Loclon had volunteered for crowd duty, rather than riding in the parade. He had managed to get himself placed in command of the guards around the Hall and was well positioned on the steps, just below Sister Harith and the remainder of the Quorum. Thunder rumbled overhead and the clouds seemed low enough to touch. Loclon fretted at the time it was taking the noisy floats to move down the street. There was no sign of the First Sister.
The last float was rounding the corner of the Administration Hall when the skies opened. The Quorum hurriedly moved back under the shelter of the entrance to the Hall while the crowd dived for whatever cover they could find. Many simply turned and fled, running with cloaks held over their heads to escape the downpour. Loclon stayed at his post, drenched by the icy rain, barely even noticing it in his impatience.
There was a moment of anticipation as the crowd waited, but the rain was a significant deterrent. If the First Sister’s carriage did not arrive soon, there would be nobody left to greet her. Loclon watched the crowd thin with dismay. He had hoped to get to the half-breed in the crush, but soon there would be nobody left but him. He glanced at his men who looked desperate to find shelter, warning them with a look, of the consequences should anybody presume to break ranks. Sister Harith and the Quorum were conferring under the meagre eaves of the Hall. With another glance down the street in the direction of the Main Gate, they vanished inside.
The departure of the Quorum signalled the end of the festivities as far as the rest of the citizens were concerned. Within minutes the street was all but deserted and Loclon no longer had an excuse to keep his men standing in the rain. He muttered a curse and turned to dismiss them as the First Sister’s retinue arrived.
His men hastily stood to attention as the outriders appeared, followed by a closed carriage with the shutters pulled tight against the downpour. Loclon could feel his heart beating faster as the carriage drew to a halt, waiting to catch sight of her. His hand caressed the hilt of his knife, ready to draw it in an instant to kill the half-breed. He had no fear of the consequences. Once a dead Harshini lay at the First Sister’s feet, he would be a hero.
“Loclon! What in the name of the Founders are you doing out in this! Get those men out of here!”
He started at the anger in Garet Warner’s voice.
“We were waiting for the First Sister, sir! To see if we could be of any assistance!”
The commandant was as sodden as Loclon as he dismounted, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. “Don’t be absurd! The First Sister has her own men. Dismiss your men, Captain.”
“But sir...”
“I said, dismiss your men!”
Loclon did as he was ordered and watched helplessly as Joyhinia’s guard gathered around the carriage to help the First Sister down. One of them held a cloak over her head, to shield her from the rain as another sister disembarked. Although the deluge obscured his vision, Loclon could have sworn it was Mahina Cortanen. He waited for a moment longer, but a dark-haired woman and Lord Draco seemed to be the only other passengers.
He looked about desperately, but there was no sign of R’shiel, or the half-breed he was supposed to kill. The First Sister was hurried inside and the remainder of the Defenders headed gratefully for the stables with the carriage and the horses.
Loclon stood in the rain, cursing softly.
Chapter 42
Brak and R’shiel waited in the shelter of the gatehouse for the better part of an hour before following the First Sister into the Citadel. Brak had drawn a glamour over them and their horses, so that the guards sheltering from the rain did not notice their presence. It did not make them invisible, but the guards’attention slid off them like water off an oiled cape. R’shiel braided and unbraided her reins nervously as the rain hammered down and they waited on Bhren, the God of Storms, to finish the task R’shiel had asked of him.
Brak had never had much luck communicating with the Storm God. Bhren was a solitary spirit with cares on a global scale. The insignificant problems of humans seldom touched him. But he had come when Lorandranek had called him and had responded just as promptly when his daughter had asked his help. Brak glanced at the water sheeting down from the low clouds, then looked at R’shiel with concern.
“You did tell him we just wanted a storm, didn’t you, not a global catastrophe?”
“It’ll stop soon,” she assured him, although she did not sound convinced.
The rain had been Lord Draco’s idea, conceived five nights ago in Cauthside while they waited on the ferry to take them across the Glass River. Their method of gaining entrance into the Citadel, without Joyhinia being immediately overwhelmed by the long list of people who required an audience with her, had been a matter for hot debate.
Garet Warner insisted that if Joyhinia was thought to be sneaking back into the Citadel, suspicions would be immediately aroused. She had to enter in a manner befitting her station. It was expected. But they could not risk someone speaking to Joyhinia. Her response was likely to be a childish giggle. And they certainly could not risk her in front of a crowd.
R’shiel had wanted to use the demon meld, but even Dranymire had baulked at that suggestion. The demons had been practising their meld, but it took a lot out of them and the Gathering was still to be faced. Brak had suggested a glamour, but that did not solve the problem of Joyhinia being seen publicly. A glamour would conceal her and that brought them back to the problem of sneaking into the Citadel.
It was Draco who had remarked that it was a pity they couldn’t arrange for it to be raining. No matter how important the personage, nobody would hang about, cold and wet, for a glimpse of the First Sister – and neither would they expect the First Sister to stand about waving to them. R’shiel had glanced at Brak with that dangerous light her in eyes that he was coming to associate with the demon child having an idea he knew he wouldn’t like.
“You could ask Bhren.”
“The Storm God is not like Dacendaran, R’shiel. He spends little time worrying about the Harshini, and even less time thinking about humans. The only Harshini I knew who could get any sense out of him was Lorandranek.” He regretted saying it the moment he uttered the words.
“Maybe I could ask him?”
“Ask who, what?” Garet demanded.
“Ask the God of Storms to make it rain the day we arrive at the Citadel.”
Garet stared at her for a moment then shook his head. “I don’t want to know about this.” He rose from the table in the Heart and Hearth tavern and took the stairs to his room two at a time.
Draco watched him go and then turned back to Brak and R’shiel. “He is uncomfortable with your gods.”
“And you’re not?” R’shiel shot back. She did not like Draco. Tarja’s father had been Joyhinia’s creature for thirty years. He had ordered the murder of R’shiel’s family and the village where she was born, and he had been quite prepared to put his own son, R’shiel, and three hundred rebels to the sword at Joyhinia’s command. But the man reeked of regret. In many ways he was like Lord Jenga – honourable to the point of foolishness. One mistake had set him on a path so far from his original destination that he was almost completely lost. The man was trying to claw his way back, to somehow make amends, but neither Tarja nor R’shiel was ready to forgive him. Brak trusted him more than Garet Warner. Garet had his own agenda. All Draco wanted was redemption.
“I’ve seen enough to believe your gods exist, R’shiel, although I do not worship them.”
“You’re more adept at turning on your own kind, you mean,” R’shiel snarled. Brak laid a restraining hand on her arm.
“Stop trying to pick a fight, R’shiel.”
Surprisingly, she did as he asked. Deliberately excluding Draco she turned to him questioningly. “How do I speak to Bhren?”
“Very carefully,” Brak had replied, only half jokingly.
“See, I told you it would stop!”
