Harshini

“And do you remember when you stopped feeling that way about her?”

“I only remember waking up in a wagon with a head full of memories I thought were simply nightmares, at first.”

“It sounds like a geas,” she said thoughtfully.

“A what?”

“A geas. A spell, if you like.”

“Magic? Oh, well that's just bloody wonderful!” he snarled.

“Look, I'm no expert, but it seems the only logical explanation.”

“Mandah, where I come from you don't use the words magic and logic in the same sentence.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive, Tarja.”

“I'm sorry, Mandah, but I don't hold with your belief in the powers of the gods. You'll have to come up with a better explanation if you're trying to make me feel better.”

“I would have thought you'd seen enough to believe in their power by now, Tarja. Your determination to ignore what you've witnessed with your own eyes is just as illogical as you pretend my faith in the gods is.”

Tarja had a bad feeling he was stepping onto dangerous ground discussing theology with Mandah. “Look, even if I conceded that such a thing was possible, why would they bother? And why, if they did put a... what did you call it... a geas, on me, would they take it off again?”

Mandah thought for a moment before answering. “Do you know how R'shiel healed you, Tarja?”

“She used her Harshini magic.”

“That's true. The same magic you claim you don't believe in. But you may not know the whole of it. You were possessed by demons. They melded to form the blood you lost while you recovered.”

“Demons? Founders! I had a demon-meld inside me? How do you know that?”

“R'shiel told me. She wasn't sure what it would do to you. I think it destroyed the geas.”

He shook his head and stared back at the map. This was too incredible, too fantastic to be real.

“That's what it sounds like to me,” Mandah persisted. “The gods sometimes put a geas on a person, to make them act the way they want. The demon-meld might have broken it, which is why you woke up thinking you could never have felt that way about R'shiel. And why you never questioned how you felt about her while the geas was on you.”

“Why would anybody, god or man, put a spell on me to make me love R'shiel?”

Mandah shrugged. “Who can guess the mind of a god? But think about what has happened since then. Would you have rescued her from the Grimfield? Or from the Kariens? Would you have done half of what you did, if you were not driven to keep her by your side? Perhaps it was the gods' way of protecting R'shiel.”

“I am getting pretty bloody sick of your gods, Mandah.”

She smiled. “You have served them remarkably well for an atheist.”

“I wasn't planning to serve them at all.”

“One cannot avoid one's destiny, Tarja, and like it or not, you are tied to the demon child.” She smiled comfortingly. “Try not to let it bother you. If it was a geas, then you're not responsible for how you felt about her. You shouldn't feel guilty for feeling that way, or that you don't feel that way any longer.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let it go, Tarja. And get some sleep.”

“Later,” he promised, turning back to the map.

Mandah hesitated for a moment, perhaps hoping he would confide in her further, but he had already said more than he intended. After a while he heard the door snick shut behind her as she let herself out of the cellar.

Once she was gone, Tarja swore softly under his breath for a time, cursing every pagan god he could name.

CHAPTER 16

In the days that followed the news of the death of High Prince Lernen, all of Krakandar seemed to be in turmoil. The streets were draped with black and the gongs in the temples rang almost constantly, tolling the death of the High Prince. At night the city was a blaze of light as the citizens placed candles and lanterns at their doors to show Lernen's soul the way to the underworld, should he stumble into their street on his journey there. After three houses caught fire in the Beggars' Quarter, Damin declared the official mourning period at an end. He understood his subjects' need to follow tradition, but he didn't want his city burned to the ground for the sake of a man that very few genuinely lamented.

Rogan Bearbow, the Warlord of Izcomdar, had delivered the news. His province bordered Damin's to the south and although the two had never been close, he was politically astute enough to ride north to Krakandar to see if Damin was in residence, before choosing which side he would take. That he would eventually have to choose a side, Damin was certain. Along with the news that Lernen had been dead for close on a month came the news that Cyrus Eaglespike, the Warlord of Dregian Province, had laid claim to the High Prince's crown. Apparently his ambitions had grown from merely removing Damin from Krakandar.

Marla was livid when she heard the news, but Narvell was unsurprised. Cyrus was a distant cousin and had often remarked in the past that should anything happen to Damin or Narvell, he was next in line for the throne. It seemed now that he hadn't been joking. Damin was less worried than he might have been otherwise, knowing that regardless of Cyrus' tenuous claim to the High Prince's mantle, he had the demon child on his side.

Just how useful an ally she was became evident the first time she met Rogan Bearbow. Older by several years than Damin, he was a tall, aloof man, who ran his province with harsh efficiency and kept the other Warlords at bay by lining his highways with the crucified bodies of any enemy Raiders foolish enough to cross his borders.

R'shiel had entered the Great Hall with Adrina at her side. Amidst the courtiers crowded into the hall standing in small clusters discussing the implications of the High Prince's death, her skin-tight leathers looked out of place. R'shiel did not seem to care. She strode purposefully towards Damin, leaving Adrina to follow at a more dignified pace.

“Is it true?” she asked, interrupting his conversation with Rogan.

Damin nodded. “Rogan had a messenger bird from Greenharbour nearly ten days ago.”

R'shiel turned on the Warlord. “Why did you take so long to send word?”

“Excuse me, young woman, but who are you to question me?”

“I'm sorry, Rogan, I forget my manners,” Damin said distractedly. He was watching Adrina out of the corner of his eye as she approached them, terrified she might do or say something that would embarrass, or worse, endanger them all. “Rogan Bearbow, Warlord of Izcomdar, allow me to introduce Her Royal Highness, R'shiel te Ortyn, the demon child.”

“The demon child? This is some sort of jest, yes?”

“This is some sort of jest, no,” R'shiel retorted. “What's happening, Damin?”

Before he could answer, Adrina reached them. To his astonishment, she curtsied solemnly before him. “My condolences on the loss of your uncle, Your Highness, and my congratulations on your elevation.”

Damin stared at her in surprise. There was not a trace of sarcasm in her tone, nor a hint of irony. She stood up and met his gaze, her expression grave.

“And who is this delightful creature?” Rogan asked, quite impressed by her regal bearing.

“This, Lord Bearbow, is my wife, the Princess Adrina.”

Adrina smiled demurely at the Warlord and offered him her hand. He bowed and kissed her palm in the traditional manner, studying her closely.

“You are not Hythrun, I judge, Your Highness.”