The Greenharbor docks were a chaotic mix of sounds and smells, of tar and curses, of rank fish and screeching fishmongers, saltwater and damp sails. A forest of tall masts stretched around the harbor as far as the eye could see. There was a vibrancy that set this port apart from any other Brak had visited.
The crescent-shaped, natural bay was striped with different shades of blue, marking the deep channels that led out to the Dregian Ocean. The ships anchored at the wharves were a haphazard mixture of Hythrun square- riggers and Fardohnyan oared traders, and occasionally a garishly painted Karien galleon squatting nervously between her pagan neighbors. Farther around the bay, moored at the dock reserved for visitors to the Royal Enclosure at the foot of the huge white palace, Brak noted the sleek lines of a Fardohnyan oared warship displaying a Royal Standard. He spared the ship barely more than a passing glance. At last count, King Hablet of Fardohnya had enough offspring to populate a fair-sized town. Any one of his children might be here to seek guidance from the Sorcerers, make an offering at the Temple of the Gods, or just cause trouble.
There was no other port quite like Greenharbor and Brak fervently wished that he had not been forced here this time. In his experience, Greenharbor meant the Sorcerer’s Collective and that meant they wanted something of him. Something he undoubtedly did not want to give them. But he could hardly blame Captain Soothan for his decision to head for the lucrative Greenharbor markets. Finding a rare school of blue-finned arlen at this time of year was a gift from the gods. Aden was a prized delicacy in Greenharbor. That one catch alone would see him through the rest of the year.
Brak had been at sea long enough to know that finding a school of blue-finned arlen in such warm waters was not unusual – it was damned near impossible! He kept his suspicions to himself about the source of this unexpected bounty, collected his pay and his bonus, and left the ship as soon as it docked. His prudence was well founded. The ship was in port less than half a day before it was visited by a smartly dressed troop of soldiers from the Sorcerer’s Collective. Brak watched them from the safety of a dockside tavern, downed his ale in a gulp, and slipped away while he still had the chance.
Greenharbor had only two seasons – hot and muggy or unbearably hot and muggy. With the northern winter approaching, fortunately it was just hot. It was also the High Prince’s birthday and the white, flat-roofed city was crowded to overflowing with visitors from every Province in Hythria. Merchants and slavers, farmers and thieves, prostitutes and gamblers, the jaded and the awestruck – all descended on the Hythrun capital this time every year. All seven Warlords were in the city to make their annual offering at the Temple of the Gods. By law, they were restricted to three hundred Honor Guards each, but that was more than enough to cause trouble. They would need little encouragement to brawl with their enemies, and their enemies were any poor sod wearing the colors of another Province. Brak despaired of Hythria. Two centuries ago, they had been a proud and enlightened nation. Now they were little more than barbaric warmongers.
Zegarnald, the God of War, had much to rejoice in, he thought sourly. But it was not the God of War’s fault that Hythria had fallen into a constant state of armed conflict. Like any primal god he merely took advantage of the circumstances. The blame lay squarely with the Harshini, who had withdrawn unexpectedly and left these people without guidance. Neighboring Fardohnya was just as bad. The current Fardohnyan King was a profiteering opportunist whose facility for changing sides left the casual observer’s head spinning. Maybe that accounted for the Fardohnyan ship in the harbor, Brak mused. Perhaps Hablet had decided that his antagonistic attitude toward Hythria for the past three decades was no longer profitable and had sent an envoy to make peace. Brak doubted it, but anything was possible.
Brak pushed his way through the streets thinking about the current state of affairs in Hythria and Fardohnya. The Harshini King had thought only to leave Medalon to its own devices, to save lives by vanishing from sight so the Sisterhood would think their Purge successful. When the continued Harshini presence in the southern nations alerted the Sisterhood to their survival, the Purge in Medalon had gained savage momentum. Every Harshini in Hythria and Fardohnya had eventually been called home, leaving the southern courts without the calming influence of Harshini advisers, and the Sorcerer’s Collective without teachers and mentors.
Brak nimbly sidestepped a fistfight that spilled out into the street from a tavern across the way. As he did so, he wondered if Lorandranek had ever thought what the Harshini withdrawal would do to the nations of the south... Brak was sometimes sorry he had never asked him. Then he remembered that he had not given Lorandranek a chance to say much at all. Brak pushed the thought away. He had been running from that memory for almost two decades. He turned down the next street and walked straight into the High Prince’s birthday parade.
Cursing, Brak tried to step backward, but the crowd swept him up and carried him forward along the wide avenue lined with golden palms. Children clung like limpets to their ringed trunks in an effort to see over the heads of the crowd. Brak was taller than most men, and over the spectators’ heads, he could see the High Prince’s grandiose retinue slowly wending its way toward the Royal Compound overlooking the harbor. With a frustrated sigh, Brak gave up fighting against the crush. He let the throng carry him along and settled for watching the High Prince instead.
The prince was an old man now, a fact that startled Brak. He had not set eyes on him for years; but seeing how the man had aged reminded him sharply how he was different from normal men. Brak looked no older now than he had when he first met the High Prince as a young man, whereas Lernen Wolfblade was in his dotage.
The High Prince rode in an open carriage, a pretty young man by his side – no doubt Lernen’s latest plaything. Brak was a little surprised to think the old man still had it in him. Perhaps it was just habit, these days, which substituted for lust. Brak frowned as he watched the carriage roll by, Lernen smiling absently and waving at the masses. The High Prince’s predilection for young boys was, indirectly, another reason to fear for Hythria.
This nation had grown used to High Princes who had little but ceremonial value, and in that respect Lernen Wolfblade had fulfilled his duties better than anyone could have hoped. The Warlords valued their independence, and the once-powerful house of Wolfblade had degenerated over the past two centuries. Lernen epitomized the depth of their descent into depravity. The weakness of successive High Princes allowed the Warlords to rule their provinces as they saw fit, without interference. And Lernen was childless. From what rumor and gossip Brak had heard over the years, he had no interest in producing an heir, not even for the sake of his country. Consequently, the heir to the throne was not a simpering, court-raised dandy, as the Hythrun heir had been for a century or more. The current heir was Lernen’s nephew. The son of his only sister Maria, he had been raised far from court in Krakandar Province and was already a Warlord in his own right. Brak silently and fervently wished Lernen a long, long life as he disappeared from view.
The Warlords of Hythria did not want a strong High Prince, and by all accounts, Damin Wolfblade was unlikely to be anything else. There were tough times ahead for these people. What was currently a nation of provinces constantly niggling at each other could well explode into a fullblown civil war.
The elaborate open carriage that followed the High Prince answered Brak’s earlier question about the identity of the Fardohnyan from the ship bearing the Royal Standard in the bay. It was a young woman in her mid- twenties, undoubtedly one of Hablet’s countless daughters. She rode in the carriage and waved to the passing crowd with the experience of one raised to perform such mindless ceremonial duties. Brak wondered which daughter the raven-haired beauty with the bored expression was. A young couple standing in front of him, stretching up on their toes to see over the crowd, answered his unspoken question as they watched her carriage pass by.
“That’s Princess Adrina of Fardohnya,” the young woman sighed. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
Her companion laughed. “I heard she’s such a shrew, Hablet can’t find a husband brave enough to take her on.”
“Maybe that’s why she’s here,” the young woman suggested. “To find a husband?”
“Well, I hope she doesn’t have her eye on poor old Lernen,” the young man chuckled. “She’d be wasting her charms on him.”
Brak listened to the conversation with a faint smile. It seemed the Hythrun were under no illusions about their High Prince.
By the time the parade had passed, the crowd began to thin a little, and Brak was able to push his way through to a tavern a few streets over that he had last visited more than three decades ago. He was relieved to find it still standing and pushed his way inside to the cool interior. The establishment’s clientele had moved up a notch or two since his last visit, he noted idly.
The owner was new and eyed his rough sailor’s clothing warily as he entered. However, one look at Brak’s full purse was enough for the innkeeper to put aside her concerns. Brak took a room, ordered a bath, and settled
