down to wait.
He knew if his old friend, Wrayan Lightfinger, was aiding their search, it wouldn’t take them long to find him.
Brak was sleeping when they burst into his room. He was dreaming of home: of white walls and peace and a forgiveness that he could never accept. It was a pleasant dream, one he rarely allowed himself. It was too easy to slip into, too hard to leave. The pull he felt toward home that filled him like a dull ache every waking moment flared into white-hot desire if he allowed himself to feel too much. Better not to dream of it. Better not to think about it.
The crash of the door being kicked in jerked him awake. Before his eyes were fully open the room was full of soldiers and he was pinned to the bed, the sharp point of a sword at his throat. The soldiers were from the Sorcerer’s Collective. They were smartly dressed in their silver tunics, and there were enough of them to take a Harshini by surprise. They asked no questions, certain of his identity, and gave him no chance to deny it. He wondered at the advisability of trying to escape. It would be easy enough. These men were soldiers, not sorcerers. He could cast a glamor over himself that would make him vanish before their eyes and walk out of the room unchallenged. But the sorcerers would feel his magic, and it would lead them to him like bloodhounds on the sent of a fresh kill. He was still debating the matter when a sorcerer entered the room.
“Gently, Sergeant,” the young sorcerer warned the soldier holding the blade to his throat. “Lord Brakandaran is an honored guest.”
The pressure of the blade eased a little, and Brak found himself able to breathe again. He looked at the young man. He wore a long black robe with the hood pushed back. He was fair-haired and older than he looked, Brak guessed. One did not normally wear the black so young.
“Honored guest?” he asked dubiously.
The sorcerer shrugged apologetically. “Would you have come if we simply sent a message, my Lord?”
“No. And I’ve no intention of going anywhere with you now.”
“My Lord, it grieves me that you feel that way,” the Hythrun sighed. “I am under instructions to see you delivered to the High Arrion, and she simply won’t take no for an answer.”
“She?” Brak asked curiously, despite himself. He had been away longer than he thought.
“Kalan of Elasapine has been High Arrion for the last two years, my Lord,” the sorcerer informed him. “I am Rorin, the High Arrion’s personal seneschal. She begs me to inform you that while she appreciates your desire for anonymity, she must insist on an audience. And, might I add, on a personal note, I am honored to be in your presence, Divine One.”
That did it. Brak pushed the sergeant away angrily. The man raised his sword threateningly but lowered it instantly as Brak’s pale blue eyes began to darken to almost black.
“Get rid of them,” he snapped.
Rorin ordered the men out with a wave of his hand. They left as quickly as they could without running. Brak could taste their fear like the tang of metal on his tongue. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed as his eyes returned to their normal color. He took a deep, calming breath, a little surprised that even after all this time, his power was still enough to frighten other men.
“Let’s get something cleared up right now,” he said. “I am not a Divine One.”
Rorin’s expression did not change. “As you wish.”
Brak shook his head with frustration. “Don’t give me that look! I’m a half-breed, nothing more. I know you pray for the return of the Harshini, but don’t look to me for your salvation. I’m not the one you want.”
Rorin listened politely. “My Lord, I know of you, by reputation at least, and if you wish to deny your divinity, that’s fine by me. But I must insist that you accompany me back to the Sorcerer’s Palace.”
“Do you have some sort of hearing problem, young man?” Brak asked irritably. “Have I not explained myself clearly enough for you? Give my compliments to the High Arrion and tell her I declined her invitation.”
“I would if the invitation came from her, my Lord.”
“If not the High Arrion, then who?” Brak snapped, afraid he already knew the answer. He had suspected it ever since the remarkable arlen catch in waters where they had never been seen before. Such a feat was beyond the simple tricks and spells of the Sorcerer’s Collective.
The sorcerer glanced over his shoulder, pushing the door shut to ensure they could not be overheard. That action alone confirmed the worst of Brak’s fears.
“The Seeing Stone spoke for the first time in almost two centuries, my Lord,” Rorin told him with a hint of awe in his tone. “His Majesty, Korandellen, King of the Harshini, appeared to us.”
It was odd hearing Korandellen referred to by his full title. Uncomfortable, too, particularly for the man who had made him king. Brak frowned at the news.
“What does Korandellen want?”
“He wants to speak with you,” Rorin told him.
Brak regretted his decision almost as soon as he made it. He had fought for so long to put Sanctuary behind him. He had spent years trying to let his human blood dominate his Harshini heritage. He thought he had succeeded. Sometimes the ache faded so much that he thought it was gone. Sometimes he went days without reminding himself of why he could never return home.
Rorin had a golden sorcerer-bred stallion waiting for him outside the inn. When it gave him a soft flicker of recognition he realized just how much he had deluded himself – and how sure that Rorin had been of his agreement. One did not offer such a priceless animal to an inexperienced rider.
The horse tossed his head as he approached, the touch of his equine mind filled with images of hay and oats and young fillies. Brak smiled at the stallion’s thoughts, privately delighted that the Sorcerer’s Collective had kept the breed true, even after all this time. The stallion’s iridescent coat shone gold in the light of the street lamps. Rorin nodded knowingly as Brak reached up and scratched the stallion’s forelock.
“No other could approach Cloud Chaser so fearlessly, my Lord,” Rorin told him. “You may not like to think of yourself as a Divine One, but there is no denying the bond.”
“Getting along with animals doesn’t make me divine,” Brak snapped as he swung into the saddle.
“It does with that beast,” Rorin chuckled. He turned to the soldiers who had mounted their own, less noble mounts and were waiting patiently, staring at Brak with a mixture of curiosity and awe. “Lead on, Sergeant.”
“Don’t bother,” Brak said, leaning forward to pat Cloud Chaser’s neck. “I know the way.” He reached for Cloud Chaser’s mind and told him where they were headed. With a shake of his magnificent head, the beast galloped off toward the Sorcerer’s Palace, leaving Rorin and his escort behind.
Brak’s mad ride was halted soon enough as he rode through the streets to the Sorcerer’s Palace, picking his way through the nighttime revelers. The palace sat high above the city on a bluff overlooking everything in Greenharbor, even the Royal Compound. Although everyone called it a palace, it was actually a complex of Temples and residences, encircled by a thick white wall constructed of stone quarried from the chalk cliffs west of the city. Their fragile strength was reinforced by age-old Harshini magic. It had stood for over two thousand years, almost as long as the Citadel.
He rode through the palace gates unchallenged. The guards stood back to let him enter, not knowing who he was but certain that anyone riding a sorcerer-bred mount had a right to be there. The night was dark although the buildings were lit in almost every window, crisscrossing the central paved courtyard with a tapestry of shadows and light. Brak paid the imposing buildings no mind at all. He rode straight up to the steps of the Temple of the Gods and dismounted, leaving Cloud Chaser waiting patiently. He took the marble steps two at a time, grimly determined to do this before he changed his mind.
The Temple was almost empty, but for a few sorcerers praying silently or staring in wonder at the large crystal Seeing Stone, which had suddenly spoken after nearly two hundred years of silence. He ignored them, striding down the center aisle of the Temple, his boots clicking loudly on the mosaic tiled floor. They looked up as he passed, muttering to themselves, some even thinking to object to the presence of this stranger. As he approached the front of the Temple, where a solid lump of polished crystal as tall as a man sat on an altar of black marble, a young woman stepped forward, blocking his path. Brak stopped and stared at her, surprised to see the
