“Why would anybody, god or man, put a spell on me to make me love R'shiel?”
Mandah shrugged. “Who can guess the mind of a god? But think about what has happened since then. Would you have rescued her from the Grimfield? Or from the Kariens? Would you have done half of what you did, if you were not driven to keep her by your side? Perhaps it was the gods' way of protecting R'shiel.”
“I am getting pretty bloody sick of your gods, Mandah.”
She smiled. “You have served them remarkably well for an atheist.”
“I wasn't planning to serve them at all.”
“One cannot avoid one's destiny, Tarja, and like it or not, you are tied to the demon child.” She smiled comfortingly. “Try not to let it bother you. If it was a geas, then you're not responsible for how you felt about her. You shouldn't feel guilty for feeling that way, or that you don't feel that way any longer.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let it go, Tarja. And get some sleep.”
“Later,” he promised, turning back to the map.
Mandah hesitated for a moment, perhaps hoping he would confide in her further, but he had already said more than he intended. After a while he heard the door snick shut behind her as she let herself out of the cellar.
Once she was gone, Tarja swore softly under his breath for a time, cursing every pagan god he could name.
CHAPTER 16
In the days that followed the news of the death of High Prince Lernen, all of Krakandar seemed to be in turmoil. The streets were draped with black and the gongs in the temples rang almost constantly, tolling the death of the High Prince. At night the city was a blaze of light as the citizens placed candles and lanterns at their doors to show Lernen's soul the way to the underworld, should he stumble into their street on his journey there. After three houses caught fire in the Beggars' Quarter, Damin declared the official mourning period at an end. He understood his subjects' need to follow tradition, but he didn't want his city burned to the ground for the sake of a man that very few genuinely lamented.
Rogan Bearbow, the Warlord of Izcomdar, had delivered the news. His province bordered Damin's to the south and although the two had never been close, he was politically astute enough to ride north to Krakandar to see if Damin was in residence, before choosing which side he would take. That he would eventually have to choose a side, Damin was certain. Along with the news that Lernen had been dead for close on a month came the news that Cyrus Eaglespike, the Warlord of Dregian Province, had laid claim to the High Prince's crown. Apparently his ambitions had grown from merely removing Damin from Krakandar.
Marla was livid when she heard the news, but Narvell was unsurprised. Cyrus was a distant cousin and had often remarked in the past that should anything happen to Damin or Narvell, he was next in line for the throne. It seemed now that he hadn't been joking. Damin was less worried than he might have been otherwise, knowing that regardless of Cyrus' tenuous claim to the High Prince's mantle, he had the demon child on his side.
Just how useful an ally she was became evident the first time she met Rogan Bearbow. Older by several years than Damin, he was a tall, aloof man, who ran his province with harsh efficiency and kept the other Warlords at bay by lining his highways with the crucified bodies of any enemy Raiders foolish enough to cross his borders.
R'shiel had entered the Great Hall with Adrina at her side. Amidst the courtiers crowded into the hall standing in small clusters discussing the implications of the High Prince's death, her skin-tight leathers looked out of place. R'shiel did not seem to care. She strode purposefully towards Damin, leaving Adrina to follow at a more dignified pace.
“Is it true?” she asked, interrupting his conversation with Rogan.
Damin nodded. “Rogan had a messenger bird from Greenharbour nearly ten days ago.”
R'shiel turned on the Warlord. “Why did you take so long to send word?”
“Excuse me, young woman, but who are you to question me?”
“I'm sorry, Rogan, I forget my manners,” Damin said distractedly. He was watching Adrina out of the corner of his eye as she approached them, terrified she might do or say something that would embarrass, or worse, endanger them all. “Rogan Bearbow, Warlord of Izcomdar, allow me to introduce Her Royal Highness, R'shiel té Ortyn, the demon child.”
“The demon child? This is some sort of jest, yes?”
“This is some sort of jest, no,” R'shiel retorted. “What's happening, Damin?”
Before he could answer, Adrina reached them. To his astonishment, she curtsied solemnly before him. “My condolences on the loss of your uncle, Your Highness, and my congratulations on your elevation.”
Damin stared at her in surprise. There was not a trace of sarcasm in her tone, nor a hint of irony. She stood up and met his gaze, her expression grave.
“And who is this delightful creature?” Rogan asked, quite impressed by her regal bearing.
“This, Lord Bearbow, is my wife, the Princess Adrina.”
Adrina smiled demurely at the Warlord and offered him her hand. He bowed and kissed her palm in the traditional manner, studying her closely.
“You are not Hythrun, I judge, Your Highness.”
“And you are very astute, my Lord. I am not Hythrun, I am Fardohnyan.”
Rogan looked at Damin frowning. “You have taken a Fardohnyan bride?”
“I —” Damin began, but R'shiel cut in before he could answer.
“He has taken the bride I chose for him, Lord Bearbow. If you wish to object, I can arrange for you to discuss the matter with the gods. Did you have a particular favourite, or will any one of them do?”
Rogan stared at her, his eyes wide, as it dawned on him that she truly was the demon child. R'shiel's impatient bearing, her entire dismissive attitude that discounted titles and bloodlines, was a sharp reminder that she was not an ordinary mortal. The fact that her bearing had more to do with being raised among the Sisters of the Blade than with her status as the living embodiment of a pagan legend was something that Damin found rather ironic.
Rogan dropped to one knee in front of R'shiel. “Divine One.”
R'shiel rolled her eyes, but fortunately, Rogan's head was bowed and he did not see it. When she spoke, her voice betrayed nothing about how she truly felt.
“Arise, Lord Bearbow. I have no need of your worship.”
“We may have need of your sword, though,” Damin remarked as the Warlord climbed to his feet.
“Is there trouble?” Adrina asked.
“My cousin, Cyrus Eaglespike, has claimed the throne.”
“Then we must make all possible haste to Greenharbour and take it from him, Your Highness.”
Rogan smiled grimly at her words. “This Fardohnyan wench has teeth, I see.”
Damin grimaced as Adrina looked him up and down, her green eyes cold. “I am not a 'wench', my Lord, I am a Fardohnyan Princess of the Blood Royal. Your loyalty to your High Prince does not entitle you to insult me.”
“I'm sorry, Your Highness,” Rogan mumbled, quite taken back by her reprimand. “I meant no offence.”
“Then I shall forgive you on this occasion, my Lord. My husband has need of loyal Hythrun such as you. I would not weaken his hand by insisting you be put to death for something so trivial. Not this time.”
Damin held his breath, waiting for Rogan to explode. Did she have any idea of what she was doing? Damin knew he could count on Narvell, and probably Tejay Lionsclaw from Sunrise Province bordering Fardohnya, but Rogan could go either way. Threatening to hang him for insulting his wife was hardly the way to win him over. But the expected explosion did not eventuate. If anything, Rogan looked shamefaced.