“How could you not want it?” she asked, genuinely puzzled by his lack of ambition.
“Not everybody shares your desire to wear a crown, Adrina,” he told her. “Anyway, you were furious at me for being the heir to the throne. Now you're angry because I'm not. Make up your mind.”
She glared at him for a moment then flopped inelegantly into the chair on the other side of the desk. “I'm in no mood to be reasonable, Damin. Fight with me.”
“I will,” he promised, “when the occasion warrants it. But in this case, it's not worth it. I've got my hands full holding onto to Hythria. I don't need your father's kingdom as well. The whole idea of splitting Fardohnya and Hythria in the first place was because they were impossible to govern as one nation.”
“We could have done it,” she grumbled.
“We? Ah, so that's what this is all about. If I don't become the King of Fardohnya, you don't get to be Queen. I'm sorry, but you'll just have to settle for being the High Princess of Hythria.”
She smiled faintly, as if she understood how childishly she was behaving. “You have no idea how good it would have felt to return to Fardohnya as her Queen. My father sold me like a side of beef to the Kariens because that's all I was worth to him. And for no better reason than I was born a girl. It didn't matter how clever, or well educated, or politically astute I was.”
“Personally, I think your political acumen had a lot to do with it,” he suggested. “You are far too clever for a disinherited Princess. If I was in your father's position, I'd have shipped you off to a temple somewhere when you were five.”
“I think he wishes he had,” she agreed. “But there's more to this than me losing my chance to revenge myself on my father, Damin. Do you know what's going to happen once this child is born?”
He shrugged. “You mean other than a very big party?”
“Once my father has an heir, he will remove any threat to the child's claim on the throne.”
“But there are no other claimants to the throne.”
“I have thirteen living baseborn brothers, Damin. Hablet was quite prepared to legitimise one of them if he couldn't get a son. Each of them is a potential threat.”
Damin looked at her aghast. “Are you telling me he'll kill his own children?”
“He'll kill them and not lose a moment's sleep over it. This may be hard for you to understand - Hablet loves every one of his bastards - but they know as well as he does what fate will befall them should he produce a legitimate heir.”
“You're right. I don't understand.”
“It's tradition. When Hablet was born, his father had seventeen baseborn children and his three unmarried daughters put to death. When my father took the throne, every pregnant concubine and court'esa in the harem was executed. His own sister committed suicide as proof of her love for him. She was hailed as a heroine.”
“And you call me a barbarian.”
She shrugged, helpless to make him understand. “It's the Fardohnyan way.”
“Then I'm glad I won't ever have to sit on a throne that is soaked in so much innocent blood.”
“Don't you see the irony? You would never have countenanced such slaughter. I think that irks me more than anything else does. We could have put an end to that dreadful custom.” She rose to her feet and smiled at him sadly. “I'm sorry to burden you with this, now. I know you have a lot to do. Is Gaffen back yet?”
Damin nodded. “He arrived back with Narvell this morning.”
“Then I'll go find him and leave you in peace. As soon as I've slapped him around a few times for being such a pig to me when he arrived, I shall endeavour to make the most of what little time we have left together.”
Adrina walked to the door, leaving Damin staring at her back. It wasn't learning of the fate awaiting her siblings that disturbed him as much as her quiet acceptance of its inevitability.
“Adrina, wait!”
She turned and looked at him questioningly.
“If you can't be Queen, would you settle for Regent?”
“Regent of Fardohnya? How?”
“Your father's how old? Sixty? Sixty-five?” he asked, suddenly excited as the idea formed in his mind. “He'll live another ten years, perhaps, less if we're lucky. His son won't be old enough to take the throne when he dies.”
“He would never appoint me Regent.”
“He will if we make him an offer he can't refuse.”
“Like what?” she asked suspiciously.
“I'll renounce the Wolfblade claim on the Fardohnyan throne. I'll remove forever the threat of Fardohnya having a Hythrun King.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “And in return, he appoints me Regent? You know, that may actually work. But what of your plans for unity between Fardohnya and Hythria?”
“That will be up to you. This child will be as much your brother as Gaffen is. If you manage to get along with him half as well as you do with your bastard siblings, there'll be no danger of war between us. For that matter, he'll only be a few months younger than our child. If we're smart about this, they'll grow up the best of friends.”
“And you'd do this? You'd renounce a throne for me?” She appeared to be putting a rather romantic slant on something he considered a coldly rational and practical course of action. But he didn't correct her.
“Yes. I'd renounce a throne for you, Adrina.”
With a sob, she ran to him, threw her arms around his neck and buried her head in his shoulder. He could feel the slight swell of her belly pressing against him.
“Gods, you're not crying, are you?”
Adrina sniffed and looked up at him with glistening eyes. “No.”
He gently wiped a tear from her cheek. “If I'd known this was going to reduce you to tears, I wouldn't have suggested it.”
“Nobody ever loved me enough to renounce a throne for me, Damin.”
“That probably has more to do with lack of opportunity, rather than you being unloved,” he told her with a smile.
“Can't you be serious? Even when I'm trying to be nice to you?”
“I'm sorry. You bring out the worst in me.”
She kissed him then leaned back in his arms with a sigh. “I don't like admitting it, but I suppose I must feel something for you, Damin Wolfblade.”
“Well, I won't tell if you don't,” Damin promised with a smile.
PART 3
HOMECOMING
CHAPTER 35
The high plains of Medalon were a riot of colour, caught in the burgeoning grip of spring. R'shiel reined in her horse and studied the scattered clouds that dotted the pale blue sky. Wildflowers carpeted the plains, and the day was so mild she had shed her cloak some leagues back. As the tall white towers of the Citadel appeared in the distance an odd feeling came over her and she found herself strangely reluctant to go on.
“What's the matter?”
She shrugged and leaned forward to pat the neck of her gelding. He was a sturdy, deep-chested grey they had purchased in Vanahiem. R'shiel missed the magnificent speed and stamina of the Hythrun horses she had grown accustomed to riding, but he had been a reliable mount, if more stolid than spirited.
“I'm scared, I think,” she admitted, thoughtfully. “I wasn't expecting that.”
“You're only half-Harshini, R'shiel,” Brak reminded her. “You'll find your human emotions have a nasty habit of jumping out and biting you at the most inopportune moments. What were you expecting to feel?”
“I'm not sure. Some overpowering sense of righteousness, I suppose.”
Brak laughed sourly. “You have a lot to learn, demon child.”