Treason Keep by Jennifer Fallon

thoughtfully.
    “What?”
    “Your gods. They’d know if she’s still alive, wouldn’t they?”
    Damin shrugged uncomfortably. “I suppose.”
    “How do we ask them?” Tarja demanded.
    He shook his head. “It’s not so simple, my friend. The gods do not speak directly to the likes of you and me. Perhaps, if Brak were here…”
    “Well, he’s not here!”
    Brak had vanished only days after the Hythrunhad ridden into Testra, some five months ago. Nobody had seen or heard of him since.
    “Hey, isn’t Dace a god? He spoke to us. Hell, he travelled with us. Can’t we contact him?”
    “If you have a reliable way of contacting the gods, then enlighten me, Tarja. Dacendaran appears when the mood takes him, as does any other god. I doubt if putting the mind of a non-believer at ease about whether the demon child lives or dies is enough to warrant even the fleeting attention of the God of Thieves.” He placed his cup on the small table next to the guttering candle. “If R’shiel is still alive, she’ll be back some day. If not, do your grieving and be done with it. Either way, you can’t spend the rest of your life moping about the girl.”
    “When I need sanctimonious advice from you, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, mind your own damned business.”
    “It is my business,” Damin replied, “when your misery affects the decisions you make. Particularly when it concerns the safety of my Raiders.”
    “ Your Raiders?” Damin could see the anger, the pain in the other man’s eyes. “Your damned Raiders are nothing but a bunch of cutthroat mercenaries. And I’ve done nothing to endanger anybody.”
    “That’s for certain,” Damin retorted, deliberately goading him. “You’ve done nothing at all but sit here on the border and lament your great and tragic loss. Well, I have news for you, Captain. There’s a Karien army heading this way and they don’t give a pinch of pig-shit about your tender sensibilities. Dead or alive, R’shiel is gone, and you can’t afford to sit here wallowing in self-pity.”
    The punch came out of nowhere as Tarja threw himself across the table, sending Damin backward off his stool. He rolled to the side as Tarja lunged for him, tangling himself in the tent as their brawl spilled outside. The candle fell from the overturned table and landed in a puddle of spilled wine, where it quickly caught and began lapping at the canvas tent walls. By the time they staggered to their feet in the clearing, the blazing tent provided a ruddy backdrop to their fight.
    They were both drunk, so the blows they traded lacked the strength or accuracy of sobriety, but Damin was still surprised at the force behind Tarja’s fist. Damin had time to wonder if it was guilt, even more than grief, which was eating up Tarja, before the Medalonian charged him with a wordless cry.
    By now their altercation had drawn the attention of the other men occupying the surrounding tents, who quickly formed a cheering circle of red-coated Defenders, brown-shirted rebels, and leather-clad Hythrun Raiders, cheering on their officers as they brawled liked a couple of drunken sailors.
    Damin didn’t know who was getting the better of the fight. Tarja was a professional soldier, but he was operating on instinct as much as anything. Damin knew his own battle-trained reflexes were the only thing saving him from serious injury. His mind was too wine-muddled to think anything through, other than trading hit and miss blows with his equally inebriated adversary. He felt his bottom lip split as Tarja’s fist connected with his face, snapping his head back, but he blocked the next blow with his left arm and slammed his fist intoTarja’s gut. The other man grunted in pain, but kept his feet and came at him again, a feral grin on his face that looked all the more evil for being blood-streaked and illuminated by the blazing firelight from the tent. He ducked another blow and landed a glancing hit on Tarja’s jaw, as the