As a child, Adrina had prayed to Kalianah, the Goddess of Love, for a man who would fall madly in love with her, not her position, or the wealth she could bring him. She had realised the futility of her prayers soon enough, once she understood that as Hablet’s eldest legitimate child, she had no equal in Fardohnya. No equal in the world perhaps, with the exception of the younger Prince Cratyn in Karien and the heir to the throne in far away Hythria, who was undoubtedly as corrupt and perverted as his uncle, the High Prince Lernen. No, her prince would never come for her, she knew. Instead, it was a grubby line of lordlings each dreaming of the prestige attached to making her his wife. He’d be dreaming of the wealth, the land and the titles that Hablet would bestow on him for taking her off his hands.
She had adroitly avoided such a fate by being a harridan. Considering how greedy some of her would-be suitors had been it had taken quite an effort on Adrina’s part for them to finally decide that no amount of money or titles could compensate them for having to live with her. Eventually, the offers had dried up. Hablet had plenty of other daughters who were much more amenable than the dreaded Adrina.
Until Cratyn.
Until, through her own recklessness, she had left herself vulnerable.
She sighed, pleased that at least Tam had found love. Being a bastard gave Tristan more freedom than she had ever had. And being a man. That annoyed her even more than the fact that every man who had ever expressed an interest in her was looking over her shoulder at the wealth and power that came with her hand.
“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to wait until they get back,” she said, taking the small stool so Tam could fix her hair. “Cratyn has obviously gone out of his way to prevent me being involved in this. Would you like to make a small wager on the reaction of the guards if I ask for my horse, so I can watch the battle?”
“No need,” Tam replied. “They told me on the way in that you would be keeping to your tent today.”
“He’ll pay for this,” she muttered. Her list of things Cratyn was going to pay for was growing so long that she would need to remain married to him for a lifetime, just to make certain he suffered sufficiently.
Mikel arrived back before Tam could offer a reply, brimming with news at how well the battle was going. Adrina paid him little attention. There was no way the child could know for certain. It was his loyalty to Karien speaking, but she let him prattle on as they ate breakfast. His mindless chatter filled the silence and kept her mind off other things.
The day dragged on interminably. Mid-morning the Ladies Hope, Pacifica, Grace and Chastity arrived, suggesting that they pray to the Overlord to protect their men in battle. Adrina agreed absently. On her knees praying to the Overlord was actually preferable to trying to engage her ladies-in-waiting in intelligent conversation. Mikel gave her a look that bordered on worship as she knelt. Poor child. If only he knew she was silently asking Zegarnald to protect Tristan. And inflict a festering wound on Cratyn, while he was at it. Preferably a horribly disfiguring wound that offered a lingering, pain-filled death...
After an hour of kneeling, conversation didn’t seem such a bad idea after all. She glanced around at the small circle of young women, at their pious faces, and inwardly groaned. Gods, these girls are pathetic!
“Ladies, perhaps we should cease our prayers for the moment,” she suggested. “The Overlord has a battle to watch over. I am sure he has heard our pleas for victory this day. I think we presume much to distract him so.”
The Ladies Hope, Pacifica, Grace and Chastity agreed with her wise words and climbed stiffly to their feet. Adrina ordered refreshments, and as the cold sun climbed higher and higher she listened to their boring talk of inconsequential things – while a battle raged a few leagues away. She could not understand how they did it.
It was late afternoon before they learnt anything useful, and the news was not good. When the guard on the tent was changed, the newcomers spoke of a dreadful battle, of casualties too numerous to count. Adrina frowned, but she was unsurprised by the news. Mikel had told her of the hours the Defenders spent training, of the extensive earthworks the Kariens would have to breach. Defending a position was always easier than attacking. All the Medalonians had to do was sit and wait for the Karien forces to throw themselves over the border and pick off the attackers at their leisure. She hoped Tristan had the sense to stay clear of the battle. It was unlikely Cratyn would try to use her men in battle, she reasoned. He wanted the glory of this victory for Karien and the Overlord. It just would not do to have a bunch of heathens do the work for him.
Just on sunset, Adrina discovered how wrong she had been. Second Lanceman Filip, a young man assigned to her Guard, arrived at the entrance to her tent seeking an audience. He was bloodied and exhausted, his eyes hollow, his expression bleak. He fell to one knee, from exhaustion as much as respect when he saw Adrina. Her heart lurched at the sight of him. Tristan must have taken vast casualties to send a Second Lanceman to report.
“What happened?” Fear clutched at her stomach and her throat was dry.
“It was... we were slaughtered, your Highness,” he told her, his voice rasping with shock and fatigue. “The Medalonians had archers. Thousands of them. The arrows didn’t stop falling for hours. When they did, the rocks started falling out of the sky like hail. The priests... they did something to us. It was as if... we just couldn’t stop, your Highness. It was like... we’d lost our wits. We’d lost most of the force before we even saw a red coat, and then they took us from the rear.”
Adrina nodded, calling on all her reserves of strength to maintain her regal posture. The man needed to see her strength. In truth, she wanted to scream. “How many of the Guard were lost?”
“There’s barely thirty of us left, your Highness.”
Adrina staggered. Barely thirty left! There were five hundred men in her Guard this morning. Cold anger overwhelmed her grief. “What exactly did the priests do, Lanceman?”
“I couldn’t say, your Highness. We gathered on the field... they prayed over us, I think. After that, it gets a bit hazy... The next thing I remember for certain was the horns sounding the retreat.”
“Thank you, Lanceman. Go now and find some rest. I will commend your report to your captain.”
The young man looked up at her with eyes full of grief. “Captain Tristan is dead, your Highness. He died bravely, though... fighting a Medalonian. I’m... I’m sorry.”
For a moment, Adrina was numb. She felt nothing. Saw nothing. Did nothing. But slowly, grief crept over her like a sheath of ice that clutched at her fingers and toes and worked its way through her body until it settled around her heart. In the background, faintly, she heard Tam sobbing. She even had time to notice Mikel standing near the entrance, his eyes wide with shock.
“Has Prince Cratyn returned from the battlefield?” she asked. Her voice was ice wrapped in anger.
“I... I believe so, your Highness.”
“You are dismissed, Lanceman. Tell the other Guards that I will address them later. And tell them I honour their sacrifice and share their grief.”
Filip rose wearily to his feet, bowed and backed out of the tent.
“Fetch my cloak, Mikel,” she said calmly. The boy nodded and hurried to do her bidding. Adrina did not move. Her anger was like a solid, tangible thing. Had it been a sword, she could have killed with it.