“Sir?”
“You heard me!”
With a puzzled look, the captain nodded and wheeled his mount around. Cyrus turned back to R'shiel, his expression a mixture of contempt and fear.
“Satisfied?”
“For now,” R'shiel agreed, although she did not let go of the power. The dome was fading fast, its light failing as fatigue consumed the Harshini holding it in place. Now she was drawing on her own power, she was even more aware of the drain on the Harshini inside. A few more minutes and they would have to let it go completely. She bit her bottom lip in frustration, wishing she knew how to lend them her strength. Brak and her tutors at Sanctuary had never taught her how. Perhaps they had not thought she would ever need a reason to link her power to another Harshini. Or maybe she couldn't link with a Harshini unless they were a te Ortyn like her... Maybe it was too dangerous... She shook her head to clear it of the useless thoughts and turned her attention back to the matter at hand. What she could and couldn't do with her power was a problem for some other time. Right now it was enough that Cyrus believed she knew what she was doing. “Aren't you supposed to have some sort of election to confirm the new High Prince?”
“The Convocation would already be under way, but for the interference of the Harshini, who prevented us entering the Sorcerers' Palace.”
“You can't hold a Convocation without all seven Warlords,” Damin pointed out.
“Actually, cousin, I merely need a majority.”
“Which you don't have,” Narvell reminded him.
“A situation that will be remedied as soon as Tejay Lionsclaw arrives.” Cyrus looked to Rogan with a frown. “I see you have chosen whose bed to lie in, Lord Bearbow. I'll remember your choice when I'm High Prince.”
“That's an empty threat, Lord Eaglespike. You don't have the numbers.”
Cyrus smiled with oily contempt. “You might be surprised, my Lord.”
The two men glared at each other like lions facing each other over a recent kill. R'shiel sighed impatiently.
“Founders! I've had enough of this! Damin, how soon can we hold this Convocation?”
Damin didn't answer her. He was glaring at Cyrus with such venom that R'shiel was afraid he was going to call his cousin out, right here in the plaza. Despite how satisfying it would be to witness him beat the arrogance out of Cyrus, she knew this had to be resolved legally. Damin could vent his anger later, once he was High Prince.
“Damin!”
“What?”
“I said, how soon can we hold this Convocation?”
“As soon as Lady Lionsclaw arrives.”
“Fine. Send someone to fetch her. In the meantime, I want every Raider off the streets. The Collective can go back to guarding the city. I assume you all have sufficient control over your men that you can keep them out of trouble until this is sorted out?”
Cyrus opened his mouth to object then decided against it as R'shiel turned her black-eyed gaze on him.
“Very well, we have a truce until the Convocation,” he agreed reluctantly. “But don't think this has changed anything!”
“Damin?”
“A truce,” he agreed, almost as reluctantly as Cyrus.
“Fine, that's settled then. Now get rid of these soldiers!”
“This is not finished, demon child!” Cyrus hauled his reins around sharply, taking his anger out on his horse as he rode at a brisk canter back to his men. Behind him, the dome of light wavered and shimmered brightly for a moment, as if sprinkled with a billion tiny stars, then it faded away to nothing as the Harshini finally succumbed to exhaustion.
“That was close,” Narvell muttered.
“We'll sort him out soon enough, brother,” Damin promised savagely.
“Aye,” Rogan agreed. “And the more painfully the better.”
R'shiel glared at them impatiently. “You're all as bad as each other,” she snapped, then turned her horse and continued towards the Sorcerers' Collective - and hopefully the answers she sought.
CHAPTER 21
The weather was bitterly cold as Tarja and his squad rode north as hard as they could push their horses without them foundering. The small band of saboteurs made good time retracing their journey of a few weeks ago, staying close to the Glass River, camping at night under whatever meagre shelter they could find. Their good fortune lasted until a day south of Cauthside, when a savage thunderstorm forced them to take shelter in an abandoned boathouse next to the remains of a small dock jutting precariously into the swift flowing water.
When they arrived, Tarja found a surprise for which he was completely unprepared. The boathouse was already occupied by a score or more Fardohnyans; the remnants of Adrina's Guard who had fled the border with them. Damin had given them supplies and maps, and ordered the Guard to make for Fardohnya weeks ago. What they were doing here, this far north, when they should have been almost home by now, completely baffled Tarja. Getting the story out of them proved something of a trial too, as none of the Fardohnyans spoke Medalonian, and nobody in his troop had more than a passing acquaintance with their native language. In the end, they conversed in Karien, as it proved the only language they had in common.
Second Lanceman Filip, the young man who had surrendered the Guard to Damin on the northern border, told the story. They had taken Damin's advice and headed for Cauthside and the ferry there, only to discover the town crammed with refugees. Not only could they not converse with anyone in the town, their mere presence had caused no end of trouble, some people mistaking them for Kariens. Explaining they were Fardohnyan, not Karien, had done little to help their cause. The townsfolk had turned on them. They'd been forced to fight their way clear of the town rather than risk the remainder of their small band in a civil riot. Filip and his men were now hiding in the boathouse while they waited for their wounded to recover sufficiently so they could continue south to Testra and attempt to cross the river there. They had lost three men getting out of Cauthside.
Tarja allowed the men to light a fire with what dry fuel they could find, satisfied that the weather offered them adequate protection from accidental discovery. The fire cheered the troop considerably. Even the Fardohnyans seemed a little more spirited. They sat around the small blaze, his own men discussing tactics and speculating on what their captain had in mind, the Fardohnyans talking softly among themselves.
Tarja stood by the small window looking out over the dark water, uncaring of the rain that splattered his face. He could hear the low murmur of conversation over the storm outside and knew he would have to decide quickly what to do with the Fardohnyans. It was also time to tell his troop what he was planning.
Mandah was still the only person in his small squad who knew exactly what he had in mind. She was right when she claimed that she knew how to behave with the careless arrogance of a Sister of the Blade. Disguised as a Blue Sister she had commandeered the ferry in Vanahiem with remarkable ease. He hoped she could do the same in Cauthside with as little effort.
Before he acquired an additional twenty-four Fardohnyans, the plan had been to burn the ferry then swim to safety. If the rain kept up like this, they would have no chance of burning anything. Nor would they be able to risk swimming the river.
“Tarja?”
He turned as Mandah walked up beside him, hugging a borrowed Defender's cloak around her against the cold. She reeked of damp wool, her fair hair hanging limp and wet against her head, yet her eyes were bright with the excitement of the adventure.
“You should stay near the fire and dry off,” he told her.
“I'll be all right. I've been checking the Fardohnyan wounded. The one in the corner with the belly wound, I'll
