And yet, so far, the roses thrived. Of all things Drada had yet encountered on this cruel world, the rose alone found a place in his feelings. He could sit and gaze at them for hours, their beauty calming his mind and allowing him to focus on his problems and plans.
As he had on so many such afternoons, Drada pushed his way through the trailing undergrowth to a rock-pool fringed with wooden benches. Unclipping the brooch that fastened his red cloak, he chose the west-facing bench and sat in the sunshine.
Unwilling to incur Asbidag’s displeasure, he had spent the morning watching the flaying of Martellus. The scene had been an unpleasant distraction to the young Aenir warrior; he had seen men flayed before, indeed had witnessed more barbarous acts. And they bored him. But then most of what life had to offer ultimately left Drada bored. It seemed to the young warrior that the journey from birth screech to death rattle was no more than a meaningless series of transient pleasures and pain, culminating at last in the frustration of missed moments and lost opportunities.
He thought of his father and grinned wolfishly. Asbidag, the destroyer of nations, the bringer of blood. The most brutish warrior of a generation of warriors. He had nothing to offer the world, save ceaseless agony and destruction. He had no genuine thoughts of empire, for it was alien to him to consider building anything of worth. He lived to fight and kill, dreaming only of the day when at last he would be summoned to the hall of the Grey God to recite the litany of his conquests.
Drada shivered, though the sun was warm.
Asbidag had sired eleven sons. Three had died in other wars, one had been strangled by Asbidag soon after birth during a row with the mother. She had died less easily.
Now seven sons remained. And what a brood, cast as they were in the image of their father.
Of them all Drada hated Tostig the most. A vile man of immense power, Tostig possessed all the innate cruelty of the natural coward. A pederast who could only gratify himself by killing the victims of his lust. One day I will kill you, thought Drada. When Father is dead. I will kill you all. No, he thought. Not all. I will spare Orsa the Baresark, for he has no ambition, and despite his frenzy in battle, carries no hate.
Drada leaned his head back, closing his eyes against the bright sunlight.
“So this is where you plan your campaigns.”
Drada opened his eyes. “Welcome, lady. Please join me.” He didn’t like to be disturbed here, but with Morgase he was careful to mask his feelings.
As always she was dressed in black, this time a shimmering gown of silk and satin. Her dark hair was braided, hanging over one marble-white shoulder. She sat beside him, draping her arm along the back of the bench, her fingers hovering near his neck. “Always so courteous, Drada. A rare thing among the Aenir.”
“My father sent me away as a child to the court of Rhias. I was brought up there.”
“You were a hostage?”
“More a viper in the bosom of a future enemy.”
“I see.” Her hand dropped to his shoulder, squeezing the firm flesh of his upper arm. “Why do you not like me?” she asked, her bright eyes mocking him.
“I do not dislike you,” he countered, with an easy lie. “But let us assume that I made love to you here and now. By tonight my bloody corpse would be alongside the unfortunate Martellus.”
“Perhaps,” she said, interest fading from her eyes. She took her hand from his shoulder and glanced around the garden. “A pretty place.”
“Yes.”
“Are you planning a war against the clans?”
“They are not the enemy.”
“Come now, Drada, do you think I never talk with your father? Do you see me merely as a mistress? Someone who shares only his bed?”
“No, lady.”
“Then tell me.”
“I am planning for our visit to the Farlain. We have been invited to view the Games.”
“How dull.”
“Indeed it is,” he agreed.
“Tell me, then, if you were planning a war against the clans, how would you go about it?”
“This is a game?”
“Why not?”
“Very well. First tell me how you would plan it, lady, and then I shall add my own refinements.”
“Are you always this cautious?”
“Always,” he said, smiling.
She leaned back, closing her eyes as she relaxed in thought. She was beautiful but Drada instantly quelled the desire that surged within him. It confused him momentarily, for in the six months she had been with Asbidag, Drada had never been attracted to her. Her eyes flickered open and the answer came to him. There was something reptilian in those eyes. He shuddered.
“Extermination,” she said triumphantly.
“Explain,” he whispered.
“Conquering a city can be considered in a number of ways. You may desire to take over the existing enterprise of that city; therefore you would take it with a minimum loss of life and make the inhabitants your servants. In this way you would merely transfer ownership of the enterprise. But with the clans it is a different matter. The Aenir desire only the land, and obviously the livestock. But not the people. They are a wild race, they would not tolerate serfdom. Therefore an invasion against the Farlain would be a prelude to the extermination of the people.”
“You would not advocate taking the women as slaves?” asked Drada.
“No. Use them by all means to satisfy the lusts of the warriors, but then kill them. Kill all the clans. Then the land is truly Aenir.”
“That is fine as the object of the war. How would you go about invasion?”
“I don’t know the terrain, and therefore could not supply answers to logistical problems,” said Morgase.
“Neither do I.”
“And that is why you plan so carefully for your visit to their Games?”
“You speak of logistical problems, Morgase. You have been involved in the planning of war?”
“Are you surprised?”
He considered the question for a moment. “No, I am not.”
“Good. We should be friends, Drada, for we have much in common.”
“It would appear so, lady.”
“Tell me then, as a friend, what do you think of me?”
“I think you are intelligent and beautiful.”
“Don’t speak the obvious,” she snapped. “Speak the truth.”
“I do not know enough about you to form a stronger opinion. Before today I thought you were merely an attractive woman, bright enough, who had seduced my father. Now I must think again.”
“Indeed you must. For I have plans of my own-great plans. And you can help me.”
“How so?”
“First the Aenir must take the Farlain. Then we will talk.”
“Why is that so important? You have no dealings with the clans; they can mean nothing to you.”
“But then, my dear Drada, you do not know all that I know. There is a prize within the Farlain beyond the understanding of lesser mortals: the gateway to empires beyond counting.”
“How do you know this?”
“It is enough that I know.”
“What do you seek, Morgase?”
Her eyes glittered and she laughed, reaching out to stroke his bearded face. “I seek revenge, my handsome thinker. Simply that, for now.”
“On whom?”
“On a woman who murdered my father and ordered my mother raped. A woman who stole an empire that
