“Captain Tristan, my Lord,” Filip replied when Damin translated the question. “The captain was the princess’s half-brother. They were very close.”
“And where is her Highness now?” He was curious to discover if this surrender was part of a plan, or if the young soldier was an innocent pawn in some devious game that Adrina was playing. Damin desperately wished his head was clearer.
“With her husband, of course!” Damin would have known he was lying, even if Adrina was not currently being held in the Keep behind them.
“I see.” He turned to Tarja questioningly. “What do you want to do with them?”
“That’ll be up to Jenga. For now, I suggest we find some place to hold them until morning.” Thunder rumbled louder as another storm rolled in. Tarja glanced up at the sky with a frown. “Put them in the Keep. They’ll be out of the rain, at least. We can make more permanent arrangements tomorrow.”
Tarja began issuing orders to his men. Damin watched them being herded toward the Keep, wondering about Adrina’s paradoxical behaviour. The woman had cold-bloodedly plotted the murder of the Hythrun High Prince, yet she’d ordered the remainder of her troops to surrender, rather than see them come to harm. Suddenly he was very glad that he had not made it to the princess’s door.
He had a feeling the only way to face Her Serene Highness, Adrina of Fardohnya, and survive, was stone cold sober.
Chapter 34
Although discovery by the Medalonians had been a risk, Adrina had not really expected it, and was therefore unprepared for her sudden change of circumstances.
For two days, she paced her prison cell impatiently, waiting for something to happen. Meals were delivered regularly by silent, grim-looking Defenders, but they refused to answer her questions. A wan, desperate smile – the precursor to establishing a rapport with her guards – was a wasted effort. Each shift was made up of different men entirely, and once they had left she never saw them again. Nor was Tamylan allowed to leave the chamber, although the slave did not seem nearly as bothered by captivity as her mistress. The waiting began to wear on Adrina’s nerves, and she found herself reassessing the intelligence of her captors. They were smarter than she had given them credit for.
The only advantage her isolation provided was the chance to consolidate her plans to deal with the Medalonians. Her first problem, she acknowledged readily, was Damin Wolfblade. She had always imagined him to be something of a dandy, powdered and spoilt, as used to having his every whim indulged as his uncle was. She had known he was a Warlord, of course, but she had pictured him as a figurehead. A gloriously armoured fop who sat astride his decorative stallion while others did the work for him. That assessment had been wildly inaccurate. He was a damn sight more ambitious than his uncle, and all together too certain of his place in the world. But he was still a man, she reminded herself, and a Wolfblade at that. The family was too inherently degenerate for the differences to be more than skin deep.
Tarja Tenragan, on the other hand, had been a pleasant surprise. Dark-haired, handsome and remarkably well mannered, his worst fault, she decided, was his attitude to poor Mikel. He obviously commanded a great deal of respect in the camp, and his opinion would carry a lot of weight with the Lord Defender when it came time to decide her fate. If she could engineer a meeting with him alone, she was certain she could entice him to see things her way. She might even enjoy it.
There were good reasons for avoiding such a dangerous game with Damin Wolfblade. He was a prince of Hythria, for one thing, and while it was perfectly acceptable to entertain oneself with the lower classes, frivolous liaisons between members of the nobility were frowned upon. Such a complication between the heir to the Hythrun throne and the Fardohnyan King’s eldest daughter did not bear thinking about. The most compelling reason, however, was that while Tarja might be seduced by her court’esa-trained skills, Damin would more than likely see straight through them. He probably had a court’esa as a nursemaid.
No, she would not play that game. She would pick the easier target. If only someone would please put the target where she could reach it...
Adrina plotted and planned and rehearsed her story a thousand times, but day after day she was left alone with nothing but Tamylan and her own anxiety for company.
By the time they finally came for her, Adrina was seething. Nothing was going according to plan. She had been locked up, her possessions stolen, her demands ignored and her imagination had had time to devise all sorts of dreadful fates in store for her. When finally a sergeant opened the door, without knocking, to escort her downstairs, she turned on him, fully prepared to give him a piece of her mind.
“I demand to see someone in authority!”
“Certainly, your Highness,” the man replied calmly, although he did not bow. Hardly surprising. These Medalonian peasants had no experience with royalty. “I’m here to take you to Lord Wolfblade.”
“I want to see the Lord Defender!”
“That will be up to Lord Wolfblade, your Highness. You’d better wear this. It’s raining and you’ll ruin that fur.”
Adrina snatched the plain, but serviceable woollen cloak from the man and threw it over her shoulders. She still wore the flimsy court’esa costume and it was ill suited to the bitterly cold chamber. The fur cloak she had brought with her from Karien was the only thing that had kept her from freezing to death.
“If Lord Wolfblade had any manners he would come to me!”
The man smiled, as if her posturing amused him and led the way down into the main hall. Two more Defenders fell in behind as they crossed the hall and stepped outside into a torrential downpour. Even wrapped in the Defender’s cloak, Adrina was drenched in seconds.
She stumbled along beside the Defenders as they walked through the camp, her sodden skirts hampering her steps. The slave collar was cold against her skin and her hair was plastered to her head, the braid slapping wetly against her back with every step. The hem of her skirt was splattered with mud and she was shivering uncontrollably by the time they reached the edge of the neatly laid out Defender’s tents and crossed the open ground between the two camps. She squinted through the rain, trying to pick out any tent that looked as if it belonged to a prince, but there were no banners flying, no obvious declarations of rank. When they finally reached their destination, it proved to be a plain tent, larger than those surrounding it, but bearing nothing to indicate its occupant was of noble blood.
“Wait here,” the Defender ordered as he stepped inside, leaving Adrina standing in the rain.
Adrina fumed, but did as she was told, certain this little expedition was nothing more than an attempt to humiliate her. For the first time in months Adrina found there was someone she hated more than Cratyn.
“Your Highness.” The sergeant reappeared and held back the tent flap for her. Adrina stepped through, glaring at the man to make certain he was aware of her displeasure. The man smiled in return and left her alone with the Warlord.
Damin Wolfblade sat at a small desk, writing something that seemed to take all his concentration. Adrina waited, dripping onto the thick carpet that covered the floor of the tent and looked around. An inviting brazier stood in the centre of the tent and she itched to step closer, but refused to give him the satisfaction. A thick tapestry, of exquisite Hythrun geometrical design, divided the tent in two, concealing the sleeping quarters. Besides the writing desk there was a large table covered in maps against the far wall, and near the brazier, a pile of thick cushions surrounding a small, low table. The Hythrun were fond of sitting on the floor.