The commandant seemed shocked at R’shiel’s condition, but she was as unresponsive to his arrival as she had been to anything else in the past week. Garet knelt down beside her chair and gently shook her shoulder.
“R’shiel?”
She ignored him, or perhaps she was so far inside herself, she really didn’t know he was there.
“R’shiel?”
Finally she turned to him, her eyes blank. “What?”
“You’re leaving today. With Lord Terbolt.”
“I know.”
“They’ve ordered the troops on the border to surrender.”
“I know.”
Garet muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse.
“Do you understand me, R’shiel? Do you even know who I am?”
“I know you,” she replied tonelessly. “You betrayed me.”
He nodded, satisfied with her answer for some reason. “I didn’t betray you, R’shiel. I just can’t help anyone from a prison cell. Do you understand? Do you know why I did what I did?”
She turned to him, showing some real interest for the first time. “You did what you said you would do. Brak called you an honest man.”
“Not a description I’d use myself, but I think I know what he means.” He reached into his boot-top and withdrew a thin sheathed blade. “Can you hide this somewhere?”
She stared at the knife incomprehensibly. “What for?”
“To escape, maybe? Or do you want to go to Karien?”
“I have to face the Overlord. He wants me to join him.”
Garet sighed and pushed the knife into the top of her boot. “You do what you have to, R’shiel. The only thing I’m concerned about is Medalon. I’ve done all I can for you.”
The commandant left after that and the guards came in to escort R’shiel downstairs. She let them drape a plain woollen cloak over her shoulders and lead her away without resistance. Brak followed her and the Karien party as they descended the stairs, wanting to scream with frustration. Once they left the Citadel, she would be entirely out of reach.
Garanus handed her into the carriage and then climbed in beside her. As soon as the door snicked shut the carriage moved off toward the Main Gate where Terbolt and nearly a thousand Defenders awaited the order to move out. Brak had never felt more helpless in his entire life.
“Zegarnald!”
The grey limbo in which he was trapped seemed to quiver with the strength of his cry.
“Zegarnald! Let me out of here!”
The silence he received in reply was absolute.
Chapter 55
Adrina had just finished packing, if throwing her few meagre possessions into a sack could be called that, when the door flew open and Tarja appeared.
“If you’re leaving, your Highness, you’d better do it now,” he warned. “The Kariens are on their way.”
“How can that be? Damin said Jenga had agreed not to surrender until we’d gone.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps they know about the order from the Citadel. They may even have had a hand in it somehow. All I know is that there’s a whole troop of knights riding this way under a flag of truce.”
Adrina cursed in a most unladylike fashion. “Tam, go and find... no, on second thoughts, you’d better stay with me. Someone might recognise you. Are you certain they’re heading this way?”
“Yes.”
“How long do we have?”
“Not long at all, I’m afraid.”
“We’d best get moving then.” Adrina snatched up her sack and slung it over her shoulder. Tarja led them onto the landing. The guards were gone now. Lord Jenga had dismissed them days ago, when it became apparent she was no longer using the quarters over the main hall often enough to warrant placing a guard on them.
She followed Tarja cautiously, Tam close on her heels. They were halfway down the stairs when he stopped suddenly and held his arm out to bar her progress. The Hall doors rattled as they were pushed open.
“Back! Now!” Tarja hissed.
Adrina did not need to be told twice. She raced back up the stairs, pushing Tam ahead of her. When they reached the landing, Tarja motioned them down. By the time they were stretched out on their bellies, looking down over the Hall, the first of the Kariens were clattering through the door.
Adrina recognised Lord Roache and Lord Laetho as they raised their faceplates. The other knights she did not know; they were more than likely an escort. The Dukes made their way to the end of the hall as Lord Jenga entered with Cratyn at his side. Following them were a dozen or more Defenders. None of the Medalonians looked very happy.
Adrina studied Cratyn for a moment. He removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair as he looked around the Hall. His eyes skimmed over the darkened balcony. He could not see her, she knew, but she held her breath in any case. Jenga ordered wine served and turned to face Cratyn. The two opposing sides had unconsciously arranged themselves on either side of the long wooden table near the fireplace.
“You requested a parley, your Highness, and I have honoured your flag of truce. What do you want?”
Cratyn seemed a little taken aback by Jenga’s blunt manner. “I’m certain you know exactly what I want, my Lord. I want your surrender.”
Several Defenders, those officers who did not know of the order from the Citadel, gasped in surprise. Jenga silenced them with a look and turned back to the young prince.
“What makes you think I’m planning to surrender?”
Cratyn looked at Roache uncertainly. “I was led to believe, my Lord, that you had received an order to that effect some time ago.”
“Then you were misinformed, your Highness.”
Adrina was quite astounded to hear the Lord Defender lie so blatantly. Isn’t truth supposed to be a virtue of the Defenders? She glanced at Tarja, but he was engrossed in the scene below and his expression was impossible to read in the gloom.
“He’s lying, your Highness,” Roache assured the prince confidently.
Jenga turned on Roache. “You impugn my honour, sir?”
Before Roache could reply the doors flew open and Damin burst in, followed by Almodavar and a score of Raiders. Adrina smiled at Damin’s theatrical flair – every man with him must have been picked for his size, she thought. They were conspicuously armed and arrayed themselves across the doorway, blocking the exit.
Tarja groaned softly. “Founders, what’s he up to now?”
“My apologies for being late,” Damin announced as he strode into the Hall. He walked straight up to Lord Roache and bowed extravagantly. “You must be Prince Cratyn.”
“I am Cratyn,” the prince announced in annoyance. Damin had walked straight past him. It was no accident, Adrina was certain. Roache was old enough to be his grandfather and Damin knew well how old Cratyn was.
“You?” Damin asked in feigned surprise. “Gods! You’re just a child. Ah, but you’re not a child, are you? I hear you’re married now. How is your lovely wife, by the way?”
Adrina cringed at the question. What the hell was he playing at? Cratyn glared at him, quite appalled by the Warlord.
“Who are you, sir?” Roache demanded angrily.
“I’m sorry, did I forget to introduce myself? I am Damin Wolfblade, Warlord of Krakandar, Crown Prince of Hythria, Prince of the Northern Marshes, and there’s another title or two that I can’t quite recall. And you would be...?”