Free Harshini by Jennifer Fallon Page B

loud outside, battering against the walls of the tavern where Mikel and Jaymes were staying with R’shiel. Although the low-ceilinged taproom was warm, the fire smoked badly. Their new Medalonian mistress didn’t seem to notice the choking haze, the bad food, or the watery ale. She was deep in conversation with another young woman she had arranged to meet here, who she had introduced earlier as Mandah. The two of them had their heads close together as they talked, although Mikel sensed there was little friendship between the women. Mandah was a year or two older than R’shiel, with long blonde hair, pretty eyes and an air of calm serenity about her that Mikel had never encountered before.
    They had been on the road for weeks now, pushing hard to cross the Hythrun border before word of their flight reached the Citadel—or worse, the Kariens. This night, in a run-down tavern in the small, poor village of Roan Vale, was the first break in their relentless journey. R’shiel had come here to meet with Mandah, to organise the remainder of thepagan rebels to join them in Krakandar. At least, that’s what he’d heard her telling Lord Wolfblade. The rest of their party was camped several leagues from the town, sheltering around an isolated farmhouse they had commandeered.
    “My Lady?”
    R’shiel looked up from the mug of ale she was nursing. “Yes, Jaymes?”
    “The innkeeper says your rooms are ready. Shall I take your saddlebags up?”
    “If you like.”
    Jaymes glanced across at Mikel, then picked up R’shiel’s bags and headed for the staircase at the back of the room. Mikel ate the strange-looking stew the inn provided, and listened as one of Mandah’s men came in to report.
    “The road to Bordertown is blocked by a rockslide,” the man said. “You can either winter here in Roan Vale, or attempt to go further east, through Lodanville, and cross the border there.”
    “Winter here? I don’t think so. How long will it take if we go through Lodanville?” R’shiel asked with a frown.
    “It will add at least a week, my Lady.”
    “It can’t be helped, I suppose. I’ll have to speak with Lord Wolfblade, but I think we’ll have no choice but to turn east in the morning.”
    The rebel bowed and crossed to a table on the other side of the room, where he joined his companions and gave them the news. They didn’t look happy. One of them complained that the demon child was going to lead them through every village in Medalon before they reached the border. But it was ahalf-hearted complaint. They knew as well as anyone that the weather was to blame for their delay.
    Mikel swallowed the last of his stew and moved around to the other side of the hearth, where the smoke seemed less suffocating, wondering why these rebels seemed so ambivalent. He always imagined that the Medalonians were like the Kariens—united under one purpose. In reality, there were more factions than he could count. There were the Defenders, and the Sisterhood, and the pacifist pagans, and the pagan rebels…and somewhere in amongst all that was the rest of the population, caught in the middle of the power struggle.
    “Psst!”
    Mikel jumped at the sound and looked behind him. In the darkness beside the hearth, under the woodpile, two large, liquid black eyes stared out at him.
    “What are you doing here?” he hissed. “Go away!”
    The demon blinked, but didn’t move.
    “Begone!” Mikel commanded in a firm whisper. That was what R’shiel said when she wanted the demons to leave. It must have something to do with her being Harshini. It had absolutely no effect when Mikel tried it. The demon simply cocked its head to one side with a look of blank incomprehension on its leathery face.
    Mikel looked around nervously. Although the tavern was full of pagan rebels, Mikel didn’t know them well enough to trust their reaction if they spied the creature. “You have to leave!” he insisted, this time speaking Medalonian, hoping the demon might