hang him. He would never have become involved in the rebellion. He would never have led the raid to rescue R’shiel that resulted in the death of the Karien Envoy, and they would not be facing an invasion. But what hurt most, when he let himself think on it, was R’shiel. If not for him, she would be alive and probably in blissful ignorance of what she really was.

But then again, maybe nothing would be different, even if he had died. The Harshini had known all along what R’shiel was and had sent Brak to find her. Garet and he had identified the Karien threat long before any of these other events took shape. Whichever way he looked at it, he was caught in circumstances that seemed to be constantly spiralling out of control. He remembered thinking, more than a year ago, when he was riding toward capture in Testra at the hands of Lord Draco, the man who turned out to be his father, that life was no longer certain.

He was starting to wryly think of those times as the good old days.

The ride back to the Defender’s camp was tense. Damin was angry and Garet silent. Tarja wished he could think of something to say that would bring
some sanity to the situation. He had always liked and respected Garet Warner, yet he had found a rare friendship with Damin Wolfblade—ironically, a man he had spent four years on the southern border trying to kill.

It was late afternoon when Treason Keep appeared on the horizon. Although the engineers had done their best, it was unlikely the Keep would ever be useful as anything but a temporary headquarters. Tarja wondered what had happened to Bereth and her orphans. There was no sign of them at the Keep. Had they survived? Or had Bereth found a safer place for her brood? Tarja wished he had the time to discover their fate.

The tents of their army covered a vast area surrounding the old ruin. The Hythrun were camped on the western side of the plain, and as they neared the sea of tents, Damin reined in his mount and studied the camp thoughtfully. Tarja stopped beside him. Garet rode on, not interested in the view.

The Defender’s tents were laid out in precise lines, each housing four men, with spears and pikes stacked in neat piles between them. Their camp was as neat and orderly as Defender discipline demanded. The much smaller Hythrun camp looked like a motley collection of warriors out on a hunting expedition. No two tents were alike, and they had been erected anywhere the Raiders felt like making camp. A pall of smoke hung over the camp from the cook fires and the huge open-air forge built against the southern wall of the Keep. Even from this distance, Tarja could faintly hear the rhythmic ringing of the smiths’ hammers as they pounded the metal into shape. The
need for additional swords, pikes and arrowheads was urgent. Jenga had decided that making them on site was preferable to shipping them from the Citadel, although the lack of fuel for the hungry fires almost outweighed the advantages of being able to make and repair their weapons at the front.

North of the camp lay the training grounds, marked by a vast expanse of scuffed ground and lines of tall hay bales, to which rough outlines of man-shapes had been secured to give the trainees something to aim at. Mounted, red-coated sentries patrolled the camp perimeter in pairs. The Hythrun sentries were out of sight, hidden by the long grass.

To the south was the sprawling tent city that housed the rebels, the camp followers and anyone else in Medalon who thought there was a quick fortune to be made in a war. Jenga had given up trying to make them leave.

“The Fardohnyans have me worried,” Damin admitted eventually, once Garet was out of their hearing. “Karien knights are fools. They expect everyone to play by the same rules as they do, and are therefore predictable.”

“And the Fardohnyans?” Tarja had never fought them. In his experience they preferred trade to conflict. But an enemy that caused the Hythrun Warlord concern was an enemy to fear.

“Hablet keeps a huge standing army. His troops are well trained and they think on the run,” Damin warned. “They won’t play by the same rules as the Kariens. It’s one of the reasons Hythria has avoided an open conflict with Fardohnya. And then there’s Hablet’s cannon…”

“What do you suggest?”

Damin shrugged. “I think we need help.”

“Point me at it,” Tarja said wearily.

Damin glanced at him and then laughed. “I think it’s time I spoke to my god. I am, after all, His most worthy subject. Zegarnald owes me a favour or two.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know how to contact the gods?”

“I believe I said I didn’t know how to contact the God of Thieves. The God of War is a different matter entirely. He speaks to me often.”

“What does he say?” Tarja asked curiously.

“Ah, now that is between me and my god. You return to the Keep and try to keep things under control. I will see what I can do about some divine assistance.”

“Damin!” Tarja called uselessly, as the Warlord spurred his magnificent stallion forward. Damin ignored him and galloped toward the camp.

Tarja watched him go, wondering about the wisdom of allying himself with someone who thought the fickle Primal Gods could help them against the might of the Karien army, allied with the almost uncountable Fardohnyans.

Garet was right, he thought heavily as he spurred Shadow on towards the camp. He was trying to win a war with wishful thinking.

The Isle of Slarn was a miserable, bitter place; shrouded in mist and surrounded by a treacherous reef that made even the most seasoned sailor nervous. Adrina watched the island growing larger through the mist, shivering in the chilly spray that splashed over the bow in the grey, overcast morning.

“It’s a great honour,” Cratyn told her solemnly, “to be allowed to visit Slarn.”

“You think so?” she asked, gripping the rail tightly. “I’ll try to remember that as I’m being dashed against the reef, just before I drown.”

Cratyn looked at her unsmilingly. He had solemn eyes in a not-unpleasant face, but he had no sense of humour that Adrina had been able to detect thus far.

“The Overlord will protect us and see us safe into the harbour.”

“That makes me feel so much better.”

“I am pleased to see that you are beginning to appreciate the power of the Overlord,” he noted, as if her comment had been a profession of faith rather than a snide dig at his boring old god. “When we
reach Slarn, the priests will appoint a Confessor to aid your conversion to the true faith.”

“You’re assuming I plan to convert, then?” she asked, bracing herself against the violent lurching of the hideously painted ship. The captain was screaming orders to his crew, fighting to be heard over the crashing waves and the creaking boat.

Cratyn looked astonished. “As the wife of the Crown Prince, you must set an example of faith and virtue for all the women of Karien.”

“
Me
? An example of virtue? I fear I am not worthy of that honour, your Highness.”

Completely oblivious to her meaning, Cratyn nodded. “Your humility does you credit, Princess. I am sure the Overlord will look most kindly on your character.”

Just so long as he doesn’t look too closely
, she told herself. Still, the trip from Fardohnya so far had been bearable. She had only had to socialise with her Karien fiancé and his priests during meals. The rest of the journey she had been left to her own devices in her small but sumptuous cabin, which was quite appallingly decorated by someone who had either been very devout or blind drunk when he chose the colours. Every flat surface was emblazoned with the five-pointed star and lightning bolt of Xaphista.

Tristan and the rest of his regiment were not invited to Slarn. Their small fleet of Fardohnyan ships was sailing straight onto Karien.

“Your ladies-in-waiting will also join us when we reach Slarn,” Cratyn added carefully. “I will then make arrangements to return your slaves to Fardohnya.”

Adrina turned to face Cratyn determinedly. “My slaves aren’t going anywhere, your Highness. They will stay with me.”

Cratyn took a deep breath before he replied, as if he had known what her reaction to such a suggestion would be. It explained his sudden desire for her company this morning. She wondered how long it had taken to work himself up to delivering the news.

“The Overlord says that man can have only one master, and that is God. We do not condone or tolerate slavery in Karien, your Highness. Your slaves must be sent home.”

“I don’t give a damn what the Overlord says. My slaves are staying with me.” She tossed her head imperiously
. Pretentious little upstart!
“Did my father know you were planning to deprive me of my slaves the moment we left Fardohnya?”

“He suggested that it would be wise not to broach the subject until we reached Slarn.” Cratyn agreed. “But he assured us you would understand the necessity—”

“Well, he was wrong!” she declared. “I do
not
understand.”

“I realise you are quite attached to them, your Highness, but as the Crown Princess of Karien, you cannot be seen to be supporting such a barbarous custom.”

“Barbarous!” she cried. “My slaves live in more luxury than most of your damned knights. They are cared for, looked after, and secure. How dare you call my treatment of them barbarous!”

Cratyn looked rather taken aback by her outburst. “Your Highness, I did not mean to insult you. I’m
sure you take great care of your slaves, but they are not
free
.”

“Free to do what, exactly? Free to work like drudges for a pittance? For lordlings who think tossing their underlings a coin liberates them from any further responsibility for those less fortunate than themselves? It is harder to be a master than a slave, your Highness. A master must see to the welfare of his slaves. A master must ensure that everyone in his charge is taken care of. How many of your noble lords own the same level of responsibility?”

Cratyn sighed, unaccustomed to defending his position, particularly to a woman. In truth, Adrina was not surprised by the order to send her slaves home. She was far better versed in Karien customs than Cratyn knew, and had been expecting something like this for days. But she was enjoying watching him squirm.

“Your Highness, you must see that keeping your slaves is impossible…”

“I see no such thing,” she announced petulantly. “Isn’t it enough that I will never see my home again? Now you want to take away the only familiar faces I know. How can you be so cruel? Does your Overlord preach thoughtlessness along with virtue and piety?”

That left him speechless for a moment. Cratyn had not expected her to use his God to support her argument. “I…of course not…perhaps a compromise might be reached?”

Adrina smiled sweetly as he gave her the opening she was fishing for. “You mean I can keep some of them? Maybe just one or two?”

“You would have to emancipate them,” Cratyn
warned her. “But as free servants, I’m certain the priests wouldn’t object to their presence.”

“Oh, thank you, your Highness,” she gushed, with vast insincerity. Taking his bare hand in hers, she turned it over and kissed it, in the Fardohnyan tradition, letting her tongue trail lightly along the sword-callused palm. Cratyn snatched his hand away at the intimacy. He actually blushed.

“Perhaps we should go below now, your Highness,” he suggested.

Adrina had to bite her lip to prevent herself laughing aloud. She realised, with mild surprise, that this young man was probably a virgin. The Overlord preached abstinence from sex except in marriage—and then only for the purposes of procreation. Cratyn was so annoyingly devout, he probably felt the need for penance if he had an impure thought. Adrina decided the wedding night was going to be quite an event, with Cratyn trying to pretend he knew what he was doing, and her trying to pretend she didn’t.

“Perhaps we should,” she agreed, with a smile that had nothing to do with the conversation and a great deal to do with her vision of her upcoming nuptials.

The Monastery of Slarn was as depressing and dark as the rest of the island. What little Adrina saw of the place in the carriage ride from the wharf was bare and rocky and windswept. The island sat in the middle of the Fardohnyan Gulf, but its fame stemmed more from its occupants than its strategic value. Slarn was home to the priests of Xaphista and a colony of Malik’s Curse sufferers. For some reason, the priests
were immune to the wasting disease, and anyone diagnosed, regardless of nationality, was packed off to Slarn as soon as their condition was identified. Cratyn had assured her that the sufferers were kept well away from the monastery, but she wondered just how safe this place was. Her half-brother Gaffen’s mother had contracted the disease when he was a small boy, and Adrina still remembered standing outside the palace watching everything burn as she was taken away, screaming and crying to be allowed to say goodbye to her son. Everything Emalia had touched was destroyed with fire, lest it infect anyone else in the palace. Was Emalia still here, Adrina wondered, or had the disease taken her by now?

She glanced at Cratyn and frowned. He was seated across from her in the unadorned, but serviceable, carriage that had met them at the wharf. His head was bowed and he seemed to be muttering something.
Praying, no doubt
, she thought impatiently. Slarn was holy ground, after all.

“I hope they have a fire going when we get there,” she remarked, as much to disturb his concentration as to make conversation. “Is it much colder than this in Yarnarrow?”

Cratyn looked up, and silently finished his prayer before answering. “Much colder, your Highness. We are snowbound for part of the year.”

Adrina clapped her hands in delight. “I’ve never seen snow.”

“You’ll see plenty in Yarnarrow.”

“Then I’ll have to rely on you to keep me warm, won’t I?” Baiting Cratyn was proving to be a most distracting pastime.

To her delight, he blushed again. “I’ll…do my best to see you are…comfortable, your Highness.”

The carriage finally clattered to a halt before the forbidding façade of the monastery. The door opened and a hand reached in to help her down. There was a gaggle of tonsured priests waiting for them, in addition to a dozen or more Church knights and five women, all but one of them younger than Adrina. She looked about with interest as Cratyn disembarked beside her.

The older woman in the group stepped forward and smiled with the ease of a professional diplomat.

“Welcome to Karien, your Highness,” she said with a deep curtsy.

“Princess, may I present the Lady Madren,” Cratyn announced, sounding surer now that he was on familiar ground among his own people. “Lady Madren, this is Her Serene Highness, Adrina of Fardohnya.”

The woman glanced at Cratyn questioningly. “Adrina? We were expecting the Princess Cassandra.”

“Princess Cassandra proved unsuitable,” Cratyn informed the woman uncomfortably, although he managed not to blush this time. “Adrina is the eldest daughter of King Hablet, and as such, is an eminently qualified consort.”

“Of course, your Highness.” Adrina could tell she was burning with curiosity over the sudden change in brides. She wondered if Cratyn would admit to the real reason, or if it would prove too embarrassing for him. “You are most welcome, Princess.”

“Thank you, my Lady.”

“Please allow me to introduce your ladies-in-waiting.”

Adrina was tempted to ask if it could wait until they were inside. The wind was bitingly cold, and the idea of standing out here on the bleak steps of the monastery while she was introduced to everybody was distinctly unappealing.

“This is Lady Grace, Lady Pacifica, Lady Hope and Lady Chastity,” Madren announced as the young women in question stepped forward. Adrina glanced at the pale young women for a moment in astonishment.

“Are those really their names?”

Madren stiffened at the insult. “In Karien, it is the custom to name one’s daughters after the virtue they hope the child will emulate, your Highness.”

“Poor Chastity,” Adrina murmured, then she smiled apologetically at the older woman. “I’m sorry, I should not have been surprised. We have a similar custom in Fardohnya. My own name means ‘she whose beauty will tempt men to insane acts of bravery for the chance to spend the night with her’.”

Adrina’s name meant no such thing, but it was too tempting an opportunity to pass up. The looks on the Kariens’ faces alone made the lie worthwhile. Cratyn looked as if he wished the ground would open and swallow him whole, and the ladies Grace, Pacifica, Hope and Chastity were on the verge of swooning.

“What virtue does ‘Madren’ represent?”

“I was named for my mother’s home province, your Highness,” Madren replied haughtily. “The naming after virtues is a relatively new custom.”

“Well, with luck, it will prove a passing fad,” Adrina announced airily. “Shall we continue the introductions inside? I’ve no wish to keep you all out here in this wind on my account.”

She smiled sweetly at Cratyn and Madren as she swept up her cloak. There was little they could do but follow her inside.

Everything on Slarn was damp and the monastery was no exception. The black stone walls wept moisture and the rushes scattered on the stone floor of the main hall squelched faintly underfoot. There was no noticeable difference between the temperature inside or out. Two huge pits, evenly spaced in the floor of the lofty hall, hosted blazing fires that did little to warm the cavernous room. Adrina looked about with a frown.
Xaphista must be one of those gods who thinks suffering and misery is good for you
, she thought, rather depressed at the prospect of spending the rest of her life among his worshippers. She hoped the castle at Yarnarrow was better appointed than this miserable place.

An acolyte stepped forward to take her wrap, but she waved him away. It was too cold to shed the warmth of her cloak, and underneath she wore a Fardohnyan costume ill-suited to the bitter cold. She had been planning to make an issue of that too, knowing her mode of dress would appall the straight-laced Kariens. Now she was not so certain. The concealing, drab woollen dresses of her ladies-in-waiting looked decidedly warmer than her gloriously provocative gown.

The introductions continued once they were inside. Adrina smiled and nodded as Madren introduced her to an endless stream of priests and knights. Without exception, they greeted her solemnly; their eyes wide as they studied the exotic Fardohnyan bride Cratyn had brought home. Each
priest ceremoniously laid his elaborate star-and-lightning-bolt-tipped staff on her shoulder, to satisfy himself that she was not an evil spirit—or worse, a Harshini, in the guise of a mortal. As for her future husband, he was nowhere to be found. He had vanished in the company of a young sandy-haired knight almost as soon as they crossed the threshold of the monastery.

“And this, your Highness, is Vonulus,” Madren announced, as the last of the supplicants stepped forward. “He will be your Confessor and will instruct you in the doctrine of the Overlord, as well as advising you on pastoral matters.”

Vonulus laid his staff on her shoulder gently, then bowed, his tonsured head shining in the damp morning light. Adrina studied him with interest. He was a little older than she, with intelligent brown eyes, and a serene expression that came from an inner peace Adrina doubted she would be able to disrupt easily.

“Your Serene Highness,” Vonulus said in fluent Fardohnyan. “I am honoured to serve you.”

First mistake
, Adrina thought.
He should not have let me know he spoke Fardohnyan
. “Vonulus. I look forward to receiving your wisdom.”