“Now, wait on!” Hablet objected. “I never agreed to that. If I die, Adrina only has to kill my son and she gets to be Queen.”
“Just because you don't think twice about eliminating members of your family, Father,” Adrina retorted frostily, “doesn't mean I share your sentiments. I give you my word; I will not kill my brother. Any of them.”
“It makes no difference in any case, Your Majesty,” Shananara explained. “Adrina is excluded from the succession by virtue of her position as Regent. If anything should happen to your son, the throne would fall to your next eldest daughter.”
“Cassandra?” Hablet laughed. “Gods preserve us from such a fate! Well, at least I know that Adrina will fight to keep her brother alive. I'm sure she'd rather die than see Cassie sitting on the throne.”
Peace.
R'shiel moved away from the pillar she was leaning against with a frown, as it dawned on her how superfluous she had become. Zegarnald would not die; he was a Primal God and truly immortal. But he would not walk into Karien and step into the vacuum left by Xaphista, either. He had wanted her tempered so that she was strong enough to face Xaphista. Well, he had what he wanted, but she had also gained a measure of revenge for the suffering he had condoned. The gods would rise and fall, gain strength and weaken as life rolled on, but the God of War would not have the strength to bully the other gods into doing his bidding. The balance had been restored.
There was no need for the demon child now. No destiny awaited her. No nation needed her counsel. That they had done all this while she slept left her feeling so inconsequential that it actually hurt.
Inkwells were being brought out, along with a number of quills, for the formal signing of the treaty. She left them to it.
There was nothing more to be done.
R'shiel slipped through the doors and out into the sunlight, realising that for the first time, she had nobody to please but herself. No destiny loomed over her like a shadow. She was beholden to no one - human, Harshini or god.
The glamour still wrapped around her protectively, R'shiel turned towards the Main Gate. She walked through it unseen by the Defenders on duty and out onto the busy road. The battlefield was still being cleared and troops were piling bodies into mass graves dug by the countless Karien prisoners that had been taken after the battle, but the Saran ran clear, its shallow waters tripping happily over the rocks beneath the surface. It was a bit grand calling it a river, actually. It was not much more than a wide stream. She stopped on the bridge and glanced back at the shining Citadel. It had been her home and her prison. Her ruin and her salvation.
Impulsively, she sent out a thought to the massive fort, a farewell of sorts. She did not know when, or even if, she would be back. She had to find Loclon. And she had an appointment with Gimlorie. Maybe she could find a way to convince Death to release Brak, too.
The Citadel responded with a benevolent wave of of affection that washed over her gently. Smiling to herself, R'shiel glanced down and discovered she was not alone. The little demon she had last seen with Mikel in Greenharbour was sitting on the ground at her feet, looking at her with its huge black eyes.
“Where have you been?” she asked, squatting down.
The creature chittered something incomprehensible and jumped into her arms.
“Is that your way of saying sorry about Mikel?” she chuckled. “It wasn't your fault, little one. You'll be a few hundred older before you can protect someone from the likes of Xaphista.”
Mention of the dead god's name set the demon off again. R'shiel stood up with the demon's skinny arms wrapped thightly around her neck. With a final glance at the Citadel, she released the glamour and crossed the bridge.
“I suppose,” she said to the demon, as she walked away without looking back, “we'd better do something about finding you a name.”
CHAPTER 64
Loclon tossed and turned on the hard ground as the nightmare took him again. It haunted him in his dreams and he lived it in his waking moments. It never left him. It never gave him a moment's respite.
It had begun as they left the Citadel. He was expecting to be smuggled into the Karien camp and treated like a hero - until they took the fortress and slaughtered everyone in it. But Mistress Heaner, her thug Lork and the chillingly beautiful boy Alladan had kept on going. They had not stopped until they reached Brodenvale, and then they had bundled him onto a small river boat and sailed downriver to Bordertown. When they reached the port town they stayed only long enough to arrange another boat, and before he could raise an objection, he found himself heading for the Isle of Slarn.
It hadn't been too bad at first. The island was dank and miserable, and the priests were a strange bunch, but they tended his malnourished body and helped him regain his strength and even began talking of letting him travel to Yarnarrow.
He had done the Overlord a great service, the priests assured him, and his reward was waiting for him.
For a time, he had foolishly believed their promises - until he remembered that for the followers of the Overlord, the rewards for service were not to be found in this life, but the next.
His first escape attempt had been treated as an unfortunate misunderstanding. His second earnt him a savage whipping. His third and last attempt had almost succeeded. It would have, had not the island begun to tremble as if in the grip of an earthquake, and the priests suddenly gone mad.
Something drastic had happened.
Loclon had been at the back of the Karien chapel for the Restday dawn service, waiting for the chance to slip out the door, when the staff belonging to the priest conducting the service had flared with light, and a wave of intense pleasure had washed over the congregation like a warm breeze. It took hold of him for an instant and held him in a thrall. There was a promise of so much in that wave. A hint of joy. A breath of sexual fantasy. A promise of paradise. Even a glimpse of the other gods. It had taken his breath away.
It had almost destroyed the priests.
They had fled the chapel and run towards the cavern where their sacred rock was hidden, howling with terror at whatever it was that it was doing. It only lasted for a few moments, then the feeling had faded abruptly and Loclon shook his head to clear it and bolted for the door.
His original plan had been to head for the small dock near the keep, but with the priests running everywhere like lunatics, he discovered that route no longer open to him. So he ran the other way, pulled himself over the wall that faced the leeward side of the island, cursing as he fell down the long drop on the other side, and ran until he collapsed onto the boggy ground. He was terrified, and at the limit of his endurance, expecting to hear the priests coming after him, not really believing he had succeeded in getting clear of them.
It was then that the nightmare truly began.
They found him that evening, shivering and exhausted, and in the darkness he could not make out their faces. They were not priests. All he knew was that someone wrapped a blanket around him and someone else thrust a cup of cool water in his hands. He drank it greedily and grasped at the mouldy bread they offered him. They led him through the darkness to a rough hut so close to the shore that he could hear the waves crashing below him as he fell into a fitful sleep.