She lay on the crisp white sheets wearing a simple robe of pale blue. Her dark red hair had been braided with care and lay coiled on the pillow. She appeared whole and unmarked. As unnaturally perfect as any Harshini.
She was breathing, but barely. Brak watched her for a time then turned to Korandellan.
“You’ve not spoken to her yet?”
“She’s been unconscious since she arrived. Once the... decision is made, Death will release her.”
Brak considered his next words carefully before he spoke. “Korandellan, have you considered the possibility that it might be better if you let Death have her?”
The King’s head snapped up in shock. “Of course not! Why would I do that?”
“She may look Harshini, your Majesty, but this girl is not what she seems. She was raised by the Sisterhood. She is spoilt, manipulative and can be utterly ruthless when she’s in the mood. And those are her good points.”
“If Xaphista prevails, the Harshini will be destroyed.”
“You’ve no guarantee that won’t happen, even if she lives. You don’t know her like I do. Believe me, she’s not the stuff saviours are made of.”
“You don’t like her?”
“I don’t trust her,” he corrected.
The King studied R’shiel for a moment and then looked at Brak. His expression was troubled. “Be that as it may, I cannot let her die. We will not survive long enough for another demon child to reach maturity, even if such a child was born tomorrow. I have no choice.”
“Then the gods help us all,” Brak muttered to himself.
Chapter 2
Her Most Serene Highness, Princess Adrina of Fardohnya, took special care with her appearance this morning. There wasn’t much she could do about the black eye, but she could disguise the rest of her bruises. Her slaves fussed over her nervously, as wary of her foul mood as they were of their uncertain future. Their mistress had done many things in the past to incur the wrath of the King, but last night’s escapade was spectacular, even for Adrina.
“Has anybody seen Tristan?” she snapped, pushing away the young, dark-haired slave who was trying to fix a diaphanous veil to her head with jewelled pins and trembling fingers.
“No, your Highness,” Tamylan replied calmly, relieving the girl of the task. With a firm hand she pinned on the veil. Adrina yelped impatiently.
“Be careful! Where in the Seven Hells is he? I’ll be damned if I’ll take the blame for this alone.”
“I believe Tristan was last seen beating a hasty retreat towards the South Gate, your Highness,” the slave told her, barely able to conceal her amusement. Adrina glared at her in the mirror. Tamylan had been her constant companion since they were children. She had a bad habit of forgetting her place. “I imagine your brother was seized by an overwhelming desire to rejoin his regiment at Lander’s Crossing.”
“Coward,” Adrina muttered. “When I get my hands on him...” She pushed Tamylan away, stood up and glanced at her reflection, satisfied that she had done her best under the circumstances. Her skirt was green, Hablet’s favourite colour, and the deep emerald shade brought out the green in her kohl-darkened eyes, even with the unbecoming bruise. The bodice was a shade or two lighter and edged with delicate pearls, exactly matching the larger pearl that nested in her bare navel. She could do little about her pounding head but she had gargled half a bottle of cologne to rid herself of the sour aftertaste of mead. She smoothed down the skirts nervously and turned to Tamylan. “How do I look?”
“As lovely as ever, your Highness,” the slave assured her. “I’m sure the King will be so overcome by your radiant beauty that he’ll completely overlook the fact that you ran his flagship into the main wharf last night.”
“Tamylan, have I told you that you’re dangerously close to pushing me too far?” She was no mood for Tamylan’s eternal good humour. She wasn’t in the mood for much of anything. She just wanted to crawl back into her bed and hide under the covers until her father forgot about her.
“Not for an hour, at least, your Highness.”
A knock at the door saved Tamylan from a tongue-lashing. Gretta, the slave who had been so carefully trying to fix her hair, answered it hastily. The young girl bowed low as Lecter Turon, the King’s Chamberlain, entered, scurrying out of his way as he waddled into the room.
The Chamberlain mopped his perpetually sweating bald head and bowed to Adrina. “The King is waiting for you, your Highness,” the eunuch announced in his gratingly high-pitched voice. “I have come to escort you.”
“I know the way, Turon. I hardly need an obsequious little toad like you to guide me.”
“Your Serene Highness, I speak the truth when I say that never have I looked forward to a duty more.” He was positively beaming at the prospect of her trying to explain her way out of this one.
Adrina decided not to dignify his jibe with a reply. She flounced past him in a swirl of emerald skirts and marched into the hall, snapping her head up haughtily. That was a mistake. The hangover she was trying to ignore objected violently to the sudden movement and sent a wave of blinding pain across her forehead. She strode ahead; not waiting for Turon, deliberately taking long strides, knowing the tubby little eunuch would have to run to catch up. It was petty, but he deserved it for taking so much pleasure in her misfortune. Servants and slaves scurried out of her path as she marched through the long black and white tiled halls of the Summer Palace.
It took nearly twenty minutes to reach her father’s reception room, and Turon panted heavily in her wake. There were a disconcerting number of lords and ladies in attendance in the vast outer chamber, standing around the tall, potted palms in jewelled clusters like beetles around scattered honey drops. They stared at her as she strode past, their expressions ranging from smug humour to simmering anger. Even the slaves wore expressions of intense interest, as they manned the large fans that moved the humid air around, but did little to cool the oppressive heat.
She did not wait for permission to enter, but marched straight up to the delicately carved sandalwood doors of her father’s office. The guards opened them as she approached. Turon was forced into an undignified run to catch her so that he could enter the chamber first to announce her arrival. Two steps ahead of the Chamberlain, she ordered the guards to close the doors behind her, and was gratified to hear Turon’s indignant yelp as the obliging guards slammed the doors in his face.
Hablet looked up as she entered and smiled. That was not a good sign. The King was prone to violent outbursts when enraged, which usually dissipated as quickly as they started. But he was beyond anger now and into a quiet rage that manifested itself in a deceptively calm demeanour.
She had only ever seen him this angry once before. That time, her bastard half-brothers Tristan and Gaffen had stolen the statue of Jelanna, the Goddess of Fertility from the Goddess’ Temple and mounted it on the roof of the most notorious brothel in Talabar. She had half-expected Hablet to kill them when he learnt of their escapade. Her father was sly, dishonest and opportunistic, but he was very devout. He was also desperate for a legitimate son, certain that his baseborn sons’ jests would make Jelanna strike him impotent as a punishment for their disrespect. He need not have worried. Hablet had sired another half-dozen or more children since then, although he still did not have the legitimate son he craved. Maybe that was Jelanna’s revenge.
“Adrina,” Hablet said through his dangerous smile.
“Daddy...”
“Don’t you ‘daddy’ me, young lady.” This was worse than she thought.