could you even think of it? The Harshini cannot kill.”
But Lorandranek had never answered the question, Brak had held him until he grew cold in his arms and harsh daylight flooded the cave. When he could finally bring himself to move, the girl, whoever she was, had fled – presumably back to her village – and Brak never spared her another thought. Brak laid out the King and kept vigil over him for two days and nights, not eating, drinking, or sleeping. The following day he reached out through his bond to Lady Elarnymire.
Her demon had appeared soon after in the shape of a swallow, landing with incredible grace on the narrow ledge in front of the cave. To assume a larger shape meant melding with other demons, and Brak had specifically asked her to come alone.
The shock of seeing Lorandranek’s cold body startled the demon back into her true form. Elarnymire had stood on the ledge, her black eyes wide, her wrinkled skin a motley shade of gray, as Brak told her what he had done. He asked the demon to tell Korandellen. He could not bring himself to do it. Elarnymire had placed her tiny, cold hand in his and promised him faithfully that she would deliver the message.
Brak had buried his King in a grove of tall pines near the cave and never gone back to Sanctuary; never given in to the pull toward home; ignored the demons’ attempts to coax him back. He could never face the Harshini again in that palace of peace and harmony. They had always known his capability for violence and with typical Harshini tolerance, had accepted it as a part of him. But he could not – would not – ask them to accept this. He had turned his back on his people, denying the nagging need to see Sanctuary again, rejecting the magic that only those who cannot kill should be allowed to possess.
“I need you to finish what was started by Lorandranek,” Korandellen told him gently as he relived the memory through the mental link he shared with Brak.
“You do not need me at all,” Brak replied, shaking his head.
“There is a child. Lorandranek’s child.”
Brak looked up sharply, the painful memories pushed aside by Korandellen’s startling news.
“A child?”
“Lord Dranymire says the demons can feel the bond. It grows stronger every day. Somewhere, there is a child of te Ortyn blood approaching maturity.”
Brak’s eyes narrowed. The child of the girl in the cave? No. It was too soon. Harshini did not reach maturity until they were well into their third decade. On the other hand, a half-human child might mature earlier than a full- blood. He had come into his own power in his teens.
“If Lord Dranymire can feel the child, why doesn’t he seek it out?” It was a bitter irony, Brak thought, that he had killed his King to save a human woman, just so that nearly twenty years later he could hunt her child down.
“The child is living with humans, Brakandaran. Which is why I must call on you.”
“I am surprised the gods have let it live this long.”
Korandellen shrugged. “The gods have their own agenda. The thought of this child does not seem to concern them, only that it will do what they ask of it.”
Brak frowned. “And what is that, exactly?”
“They have not chosen to share that with me. I only know that they want the child found.”
Brak sighed. A human child of te Ortyn blood was a very dangerous being. The humans who worshipped the gods called such a being the demon child. And the gods, who had placed the prohibition on such a child ever existing, wanted this child for something.
“Where is the child?” he asked, cursing the gods and their interference.
Korandellen hesitated. “The Citadel,” he said finally. “The demons say the child is at the Citadel.”
chapter 8
“You’re awake.”
Joyhinia stood over her, her arms crossed, her expression annoyed. It took a moment or two for R’shiel to realize she was in the Infirmary. “Mother.”
“You at least could have had the decency to announce the onset of your womanhood in a less public place,” she scolded. “I suppose I should be grateful that it was Tarja who found you, although why he insisted on running through the Citadel, yelling like a fishwife, instead of dealing with the matter discreetly, is beyond me.”
“I think I fainted.” R’shiel wished she had never left the peaceful serenity of unconsciousness. Any hopeful thought she might have had about sympathy from her mother was dispelled in an instant.
“Sister Gwenell says you lost a great deal of blood,” Joyhinia continued impatiently. “I expect you to follow her instructions to the letter and ensure that you recover as soon as possible. It’s not as if you’re the first woman to hemorrhage on her first bleeding.”
“I’ll try to do better next time.”
“If you eat properly, there won’t be a next time,” Joyhinia told her, ignoring the edge in her voice. “I don’t know what you think you hope to gain by starving yourself, my girl, but I have given orders that you are to be force fed, if you continue to refuse meals.”
Who had she been talking to? R’shiel wondered. Junee? Kilene? Some of the other Probates? But thank the Founders, her headache was gone. Even the dull throbbing at the back of her eyes had miraculously vanished. The pain had been such a constant companion lately, she almost felt empty without it.
“I’ll do as Sister Gwenell orders.”
“Good,” Joyhinia announced, as if that was the end of the matter. “Gwenell says you’ll need some time to recuperate, once she has discharged you. I suppose you’ll have to come back to the apartment until Founders’ Day. After that, I expect you to return to your studies, and I’ll hear no more about this.”
The discussion at an end, Joyhinia turned on her heel and strode out of the Infirmary, past the long lines of perfectly made-up beds, which for the most part were empty. R’shiel watched her go, wondering what it would take to make Joyhinia happy. For five years Joyhinia had been angry with her for not reaching her menses. Now that she finally had, she was angry with her for doing it in public. R’shiel turned over and pulled the covers up over her head, shutting out unexpected tears, and tried to wish herself back into oblivion.
Joyhinia did not visit the Infirmary again. Sister Gwenell kept her bedridden for almost a week, before she relented and let R’shiel out for short walks in the gardens outside the long windows of the Infirmary. R’shiel liked Gwenell, and once she was convinced her charge was not about to keel over if she sat up too fast, she would sit and talk with R’shiel or play a game of two-handed tharabac with her, even though R’shiel always won.
R’shiel suspected her continuing weakness was more from forced idleness than loss of blood. Her aversion to meat seemed to vanish with the headaches and the onset of her menses. She still did not actually crave meat, but it no longer smelled rancid or repulsive to her, which was a good thing, as Gwenell was firmly convinced that red meat was the only cure for loss of blood, and R’shiel was served it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Junee and Kilene were allowed to visit her on the third day of her confinement. Her friends were bubbling with the gossip sweeping the Citadel regarding the fight in the Arena. According to Junee and Kilene, Loclon had been treated for the gash that Tarja had given him, but it would scar him horribly, a fact that seemed to both delight and dismay the Probates all at once. The general opinion around the Citadel was that it was a shame such a handsome officer was going to be marked for the rest of his life, but he probably deserved it. Kilene claimed that Georj was dead before they got him out of the Arena. To die in such an awful way was just the worst luck, she declared, although he only had himself to blame. R’shiel wanted to strangle her.
To Kilene the Defenders were just soldiers, good for entertainment and an occasional roll in the sack. R’shiel chafed at the restrictions placed on her by Sister Gwenell and her own weakness, refusing to believe Kilene’s assertion that Loclon would not be tried for murder. Junee promised to see if she could find out something more reliable and the girls left, leaving R’shiel quite depressed by their efforts to cheer her up.
Two days later, sitting on a wrought-iron recliner piled with pillows, on the terrace overlooking the Infirmary
