Treason Keep

of respect in the camp, and his opinion would carry a lot of weight with the Lord Defender when it came time to decide her fate. If she could engineer a meeting with him alone, she was certain she could entice him to see things her way. She might even enjoy it.

There were good reasons for avoiding such a dangerous game with Damin Wolfblade. He was a prince of Hythria, for one thing, and while it was perfectly acceptable to entertain oneself with the lower classes, frivolous liaisons between members of the nobility were frowned upon. Such a complication between the heir to the Hythrun throne and the Fardohnyan King’s eldest daughter did not bear thinking about. The most compelling reason, however, was that while Tarja might be seduced by her court’esa-trained skills, Damin would more than likely see straight through them. He probably had a court’esa as a nursemaid.

No, she would not play that game. She would pick the easier target. If only someone would please put the target where she could reach it...

Adrina plotted and planned and rehearsed her story a thousand times, but day after day she was left alone with nothing but Tamylan and her own anxiety for company.

By the time they finally came for her, Adrina was seething. Nothing was going according to plan. She had been locked up, her possessions stolen, her demands ignored and her imagination had had time to devise all sorts of dreadful fates in store for her. When finally a sergeant opened the door, without knocking, to escort her downstairs, she turned on him, fully prepared to give him a piece of her mind.

“I demand to see someone in authority!”

“Certainly, your Highness,” the man replied calmly, although he did not bow. Hardly surprising. These Medalonian peasants had no experience with royalty. “I’m here to take you to Lord Wolfblade.”

“I want to see the Lord Defender!”

“That will be up to Lord Wolfblade, your Highness. You’d better wear this. It’s raining and you’ll ruin that fur.”

Adrina snatched the plain, but serviceable woollen cloak from the man and threw it over her shoulders. She still wore the flimsy court’esa costume and it was ill suited to the bitterly cold chamber. The fur cloak she had brought with her from Karien was the only thing that had kept her from freezing to death.

“If Lord Wolfblade had any manners he would come to me!”

The man smiled, as if her posturing amused him and led the way down into the main hall. Two more Defenders fell in behind as they crossed the hall and stepped outside into a torrential downpour. Even wrapped in the Defender’s cloak, Adrina was drenched in seconds.

She stumbled along beside the Defenders as they walked through the camp, her sodden skirts hampering her steps. The slave collar was cold against her skin and her hair was plastered to her head, the braid slapping wetly against her back with every step. The hem of her skirt was splattered with mud and she was shivering uncontrollably by the time they reached the edge of the neatly laid out Defender’s tents and crossed the open ground between the two camps. She squinted through the rain, trying to pick out any tent that looked as if it belonged to a prince, but there were no banners flying, no obvious declarations of rank. When they finally reached their destination, it proved to be a plain tent, larger than those surrounding it, but bearing nothing to indicate its occupant was of noble blood.

“Wait here,” the Defender ordered as he stepped inside, leaving Adrina standing in the rain.

Adrina fumed, but did as she was told, certain this little expedition was nothing more than an attempt to humiliate her. For the first time in months Adrina found there was someone she hated more than Cratyn.

“Your Highness.” The sergeant reappeared and held back the tent flap for her. Adrina stepped through, glaring at the man to make certain he was aware of her displeasure. The man smiled in return and left her alone with the Warlord.

Damin Wolfblade sat at a small desk, writing something that seemed to take all his concentration. Adrina waited, dripping onto the thick carpet that covered the floor of the tent and looked around. An inviting brazier stood in the centre of the tent and she itched to step closer, but refused to give him the satisfaction. A thick tapestry, of exquisite Hythrun geometrical design, divided the tent in two, concealing the sleeping quarters. Besides the writing desk there was a large table covered in maps against the far wall, and near the brazier, a pile of thick cushions surrounding a small, low table. The Hythrun were fond of sitting on the floor.

She turned her attention to the Warlord then and tried to study him without being obvious. He was a typical Hythrun: tall, blond and well muscled from hours spent in the saddle. But that was the limit of her favourable impressions. He had the distinctive Wolfblade profile and an air about him that reeked of arrogance.

He looked up finally and frowned. He apparently had as low an opinion of her, as she had of him. “Your Highness.”

“My Lord.”

He put down his quill and stood up. “I’m sorry. Is it raining? Please, give me that cloak. You must be freezing.”

Is it raining? She could barely hear herself think over the downpour pounding on the taut, oiled canopy. She shed the cloak, dropping it on the floor behind her, hoping it ruined his damned carpet, and stepped closer to the brazier. Adrina found herself looking up at him. That was disconcerting. She had been able to look Cratyn in the eye.

“Don’t take me for a fool, my Lord. You probably waited until it was pouring before you sent for me! You might find such mindless games amusing, but I merely find them a sign of your inability to grasp the finer points of courtesy regarding the treatment of prisoners of rank.”

Damin looked her up and down, making her very aware of the flimsy, sodden outfit, then shrugged. “I suppose it won’t serve my purpose if you catch pneumonia and die.” He pushed back the tapestry dividing the tent and pulled a woollen shirt and trousers from a trunk. “Get out of that ridiculous costume. It ill suits a woman of your rank, in any case. You can get changed in there.”

Adrina snatched the clothes from him and walked behind the tapestry. She peeled off her wet skirts, deliberately dropping them on the centre of the bed before emerging into the main part of the tent. Her shivering stopped once she was wrapped in the warm shirt, and although it was clean, the faint smell of him lingered on it. The golden collar was icy around her throat.

“Please, sit down.”

Adrina did as he suggested, taking the cushion closest to the fire. Steam rose off her hair as the brazier warmed her. Damin offered her a cup of mulled wine, which she stared at warily.

“It’s not poisoned. We’ve already established that it won’t serve my cause for you to die.”

She took the cup and sipped the wine, the welcome warmth flooding through her. “Your gallantry is overwhelming, sir.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Adrina. I’m being practical, not gallant.”

“You will address me in a manner befitting my station, my Lord. I did not give you leave to address me so informally.”

Damin lowered himself onto the cushions opposite with surprising grace for one so tall. “I’ll address you any way I please, madam. You’ll find few in this camp who care about your station. Your only value at present is your worth as a hostage. That requires that I keep you alive. It does not require me to bow and scrape and cater to your every idiotic whim.”

“In Fardohnya, good manners are not considered an ‘idiotic whim’,” she pointed out frostily.

“I’ll bear that in mind when I next visit Fardohnya. In the meantime, I suggest your curb your tendency to think every person you meet is beneath you. The Medalonians have little patience with nobility. They judge people by their actions, not an accident of birth.”

“Ah! And that’s what you’re doing here, I suppose? You so impressed these atheist peasants with your heroic actions that they could not wait to welcome you into the fold?”

“What I’m doing here is not the issue. The question is, what are you doing here, your Highness.”

“I was going home.”

“You were betraying the Kariens?”

“Don’t be absurd. It is simply that... there are a number of conditions of the Karien-Fardohnyan Treaty that