The Harshini King nodded tiredly. “I'm aware of that, Shananara, but unfortunately that uncontrollable half-breed is our only hope.”
CHAPTER 2
The marriage of Damin Wolfblade, Warlord of Krakandar, to Her Serene Highness, Princess Adrina of Fardohnya, took place on a small, windswept knoll in the middle of northern Medalon on a bitterly cold afternoon. It was little more than two weeks since the bride had unexpectedly become a widow.
The sky was overcast and low, the sullen clouds defying the brisk, chilly wind by staying determinedly in place. The somewhat less-than-radiant bride was dressed in a borrowed white shirt and dark woollen trousers. The groom looked just as uncomfortable in his battle-worn leathers. The assorted guests appeared either bemused or amused, depending on their country of origin.
Officiating over the ceremony was a tall, serious looking Defender, who wore the insignia of a captain and quoted the stiff, practical and very unromantic Medalonian wedding vows that were carried away by the wind almost as soon as he uttered the words. This wedding was taking place because the demon child had demanded it, and a quick ceremony - enough to make it legal - was all R'shiel cared about. She had neither the time nor the patience for any pomp or ceremony.
“This is probably a waste of time, you know,” Brak muttered as he watched the ceremony with a frown.
“Why?” R'shiel asked softly, not taking her eyes from the bride and groom, as if they would somehow manage to escape their fate if she looked away.
“This marriage will only hold up if you can get the High Arrion to accept the legality of a Medalonian ceremony as soon as you get to Greenharbour,” he explained.
“The leader of the Sorcerers' Collective?”
“The High Arrion is Damin's half-sister.”
“She's not going to be very happy about this, is she?”
“Even if she wasn't concerned about her brother, as the High Prince's heir, he's doing a very dangerous thing.”
“But worth it, Brak. In the end, it will be the best thing that could have happened. This will force peace between Hythria and Fardohnya. Nothing else we can do will achieve that.”
Brak looked unconvinced. “There's an awful lot that can go wrong, R'shiel.”
“It'll work.”
He stared at her.
“Trust me, it'll work!”
“I'm surprised Zegarnald is letting you get away with this.”
“I have the God of War's solemn promise that he won't interfere. Besides, he'll think this is likely to cause a war.”
“That's because it is likely to cause a war, R'shiel,” Brak pointed out.
“Only in the short term.”
He shook his head at her folly and turned his attention back to the ceremony. It was almost over. Denjon was calling on the gods to bless the union - Kalianah to bless it with love, Jelanna to bless it with children. He sounded very uncomfortable, but R'shiel had insisted on acknowledging the gods, even in some small measure. Personally, she didn't think it would make much difference, but Damin and Adrina were both pagans and it was what they believed that counted. One or both of them might try to wheedle out of it if she left them a loophole.
Denjon declared the union sealed, to the scattered applause of the gathered Defenders and Hythrun who had come to watch. The newlyweds turned to face the crowd and smiled with the insincere ease of those trained from childhood to perform in public. They stepped down from the knoll and began to walk towards R'shiel and Brak. R'shiel shivered, although it was not from the cold.
“Just how much power do the Sorcerers' Collective have, anyway?”
“Politically or magically?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“The magic they wield shouldn't bother you. They tap into the same power we do, but it's the result of years of study, not innate ability. It's done with incantations and spells and a bit of co-operation from the gods. Politically, however, they're one of the strongest forces in Hythria.”
“So if the High Arrion publicly sanctions this union, the Warlords will accept it?”
“They won't openly object, but don't count on acceptance.”
“Then we need the Sorcerers' Collective on our side.”
“Most definitely.”
R'shiel nodded, her mind already working through how to get the High Arrion on side. And the King of Fardohnya. Brak could deal with him. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion he was going to enjoy it. Her mind churned with possibilities, as she pondered the problem. The scheming came to her as naturally as breathing - one of the legacies of being raised by the Sisters of the Blade.
“Well, it's done now,” Damin remarked as he and Adrina reached them.
“A true romantic, isn't he,” Adrina complained. “Do we have to stand around here chatting? I'm freezing. Every time I get married, I seem to be freezing.”
“We should head back to the camp. Denjon had the cooks prepare a wedding feast for you.”
“What a culinary experience that's going to be,” Adrina grumbled.
“You're not planning to make this easy, are you?” R'shiel asked.
The Princess conceded the point reluctantly. “Very well, I shall endeavour to be appreciative of the efforts of my hosts.”
“That should be a new experience for you,” Damin remarked blandly.
The Warlord enjoyed living dangerously, R'shiel decided, noticing the look Adrina gave him. She made her excuses, leaving the bride and groom with Brak, and slipped away to speak with Denjon.
“Thank you, Captain.”
“I'm sure I've broken a score of laws here today, R'shiel. Are you sure this was necessary?”
“Positive. It'll keep Hythria and Fardohnya off our backs while we deal with the Kariens.”
“I hope you're right. I'm not sure the marriage of a Hythrun Warlord to a Fardohnyan will help Medalon much. Particularly the Warlord who's spent most of the past decade trying to steal every head of cattle on our side on the border.”
“This Warlord is on our side now, Denjon.”
“I'll have to take your word for that. Although he seems reasonable enough.”
She smiled, wondering what Damin would think of such a backhanded compliment. “Never fear. Events will strike a balance eventually.”
“I hope you're right, demon child.”
R'shiel had no chance to chide the captain for calling her by that hated name. A commotion ahead of them distracted her as a Defender ran towards them from the line of tents ahead, calling her name.
“What's wrong?” she demanded as the man pushed through the wedding party to reach her.
“It's Tarja,” the young man panted. “He's awake.”
R'shiel beat everyone else to the infirmary tent. She pushed her way through the flap and ran to the pallet where Tarja lay at the far end of the large tent, straining uselessly against the ropes that held him.
“Tarja?”
He turned at the sound of her voice, but there was no recognition in his eyes. His colour had improved but he had a wild look, as if a battle raged inside him. His dark hair was damp and his brow beaded with sweat. The rough, grey, army-issue blankets that covered him were a twisted tangle.
“Tarja? It's me, R'shiel...”
His only response was to tug even harder at the ropes. Already his wrists were burned from his efforts. With a cry of dismay, she reached for them, to ease his suffering.
“R'shiel! No!”
Brak hurried to her side and looked down on Tarja with concern. Damin and Adrina were close on his heels.
“Look what he's doing to himself, Brak! You can't just leave him there, tied up like a wild animal.”