anyone to marry her.”
Brak smiled, thinking that the young woman must be a harridan indeed if everyone, from the citizens in Greenharbor to the Warlord of a distant foreign province, knew her reputation. Damin reached down and patted the neck of his own sorcerer-bred stallion. Lacking any magical ability to communicate with the beast, Damin and his raiders controlled their mounts by nothing more than superb horsemanship. The Warlord glanced at Brak, his smile fading.
“One thing unites Hythria and Fardohnya, Brak: the Sisterhood’s persecution of pagans. Drendik has saved many lives in his time. For that, I can forgive him a lot. Even being Fardohnyan.”
Brak dismounted, lifting his pack off Cloud Chaser’s back. He would miss the stallion but would not risk such a valuable animal in Medalon. It was unlikely anyone in Medalon would recognize the breed, but the horse’s unmistakable nobility would cause comment. He preferred to remain anonymous.
“If there is anything else I can do for you,” Damin offered as he took Cloud Chaser’s reins, “you only have to ask.”
“You could try not starting a civil war while I’m away,” Brak said.
“Speak to the gods then,” Damin suggested. “They have more control over that than I do.”
Brak shook Damin’s hand. He genuinely liked the young Warlord, but that didn’t mean he thought he would listen to him.
“Trust your own judgment, Damin,” he advised. “Don’t leave it to the gods. They have their own agenda.”
Damin’s expression grew serious. “As do the Harshini.”
Brak did not deny the accusation. For a moment the silence was heavy between them.
“You seek the demon child, don’t you?” Damin asked quietly, although there was nobody within earshot who could overhear them. The troops who had escorted them to the border were well back behind the treeline.
“Who told you that?”
“Call it an educated guess,” Damin shrugged. “The rumors have been around for as long as I can recall. It is the only thing I can think of that would cause the Harshini to break their silence after all this time. Do you plan to kill him?”
Brak was a little taken aback by the blunt question. “I don’t know.”
“Well, before you do, answer one question for me,” Damin said.
“If I can.”
“If this child is truly Lorandranek’s child, then it will be like you, won’t it? Harshini, but not constrained against violence? If that’s the case, then he could kill a god, couldn’t he? Is that why Lorandranek withdrew all the Harshini to Sanctuary? To wait until a child was born who could destroy Xaphista?”
Brak wondered how the Warlord had been able to piece together so much from so little. But his sister was the High Arrion. The Sorcerer’s Collective knew much to which the general population was not privy. His question made a frightening amount of sense. It would explain why the gods were anxious to ensure that the demon child lived. Was Xaphista becoming so powerful that the Primal Gods would countenance the existence of the demon child? Brak shuddered and turned his attention back to Damin.
“One question, you said,” he snapped. “That was five questions.”
“So I can’t count.”
“And I can’t answer any of them,” Brak admitted.
“You
“I can’t,” Brak replied with a shake of his head, “because I simply don’t know.”
Bordertown had changed a lot since the last time Brak had seen it. It had grown considerably – new redbrick houses bordered the western edge of the town, and there were more taverns than he remembered. There were more soldiers, too. More red coats than he could ever remember seeing. The Defenders had changed since their rather inauspicious beginnings. They were no longer eager young men with more enthusiasm than skill. They were hard, well trained, and deserving of their reputation as the most disciplined warriors in the world. But their presence caused an indefinable tension in the town. People looked over their shoulder before they spoke. Even the talkative market stallholders seemed less garrulous than usual.
It had taken Brak almost two weeks on foot to reach the town. Discretion, rather than time, was of the essence. He had traded his sailor’s clothes for leather trousers, a linen shirt, and a nondescript but warm cloak provided by Damin Wolfblade. But for his golden tanned skin and unusual height, he looked as Medalonian as the next man. His father had been a Medalonian human, and besides inheriting his blue eyes, Brak inherited his temper. Although raised among the Harshini, his temper had been his constant enemy. Even the peace that permeated the Harshini settlements had never been able to quell completely his occasional violent outbursts. It was ironic, he sometimes thought, that twenty years of self-imposed exile among humans had taught him more self-control than the centuries he had spent at Sanctuary.
Captain Drendik proved to be a huge blond-bearded Fardohnyan, an unusual feature in a race that tended toward swarthy dark-haired people. There was Hythrun blood in him, Brak guessed, which perhaps explained his willingness to aid the Warlord. His boat was crewed by his two brothers, who were almost as large and blonde as Drendik, although not nearly as broad around the girth. Brak introduced himself as a friend of the Warlord’s, and Drendik seemed happy to take him at his word. He was not running a charity, however, he explained. He could work off his passage north or pay the going rate for a berth. Brak chose to work. Drendik was rather impressed with his seafaring experience so it proved to be a satisfactory arrangement on both sides. The Fardohnyan had no inkling of Brak’s true heritage or his reason for wanting to travel north, and Brak made no effort to offer one.
They sailed from Bordertown on the twentieth day of Margaran into a blustery breeze that pushed the small barge upstream in fits and starts. Drendik predicted it would take almost until midspring to reach Brodenvale. From there, Brak planned to make his way overland to the Citadel to find Lorandranek’s child.
The problem he faced when he reached the Citadel did not bear thinking about. He had no idea if the child, or rather the young adult by now, was male or female. He had no idea what he or she looked like, no idea what his or her name was. He had nothing to go on other than the knowledge the demon child was at the Citadel, a city of thousands of people. It was the very heart of the Sisterhood’s power. Presumably, the child favored its human mother in appearance. It was hard to imagine a Harshini child living in the heart of the Citadel going unremarked. It was quite reasonable to assume then, that the child looked as human as any other young man or woman.
Brak figured there was only one way he was likely to find the child: sheer bloody luck.
chapter 16
The day was as bleak as Jenga’s mood as he headed across the parade ground toward his office to the tattoo of booted feet as a squad of fourth-year Cadets practiced formation marching. The Citadel looked as unchanged as it had yesterday or the day before. The domes and spires still sparkled in the dull light. The Brightening and Dimming still waxed and waned as it had for two millennia or more. Winter was slowly relinquishing its grip on the highlands and soon the plains would bloom with their carpet of spring flowers. But for now, the day was cold and miserable, and Jenga was looking forward to the warmth his office promised. It seemed to have been such a long winter.
The atmosphere in the Citadel had changed dramatically after the fateful Gathering at the beginning of winter that saw Mahina unseated, the first time in living memory such a startling event had occurred. There was an air of tension now that permeated every part of the Citadel from the taverns to the Dormitories, from the Sisters of the Quorum to the lowliest pig-herder.
The Defenders were on constant alert as Joyhinia kept her promise to the Karien Envoy. Daily, red-coated patrols marched or rode out of the Citadel, returning days or weeks later, grim-faced and silent, with wagonloads of helpless-looking prisoners accused of following the heathen gods. Some of them were little more than children. It was obvious to everyone that the Defenders did not agree with the Purge, but the Lord Defender had sworn an oath. Jenga had been forced to discipline more than one of his officers for voicing opinions at odds with the First
