“I do not ask this of you lightly, Brakandaran, but I have no choice. I cannot take a life, even indirectly. You are the only one who can make the decision.”
“And to think I used to imagine my human blood would never be an asset to the Harshini,” Brak remarked sourly. “Fine. I’ll go out and pick some helpless, worthless human. That should satisfy Death.”
Korandellan’s golden skin paled at his callousness. “It is not that simple. Death demands a soul of equal value.”
“Then I’ll make sure I pick an obnoxious brat. That should even things up.”
“A soul of equal value, Brakandaran. Death drives a hard bargain. He wants a soul whose loss will mean as much to the demon child as her loss will mean to us.”
“Is there a time limit on this absurd bargain, or will the poor sod drop dead the moment I name him?”
Korandellan shook his head in despair. “I cannot comprehend your ability to make light of this, Brakandaran.”
“I’m not making light of anything. I might be capable of making such a decision, Korandellan, but I certainly don’t find it easy. It’s an eminently reasonable question.”
“And one I cannot answer. You will have to ask Death yourself. I’m sure he will be reasonable.”
“Oh! You
“Please, Brakandaran! Do not think to approach Death with such an attitude.”
As a race, the Harshini were a bridge between the gods and mortal man, but it was Korandellan who carried the full weight of that bridge on his shoulders. Brak appreciated his predicament, but found it hard to sympathise, given the burden the King had just handed him.
“Don’t worry. Even I am not
“Of course.” The King smiled faintly and placed his hand on Brak’s shoulder. “You did well to find her, Brak. I know the remorse that fills you seems hard to live with, but ultimately, if she succeeds, R’shiel will free the Harshini. Your actions will have saved your people.”
“All but one,” Brak reminded him grimly.
R’shiel te Ortyn, the demon child who had caused Brak so much anguish – even before she was born – lay not far from Korandellan’s chambers. The room was large and airy, filled with flowers and scented candles, as if the cheery atmosphere could somehow compensate for the battle being waged over her life. Two Harshini sat with her, watching the faint rise and fall of her chest, as if waiting for something to happen. As Brak approached they bowed silently and withdrew, the expectant joy in their black eyes at his coming making him feel unworthy.
She lay on the crisp white sheets wearing a simple robe of pale blue. Her dark red hair had been braided with care and lay coiled on the pillow. She appeared whole and unmarked. As unnaturally perfect as any Harshini.
She was breathing, but barely. Brak watched her for a time then turned to Korandellan.
“You’ve not spoken to her yet?”
“She’s been unconscious since she arrived. Once the... decision is made, Death will release her.”
Brak considered his next words carefully before he spoke. “Korandellan, have you considered the possibility that it might be better if you let Death have her?”
The King’s head snapped up in shock. “Of course not! Why would I do that?”
“She may look Harshini, your Majesty, but this girl is not what she seems. She was raised by the Sisterhood. She is spoilt, manipulative and can be utterly ruthless when she’s in the mood. And those are her good points.”
“If Xaphista prevails, the Harshini will be destroyed.”
“You’ve no guarantee that won’t happen, even if she lives. You don’t know her like I do. Believe me, she’s not the stuff saviours are made of.”
“You don’t like her?”
“I don’t trust her,” he corrected.
The King studied R’shiel for a moment and then looked at Brak. His expression was troubled. “Be that as it may, I cannot let her die. We will not survive long enough for another demon child to reach maturity, even if such a child was born tomorrow. I have no choice.”
“Then the gods help us all,” Brak muttered to himself.
Chapter 2
Her Most Serene Highness, Princess Adrina of Fardohnya, took special care with her appearance this morning. There wasn’t much she could do about the black eye, but she could disguise the rest of her bruises. Her slaves fussed over her nervously, as wary of her foul mood as they were of their uncertain future. Their mistress had done many things in the past to incur the wrath of the King, but last night’s escapade was spectacular, even for Adrina.
“Has anybody seen Tristan?” she snapped, pushing away the young, dark-haired slave who was trying to fix a diaphanous veil to her head with jewelled pins and trembling fingers.
“No, your Highness,” Tamylan replied calmly, relieving the girl of the task. With a firm hand she pinned on the veil. Adrina yelped impatiently.
“Be careful! Where in the Seven Hells is he? I’ll be damned if I’ll take the blame for this alone.”
“I believe Tristan was last seen beating a hasty retreat towards the South Gate, your Highness,” the slave told her, barely able to conceal her amusement. Adrina glared at her in the mirror. Tamylan had been her constant companion since they were children. She had a bad habit of forgetting her place. “I imagine your brother was seized by an overwhelming desire to rejoin his regiment at Lander’s Crossing.”
“Coward,” Adrina muttered. “When I get my hands on him...” She pushed Tamylan away, stood up and glanced at her reflection, satisfied that she had done her best under the circumstances. Her skirt was green, Hablet’s favourite colour, and the deep emerald shade brought out the green in her kohl-darkened eyes, even with the unbecoming bruise. The bodice was a shade or two lighter and edged with delicate pearls, exactly matching the larger pearl that nested in her bare navel. She could do little about her pounding head but she had gargled half a bottle of cologne to rid herself of the sour aftertaste of mead. She smoothed down the skirts nervously and turned to Tamylan. “How do I look?”
“As lovely as ever, your Highness,” the slave assured her. “I’m sure the King will be so overcome by your radiant beauty that he’ll completely overlook the fact that you ran his flagship into the main wharf last night.”
“Tamylan, have I told you that you’re dangerously close to pushing me too far?” She was no mood for Tamylan’s eternal good humour. She wasn’t in the mood for much of anything. She just wanted to crawl back into her bed and hide under the covers until her father forgot about her.
“Not for an hour, at least, your Highness.”
A knock at the door saved Tamylan from a tongue-lashing. Gretta, the slave who had been so carefully trying to fix her hair, answered it hastily. The young girl bowed low as Lecter Turon, the King’s Chamberlain, entered, scurrying out of his way as he waddled into the room.
The Chamberlain mopped his perpetually sweating bald head and bowed to Adrina. “The King is waiting for you, your Highness,” the eunuch announced in his gratingly high-pitched voice. “I have come to escort you.”
“I know the way, Turon. I hardly need an obsequious little toad like you to guide me.”
“Your Serene Highness, I speak the truth when I say that never have I looked forward to a duty more.” He was positively beaming at the prospect of her trying to explain her way out of this one.
Adrina decided not to dignify his jibe with a reply. She flounced past him in a swirl of emerald skirts and marched into the hall, snapping her head up haughtily. That was a mistake. The hangover she was trying to ignore objected violently to the sudden movement and sent a wave of blinding pain across her forehead. She strode ahead; not waiting for Turon, deliberately taking long strides, knowing the tubby little eunuch would have to run to catch up. It was petty, but he deserved it for taking so much pleasure in her misfortune. Servants and slaves scurried out of her path as she marched through the long black and white tiled halls of the Summer Palace.
It took nearly twenty minutes to reach her father’s reception room, and Turon panted heavily in her wake.
