Medalon

chapter 1

The funeral pyre caught with a whoosh, lighting the night sky and shadowing the faces of the thousands gathered to witness the Burning. Smoke, scented with fragrant oils to disguise the smell of burning flesh, hung in the warm, still air, as if reluctant to leave the ceremony. The spectators were silent as the hungry flames licked the oil-soaked pyre, reaching for Trayla’s corpse. The death of the First Sister had drawn almost every inhabitant of the Citadel to the amphitheater.

R’shiel Tenragan caught the Lord Defender’s eye as she pushed her way through the green tunics of the senior Novices to take her place past the ranks of blue-gowned Sisters and gray-robed Probates. Feeling his eyes on her, she looked up. The Mistress of the Sisterhood would have her hide if he reported she’d been late. She met the Lord Defender’s gaze defiantly, before turning her eyes to the pyre.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Lord Defender take an involuntarily step backward as the flames seared his time-battered face. Surreptitiously, she glanced at the ranks of women and girls who stood in a solemn circle around the pyre. Their faces were unreadable in the firelight. For the most part they were still, their heads bowed respectfully. Occasionally, a foot shuffled on the sandy floor of the arena. How many were genuinely grieving, she mused, and how many more had their minds on the Quorum, and who would fill the vacancy?

R’shiel knew the political maneuvering had begun the moment Trayla had been found in her study, the knife of her assailant still buried in her breast. Her killer was barely out of his teens. He was waiting even now in the cells behind the Defenders’ Headquarters to be hanged. Rumor had it that he was a disciple of the River Goddess, Maera. The Sisterhood had confiscated his family’s boat – and with it, their livelihood – for the crime of worshipping a heathen god. He had come to the Citadel to save his family from starvation, he claimed, to beg the First Sister for mercy.

He had killed her instead.

What had Trayla said to the boy, R’shiel wondered? What would cause him to pull a knife on the First Sister – a daunting figure to an uneducated river-brat? Surely he must have known his plea would fall on deaf ears? Pagan worship had been outlawed in Medalon for two centuries. The Harshini were extinct and with them their demons and their gods. If he wanted mercy, he should have migrated south, she thought unsympathetically. They still believed in the heathen gods in Hythria and Fardohnya, R’shiel knew, and the whole of Karien to the north was fanatically devoted to the worship of a single god, but in Medalon they had progressed beyond pagan ignorance centuries ago.

A voice broke the silence. R’shiel glanced through the firelight at the old woman who spoke.

“Since our beloved Param led us to enlightenment, the Sisters of the Blade have carried on her solemn trust to free Medalon from the chains of heathen idolatry. As First Sister, Trayla honored that trust. She gave her life for it. Now we honor Trayla. Let us remember our Sister.”

She joined the thousands of voices repeating the ritual phrase. It was uncomfortably warm this close to the pyre on such a balmy summer’s eve and her high-necked green tunic was damp with sweat.

“Let us remember our Sister.”

Small and wrinkled, Francil Asharen was the oldest member of the Quorum and had presided over this ceremony twice before. She was Mistress of the Citadel, the civilian administrator of this vast city-complex. Twice before she had refused to be nominated as First Sister and R’shiel could think of no reason that would change her mind this time. She had no ambition beyond her current position.

Harith Nortarn, the tall, heavily built Mistress of the Sisterhood, stood beside her. R’shiel grimaced inwardly. The woman was a harridan, and her beautifully embroidered white silk gown did nothing to soften her demeanor. Generations of Novices, Probates, and even fully qualified Blue Sisters lived in fear of incurring her wrath. Even the other Quorum members avoided upsetting her.

R’shiel turned her attention to the small, plump woman who stood at Harith’s shoulder: Mahina Cortanen. The Mistress of Enlightenment. Her gown was as elaborate as Harith’s – soft white silk edged with delicate gold embroidery – but she still managed to look like a peasant in a borrowed dress. She was R’shiel’s personal favorite of all the Quorum members, her own mother included. Mahina was only a little taller than Francil and wore a stern but thoughtful expression.

Next to Mahina, Joyhinia Tenragan wore exactly the right expression of grief and quiet dignity for the occasion. Her mother was the newest member of the Quorum and, R’shiel fervently hoped, the least likely to be elected as the new First Sister. Although each member of the Quorum held equal rank, the Mistress of the Interior controlled the day-to-day running of the nation, because she was responsible for the Administrators in every major town in Medalon. It was a position of great responsibility and traditionally seen as a stepping-stone to gaining the First Sister’s mantle.

R’shiel watched her thoughtfully then glanced at the man who was supposed to be her father. Joyhinia and Lord Jenga were coldly polite toward each other – and had been for as long as R’shiel could remember. He was a tall, solid man with iron-gray hair, but he was always unfailingly polite to her and had never, to her knowledge, denied he was her father. Considering the frost that seemed to gather in the air between her mother and the Lord Defender whenever they were close, R’shiel could not imagine how they had ever been warm enough toward each other to conceive a child.

The fire reached upward, licking at Trayla’s white robe. R’shiel wondered for a moment if the fragrant oils had been enough. Would the smell of the First Sister’s crisping flesh sicken the gathered Sisters? Probably not, she noted darkly.

Behind the members of the Quorum and the blue-gowned ranks of the Sisters, the Probates and Novices were ranked around the floor of the amphitheater, their eyes wide as they witnessed their first public Burning. Some of them looked a little pale, even in the ruby light of the funeral pyre, but tomorrow they would cheer themselves hoarse with glee when the young assassin was publicly hanged. Hypocrites, she thought, stifling a disrespectful yawn.

The vigil over the First Sister continued through the night. The silence was unsettling. Another yawn threatened to undo her, so R’shiel turned her attention to the first ten ranks of the seating surrounding the Arena. They were filled by red-coated Defenders who stood to attention throughout the long watch. Lord Jenga had not spared them a glance all night. He did not have to. They were Defenders. There was no shuffling of feet numbed by standing all night. No bored expressions or hidden yawns. She envied their discipline.

As the night progressed, the crowd in the upper levels of the tiered seating gradually thinned. The civilians who lived at the Citadel had jobs to do and other places to be. They could not afford the luxury of an all-night vigil. In the morning, the Sisters, Probates, and Novices would still expect to be waited on. Life went on in the Citadel, regardless of who lived or died.

The night dragged on in silence until the first tentative rays of daylight announced the next and most anxiously awaited part of the ceremony.

As a faint luminescence softened the darkness, Francil raised her head. “Let us remember our Sister!”

“Let us remember our Sister,” the gathered Sisters, Probates, Novices and Defenders echoed in a monotone. Every one of them was tired. They were beyond being reverent and wished only that the ceremony were over.

“Let us move forward toward a new future,” Francil called.

“Let us move forward toward a new future,” R’shiel repeated, this time with slightly more interest. Finally, the time had come to announce Trayla’s successor, a decision that affected every citizen in Medalon.

“Hail the First Sister, Mahina Cortanen!”

“Hail the First Sister, Mahina Cortanen!” the crowd chanted.

R’shiel gasped with astonishment as Mahina stood forward to accept the dutiful, if rather tired, cheers of the gathering. She could not believe it. What political scheming and double-dealing had the others indulged in? How, with all their intrigues and plotting had the Quorum actually elected someone capable of doing the job well? R’shiel had to stop herself from laughing out loud.

As the cheers subsided, Mahina turned to Jenga. “My Lord Defender, will you swear the allegiance of the Defenders to me?”

“Gladly, your Grace,” Jenga replied.

He unsheathed his sword and stepped forward, laying the polished blade on the sandy ground at the feet of the new First Sister. He bent one knee and waited for the senior officers down on the arena floor to follow suit. The Defenders up in the stands placed clenched fists over their hearts as Jenga’s voice rang out in the silent arena.

“By the blood in my veins and the soil of Medalon, I swear that the Defenders are yours to command, First Sister, until my death or yours.”

A loud, deep-throated cheer went up from the Defenders. Jenga rose to his feet and met Mahina’s eyes. R’shiel watched her accept the accolade. Never had a woman looked less like a First Sister.

Mahina nodded to Jenga, thanking him silently, then turned to the gathering and opened her arms wide.

“I declare a day of rest,” she announced, her first proclamation as First Sister. Her voice sounded rasping and dry after the warm night standing before a blazing bonfire. “A day to contemplate the life of our beloved Trayla. A day to witness the execution of her murderer. Tomorrow, we will begin the next chapter of the Sisterhood. Today we rest.”

Another tired cheer greeted her announcement. With her dismissal, the ranks of the Sisterhood dissolved as the women turned with relief toward the tunnel that led out of the arena to make their way home. They muttered quietly among themselves, no doubt as surprised as R’shiel was to learn the identity of the new First Sister. The Defenders still did not move, would not move, until every Sister had left the arena. Mahina led the exodus. R’shiel studied Joyhinia and the other members of the Quorum, but they gave no hint of their true feelings.

The sky was considerably lighter as the last green-skirted Novice disappeared down the tunnel and Jenga finally dismissed his men. R’shiel waited for the others to leave, hoping for a moment alone with the Lord Defender. The pyre collapsed in on itself with a sharp crack and a shower of sparks as the Defenders broke ranks with relief. Many simply sat down. Many more flexed stiff knees and rubbed aching backs. Jenga beckoned two of his captains to him. The men rose stiffly but saluted sharply enough for the Foundation Day Parade.

“Georj, keep some men here and keep the pyre burning until it is nothing but ashes,” he ordered the younger of the two wearily.

“And the ashes, my Lord?” Georj asked.

“Rake them into the sand,” he said with a shrug. “They mean nothing now.” He turned to the older captain. “Tell the men they may only rest once their mounts are fed and taken care of, Nheal. And then call for volunteers for the hanging guard. I’ll need ten men.”

“For this hanging guard you’ll get more than ten volunteers,” Nheal predicted.

“Then pick the sensible ones,” Jenga suggested, impatiently. “This is a hanging, Captain, not a carnival.”

“My Lord,” the captain replied, saluting with a clenched fist over his heart. He hesitated a moment longer then added tentatively, “Interesting choice for First Sister, don’t you think, my Lord?”

“I don’t think, Captain,” Jenga told him stiffly. “And neither should you.” He frowned, daring the younger man to laugh at his rather asinine comment. “I am sure First Sister Mahina will be a wise and fair leader.”

R’shiel saw through his polite words. Jenga was obviously delighted by Mahina’s appointment. That augured well for what she had in mind.

“The expression ‘about bloody time’ leaps to mind, actually,” Nheal remarked, almost too softly for R’shiel to make it out.

“Don’t overstep yourself, Captain,” Jenga warned. “It is not your place to comment on the decisions of the Sisterhood. And you might like to tell your brother captains not to overindulge in the taverns tonight. Remember, until tomorrow, we are still in mourning.”

Jenga turned from the pile of embers and noticed R’shiel for the first time. As day broke fully over the amphitheater, bringing with it a hint of the summer heat to come, he walked stiffly toward the exit tunnel where she was standing.

“Lord Jenga?” she ventured as he approached.

“Shouldn’t you return to your quarters, R’shiel?” Jenga asked gruffly.

“I wanted to ask you something.”

Jenga glanced over his shoulder to ensure his orders were being carried out, then nodded. R’shiel fell into step beside him as they entered the cool darkness of the tunnel that led under the amphitheater.

“What will happen now, Lord Jenga?”

“The appointment of a new First Sister always heralds a change of direction, R’shiel, even if only a small one.”

“Mother says Trayla was an unimaginative leader, lacking in initiative. Actually, she used to refer to her as ‘that useless southern cow.’ ”

“You, of all people, should know better than to repeat that sort of gossip, R’shiel.”

She smiled faintly at his tone. “And what about Mahina? Joyhinia calls her an idealistic fool.”

“Sister Mahina has my respect, as do all the Sisters of the Blade.”

“Do you think her elevation means a change in the thinking of the Sisterhood?”

The Lord Defender stopped and looked at her, obviously annoyed by her question. “R’shiel, you said you wanted to ask me something. Ask it or leave. I do not want to stand here discussing politics and idle gossip with you.”

“I want to know what happens now,” she said.

“I will be called on to witness the Spear of the First Sister swear fealty to Mahina. It will undoubtedly be Lord Draco.”

“He’s supposed to be the First Sister’s bodyguard,” R’shiel pointed out. “Yet Trayla died at the hand of an assassin.”

“The position of First Spear is a very difficult one to fill – the oath of celibacy it requires tends to discourage many applicants.”

“So he gets to keep his job? Even though he did not do it?”

Jenga’s patience was rapidly fading. “Draco was absent at the time, R’shiel. Trayla fancied she was able to deal with a miserable pagan youth and ordered him out of the office. Now, is that all you wanted?”

“No. I was just curious, that’s all.”

“Then be specific, child. I have other business to attend to. I have an assassin to hang, letters to write, and orders to issue...”

“And banished officers who offended Trayla to recall?” she suggested hopefully.

Jenga shook his head. “I can’t revoke the First Sister’s orders, R’shiel.”

“The First Sister is dead.”

“That doesn’t mean I can rearrange the world to my liking.”

“But it does mean you can rearrange the Defenders,” R’shiel reminded him. She turned on her best, winning smile. “Please, Lord Jenga. Bring Tarja home.”

chapter 2

Tarja Tenragan lay stretched out on the damp ground, looking out over the vast empty plain before him. The earth smelled fresh from the morning rain and the teasing scent of pollen from the myriad wild flowers tickled his nose, daring him to sneeze. Nothing but the distant call of a hawk, lazily riding the thermals, disturbed the early afternoon. The rain had increased the humidity but done nothing to relieve the heat. Sweat dampened the linen shirt under his soft leather jerkin and trickled annoyingly down his spine.

The border between Medalon and Hythria lay ahead. It was unmarked – merely a shallow ford across a rocky, nameless waterway that everyone, Medalonian and Hythrun alike, simply referred to as the Border Stream. Tarja listened with quiet concentration. After four years playing this game he knew that out there, somewhere, was a Hythrun raiding party.

Suddenly, the silence was disturbed. He looked over his shoulder as Gawn marched purposefully toward him, his smart red coat stark against the brown landscape. He might as well have a target painted on his chest, Tarja fumed. As soon as he reached Tarja’s position, he grabbed Gawn’s arm and pulled him roughly down to the ground.

“I told you to get rid of that damned coat!” he hissed.

“I am proud of my uniform, Captain. I am a Defender. I do not skulk through the grasslands in fear of barbarians.”

“You do if you plan to survive out here,” Tarja told him irritably. His own jacket was tucked safely away in his saddlebag, as were the red coats of all his men. He was wearing an old shirt and comfortably broken-in leather trousers and jerkin. Hardly the attire for a ball at the Citadel but infinitely preferable to being shot by a Hythrun arrow. Tarja absently brushed away a curious beetle come to investigate his forearm and turned back to studying the ford, cursing Jenga. Gawn was only one of many stiff-necked, brand-new officers that Jenga had sent south over the last four years. He sent them to the border for combat experience. Most of them even survived. He had his doubts about Gawn, though. He had been here almost two months and was still trying to cling to the parade-ground traditions of the Citadel.

“What are we waiting for?” Gawn asked, in a voice that carried alarmingly on the soft breeze.

Tarja threw him an angry look. “What’s the date? And keep your damned voice down.”

“It’s the fourteenth day of Faberon,” Gawn replied, rather confused by the question.

“On the Hythrun calendar,” Tarja corrected.

Gawn frowned, still annoyed and rather horrified that the first task Tarja had set him to on his arrival at Bordertown was learning the heathen calendar.

“It’s the twenty-first... no, the twenty-second day of Ramafar,” Gawn replied after a moment. “But I fail to see what it—”

“I know you fail to see what it means,” Tarja interrupted. “That’s why you won’t last long out here. Two days from now it will be the twenty-fourth day of Ramafar, which is the Hythrun Feast of Jelanna, the Goddess of Fertility.”

“I’m sure the heathens appreciate the effort you put in remembering their festivals for them,” Gawn remarked stiffly.

Tarja ignored the jibe and continued his explanation. “Our esteemed southern neighbor, the Warlord of Krakandar, whose province begins on the other side of that stream, is traditionally required to throw a very large party for his subjects.”

“So?”

Tarja shook his head at the younger man’s ignorance. “Lord Wolfblade thinks that it’s far cheaper to feed the ravening hordes on nice, juicy Medalonian beef than cut into his own herds. It happens every Feast Day. That’s why you need to learn the Hythrun calendar, Gawn.”

Gawn still looked unconvinced. “But how do you know they’ll come through here? He could cross the border in any number of places.”

“The farms over there don’t get raided much. The families are probably heathens, or they’re too close to Bordertown. The farms to the north and further east, however, get raided on a regular basis.”

“Heathens! If you know that, why don’t you arrest them!”

Tarja scanned the ford as he spoke. “I don’t know that they’re heathens, Gawn, I only suspect it. The last time I checked, the Defenders needed a bit more than suspicion to arrest otherwise law-abiding, hardworking people. We’re here to guard the border from the Hythrun, not persecute our own people.”

“To place the law of a god above the law of the Sisterhood is treason,” Gawn reminded him officiously.

Tarja didn’t bother to reply. There was a line of trees southeast of them which could easily conceal a raiding party. There was no telltale glint of metal to alert him to their presence, no betraying nicker from a horse, or even the soft lowing of stolen cattle on the breeze. But they were out there. Tarja trusted his instincts over his eyes. He knew the Hythrun Warlord was waiting, as he was, for his chance to cross the stream.

Tarja had been on the border long enough to develop a grudging respect for Lord Wolfblade and kept an unofficial score in his head. By his calculation he was currently one up on the Warlord. The day before Gawn’s arrival, he had foiled a raid on a farm not far from the ford a few days before the Feast of Kalianah, the Goddess of Love. Tarja thought wryly that if the Hythrun did not worship so many gods, his life would have been very boring indeed.

Gawn fidgeted impatiently, uncomfortable with the waiting, and no doubt concerned that his uniform was getting dirty. Finally he stood up, disdainfully brushing dirt and grass seeds from his red coat.

“This is pointless!” he declared loudly.

The black-fletched Hythrun arrow took Gawn in the left shoulder. Tarja let out a yell as Gawn screamed. Gawn clutched at the protruding arrow, blood seeping through his fingers. Tarja glanced at the young captain and quickly judged that the wound was not fatal, so he left him where he fell. Tarja’s troop of forty Defenders broke from the trees behind him with a savage war cry. From the tree line he had been watching so closely, the Hythrun raiders broke cover, driving a dozen or more red spotted cattle.

Tarja quickly judged the distance to the border and realized it was going to be a close call. He turned back to his men, waiting impatiently as his sergeant, Basel, led his mount toward him at a gallop, hardly slowing as he approached. Tarja began to run forward as they neared him. The sergeant dropped the short lead rope as he grabbed at the pommel of the saddle. He let the horse’s momentum carry him forward and swung up into the saddle on the run. He could barely keep his seat as his feet searched for the flying stirrups and he untied the reins from the pommel.

The Warlord’s raiding party was cutting across the open plain toward the stream, riding at a gallop, stampeding the stolen cattle before them. Tarja and his men, leaning forward in their saddles, rode diagonally at a dead run to cut them off. The Hythrun knew that the Defenders were forbidden to cross the border. The stream represented safety and the fifty or more Raiders had only one aim in mind – to reach it before the Defenders could intercept them.

Tarja caught the tail end just as the first of the Hythrun were splashing over the ford to safety. The cattle ran blindly, too spooked to stop for anything as insignificant as a shallow stream. As soon as they were safely across, the Raiders in the lead ignored their booty, and wheeled their mounts around in a tight circle. They plunged back over the ford to hold off the Defenders while their comrades made the crossing.

The opposing forces were suddenly too intermingled for them to risk their short bows. Steel rang against steel as Tarja plunged through the melee, looking for Damin Wolfblade. He spied the fair head of his adversary at almost the same time as the Warlord caught sight of him. The Hythrun turned his mount sharply and galloped to meet the Medalonian captain.

Tarja ignored the battle around him as he raced to engage the Warlord, although a part of him realized that more and more of the Hythrun had reached the safety of the ford. Damin came at him with a bloodcurdling cry, wielding his longsword with consummate skill. He dropped his reins, guiding his magnificent golden stallion with his knees, as Tarja blocked the blow, jarring his arm to his shoulder. He parried another bone-numbing strike and quickly countered with a killing stroke that Damin barely deflected at the last moment. The Warlord was laughing aloud and Tarja knew his own face was set in a feral grin as he traded blows with him. They were so evenly matched, had done this so many times before, it was as much a part of the game as the cattle raids.

“You lose this time, Red Coat!” Damin shouted, as he suddenly steered his mount from under Tarja’s blow, which would have taken his arm off at the shoulder had it connected. Tarja glanced around and realized that almost all the Hythrun were over the ford, although several were nursing bloody wounds. His own men milled about in frustration, just as weary and bloodied, as they watched the enemy escape. Wolfblade wheeled his horse around, before splashing over the stream to safety, and saluted Tarja impudently with his sword from the other side.

“That makes us even, Red Coat!” Apparently Tarja was not the only one keeping score.

The Hythrun raiders wheeled around and galloped away from the border to gather their stolen cattle, whooping victoriously, taunting the Defenders.

Tarja let out a yell of frustration as he watched them ride away. If only that parade-ground fool had kept his head down. He cursed Gawn under his breath as the Hythrun disappeared into the trees on their side of the border.

“Why in the name of the Founders can’t we follow them?” Basel demanded as he rode up to Tarja. His sleeve was torn and soaked with blood from a long, shallow cut, but the sergeant appeared too angry to notice he had been wounded.

“You know the answer to that, Basel,” Tarja reminded him, his chest heaving. “We’re under strict orders not to cross the border.”

“A stupid order given by stupid women who sit in the Citadel with no idea what happens outside their bloody sewing circle!”

In anyone else’s hearing, such a comment would have earned him a whipping, but Tarja knew how he felt. He shared the man’s frustration. All the border troops did.

“Be careful Gawn doesn’t hear you voice such sentiments, my friend,” he warned.

Basel scratched at his graying beard and glanced back toward the red-coated figure stumbling through the waist-high grass toward them. Gawn clutched his arrow-pierced shoulder calling out for assistance.

“One could almost wish the Hythrun were better marksmen,” the sergeant remarked wistfully.

“I suspect they’ll get many more opportunities to use him for target practice. In the meantime, you’d better get Halorin to take that arrow out of his shoulder. The last thing I need is Gawn whining about a festering wound. Then we’d best see how much damage Wolfblade did to the farmsteaders.”

The trail left by the Hythrun was not hard to follow. Tarja led his men along the raider’s path for several hours before they reached the small farm that had been the target of the raid. The Warlord never raided the same farm twice in succession – he preferred to leave his victims time to recover before he struck again.

Tarja urged his horse to a canter as the smell of burning thatch reached him. Damin Wolfblade was not a particularly vicious man. He was certainly an improvement on his predecessor, who had been known to crucify his victims. If the farmsteaders offered no resistance, he rarely did more than destroy a few fences and take his pick of the cattle.

As they rode into the small yard surrounding the farmhouse, Tarja was shocked by the devastation. The house was gutted. In the smoldering ruin only the stone fireplace still stood. Where the barn had been was nothing but a forlorn, blackened framework that threatened to topple at any moment. Tarja dismounted slowly, shaking his head.

“We didn’t have no choice, Cap’n.”

Tarja turned at the sound. Leara Steader, the owner of the farm, walked toward him from the gutted house. Her homespun dress was torn and filthy, her face soot-streaked, her eyes dull with grief. Her arms hugged her thin, shivering body, despite the heat of the late afternoon sun.

“You know better than to fight them, Leara,” he said, handing his reins to Basel. “What happened? Where is Haren?”

She stared at him blankly before answering. “Haren’s dead.”

Tarja took Leara’s arm and led her to the well. “What happened?” he asked again, as he carefully sat her down. The normally tough farmsteader looked fragile enough to break.

“Haren fought them,” Leara told him in a monotone. “Said we couldn’t let them take the cattle this time. Said we wouldn’t be able to pay our taxes if they took the cattle.” She took the ladle of water he offered her and sipped it mechanically, as if it was an effort to swallow, before she continued. “He met them at the gate. Told them to go away, to leave us alone. Told them he’d fight them. He cut one of them with his sickle. They laughed at him. Then they killed him.”

Tarja urged another sip of water on her, wishing he had something stronger to offer the woman. He called Ritac over, leaving Leara by the well staring numbly into the distance.

“See if you can find Haren’s body. We’ll burn it before we leave.” Ritac nodded without a word and went off to carry out his orders. Tarja returned to Leara and squatted down in front of her. “Why, Leara? You know we never tax those who’ve been raided. Why not let them take the cattle?”

“Last patrol that came through told us it weren’t the law. Told us we’d have to pay, no matter what. Said things would change, now that there was new officers here.”

“Who said that?” Tarja asked curiously. The practice of not taxing victims of Hythrun raids was one that predated Tarja’s posting to the border, and he had never thought to question it. Strictly speaking, the victims were not exempt from levies due to hardship. It was just that the Defenders chose not to enforce that particular law. These people suffered enough from the Hythrun, without making it harder for them by taking what little they had left for the Sisterhood.

Leara looked up and pointed at Gawn, who still sat on his horse in the middle of the yard, holding his wounded arm gingerly. “It were him.”

“Ritac!” Leara jumped at Tarja’s sudden shout.

The corporal hurried over to them. “Sir?”

“Go with Mistress Steader and see if anything can be salvaged before we leave.” Ritac’s eyes widened at the anger in Tarja’s voice. He helped the woman to her feet and led her toward the house. Tarja crossed the yard in five angry steps. He grabbed Gawn by his red coat and jerked him out of the saddle.

“What the Founders—” Gawn cried as he hit the ground with a thud, jarring his already wounded shoulder.

“You stupid, miserable, son of a bitch,” Tarja growled, reaching down to pull Gawn to his feet. The captain cried out as his shoulder wound began bleeding afresh. “Verkin sent you out to familiarize yourself with the border farms.” He slammed his fist into Gawn’s abdomen. The younger man stumbled backward with a cry, doubling over with the pain.

“How many more, Gawn?” Tarja punctuated his words with another blow, this one to Gawn’s jaw. The punch lifted the captain off his feet and he landed heavily on his back. Sobbing with pain and outrage, he scuttled backward along the ground to escape Tarja’s wrath, crying out with every movement of his wounded shoulder. “How many more farmsteaders will die because you decided things were going to change, now that you’ve arrived on the border?” Tarja bent down and hauled Gawn to his feet. “What gives you the right—”

“The right?” Gawn sputtered, stumbling backward out of Tarja’s reach. “It’s the law! What gives you the right to flout it? You’re the one who lets these people off paying their taxes! You’re the one who lets heathens go unpunished! You’re the one—”

Tarja did not wait to find out what else he was guilty of. He smashed his clenched fist into the young captain’s face with all the force he could muster. With an intensely satisfying, bone-crunching thump, Gawn dropped unconscious at his feet. Shaking his hand to ease the sting, Tarja turned back to his men, who had all suddenly found something else to do. Ritac hurried to him and glanced at the unconscious captain, before looking at Tarja.

“Did you find Haren?”

Ritac shook his head. “Mistress Leara says they threw him into the house before they set it on fire. He’s had his Burning at least.”

Tarja frowned. It was a measure of the Warlord’s anger that they had burned Haren’s corpse. Hythrun considered the Medalonian practice of cremation a barbaric and sacrilegious custom. Wolfblade must have been in a rage, if he ordered a body burned.

“Let’s get out of here then,” Tarja announced, flexing his still-aching fist as he walked back toward the house.

“Er... what about Captain Gawn, sir?” Ritac called after him. “He appears to be unwell.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the corporal. “That arrow wound must be worse than it looks,” Tarja replied calmly. “Tie him to his saddle.”

Ritac didn’t even blink. “Aye. Nasty things, those Hythrun arrows.”

It was another four days before Tarja and his men arrived back in Bordertown. They had taken a detour to deliver Leara to her sister’s farmstead, before heading home.

Gawn regained consciousness and had barely spoken a word to anyone, although he was obviously in pain. He now had a broken nose and two rather impressive black eyes to accompany his arrow wound.

Bordertown was the southernmost town in Medalon, located near the point where the borders of Fardohnya, Hythria, and Medalon met. Their detour meant entering the town by the North Road, past the busy docks on the outskirts of the town.

Harsh shouts, muttered curses, and the sharp smell of fish permeated the docks as they rode by. Sailors and traders, riverboat captains, and red-coated Defenders swarmed over the wharves that were lapped by the broad silver expanse of the Glass River.

To Tarja, the docks were about the worst thing he had ever smelled in his life, and every time he rode past them, he wondered at those who found so much romance on the river.

They rode toward the center of the town past wagons and polished carriages clattering and clanking along the cobbled street lined by taverns and shops. The buildings were almost all double-storied, with red-tiled roofs and balconies that overlooked the street below, festooned with washing hung out to dry. Rickety temporary stalls with tattered awning covers were set up in the gaps between the shops which sold a variety of food, copper pots, and even exotic Fardohnyan silk scarves. There were beggars too – old, scabby men and pitifully thin young boys, missing an arm, a leg, or an eye. Occasionally, he caught sight of a Fardohnyan merchant with his entourage of slaves and his gloriously exotic court'esa dressed in little more than transparent silk and a fortune in gems.

Tarja forgot how much he disliked Bordertown every time he left it, and was surprised that after four years, he had still not grown accustomed to it. He preferred the open plains – even the dangerous game he played with the Hythrun Warlord.

Tarja led his men to the center of the town where the market was in full swing. There were stalls everywhere selling just about anything Tarja could name and quite a few things he could not. The smells and sounds of the wharf were replaced with more familiar animal things. Raucous chickens stacked in cages, bleating sheep, evil-eyed goats, and squealing piglets all vied with each other to attract the most attention. A stand selling exotic colorful birds drew Tarja’s eye, where a large black bird with a tall red crest yelled obscenities at the passersby. Tarja could feel the undercurrent of the town’s heartbeat, like a distant thrumming against his senses.

The town square was dominated by a tall fountain in the shape of a large and highly improbable sculpted marble fish which spewed forth a stream of water into a shallow circular pool. A crowd had gathered to watch as a small man dressed in ragged clothes stood on the rim of the pool. He was yelling in a high-pitched, animated voice.

Tarja glanced at the man with a shake of his head, then turned to Basel. “I thought old Keela was sent to the Grimfield?”

The sergeant shrugged. “They can’t keep locking him up forever, sir. He’s crazy, not a criminal.”

“The gods seek the demon child!” Keela was yelling fervently. “The gods will strike Medalon asunder for turning from them!”

Tarja grimaced at the lunatic’s words. “He’ll be wishing he was back in the Grimfield if he keeps that nonsense up for much longer.” He turned his horse toward the fountain, and the crowd parted eagerly for him, expecting a confrontation. Hoping for one.

Keela stopped ranting as Tarja approached and stared at him with his one good eye. The other eye was clouded by a cataract which made the wizened old man seem even crazier than he really was.

“Go home, Keela,” Tarja told the old man. His words brought a disappointed murmur from the crowd. They wanted a fight.

“The gods seek the demon child,” Keela replied in an eminently reasonable tone.

“Well they won’t find him in the Bordertown markets,” Tarja pointed out sternly. “Go home before you get into trouble, old man.”

“Father! What are you doing?” A young woman dressed in poorly made homespun pushed through the crowd, alarmed by the Defenders confronting her father. She glanced at the old man and then hurried over to Tarja and looked up at him desperately. “Please, Captain! You know he’s not right in the head. Don’t arrest him!”

“I wasn’t planning to, Daana,” Tarja assured the young woman. “But I suggest you take him home before someone takes exception to his public speaking.”

“I will, Captain,” she promised. “And thank you.”

Daana hurried over to the old man and pulled him down from the fountain. As she dragged him without resistance past Tarja he looked up and grinned crookedly.

“You’ve been touched by the demon child, Captain,” Keela told him with an insane chuckle. “I can see it in your aura.”

Tarja shook his head at the old man. “Well, I’ll be sure to give the demon child your regards when I see him.”

“Mock me all you want,” Keela chuckled. “The demon child is coming!”

Daana managed to drag her father away as the disappointed crowd dispersed. Tarja turned his horse toward the Headquarters on the other side of the square.

The Defenders’ Headquarters were located in a tall, red-brick building. It boasted a rather grand arched entrance that led into a courtyard in the hollow center of the building. Another troop was preparing to depart as they rode through the archway. The captain, Nikal Janeson, waved to them as they entered. He finished his discussion with the Quartermaster, then walked over to Tarja as he reined in his mount. The Quartermaster raised a laconic hand in greeting before disappearing inside the building. It was hard to believe he was the Lord Defender’s brother. Verkin claimed he tolerated him because he would rather have Dayan Jenga cheating the local merchants on behalf of the Defenders than have him cheating the Defenders on behalf of the local merchants.

“Let me guess. Festival of Jelanna?” Nikal asked, taking in the various bandages and slings Tarja’s troop wore. It was Nikal who had made Tarja learn the Hythrun calendar when he first arrived in Bordertown four years ago.

“And thanks to Gawn, they got away,” he told Nikal as he dismounted. Ritac stepped forward and took Tarja’s reins, leading his mount through the crowded courtyard to the stables. “You heading out along the Border Stream?”

Nikal nodded. “The week after next is the Festival of Bhren, the God of Storms. Damned if I know how they get anything done in Hythria. They seem to spend an inordinate amount of time stuffing their faces in honor of their gods.”

Tarja smiled briefly, then his expression grew serious. “While you’re out there, you might want to reassure the farmsteaders that they won’t be taxed if they’re raided. It seems our young captain took it upon himself to instigate a few changes while he was out on his own.”

Nikal glanced at Gawn. “Damned fool.”

Gawn had dismounted and approached the two captains. His bearing was stiff and unyielding as he nodded to Nikal politely before turning to Tarja.

“I must inform you, sir, that I intend to make a full report to Commandant Verkin regarding your reprehensible actions. I imagine he will want to see you as soon as I have made my report.”

“Reprehensible?” Nikal asked with a grin.

“For your information, sir, Captain Tenragan attacked me viciously for no reason!” With that, the young captain turned on his heel and strode toward the main building.

“Your mistake, my friend,” Nikal said as he watched him leave, “was letting the stupid bastard live.”

“Don’t think I wasn’t tempted.”

“Well, he’s right about one thing, Verkin does want to see you.” Nikal gathered up his reins and swung into his saddle. “There’s been quite a few changes since you left. Trayla’s dead, for one thing.”

“Dead? How?”

“Murdered by a heathen, from what I hear.” Nikal glanced over his shoulder at his troop to assure himself they were ready to depart. “I’ll let Verkin fill you in. I have to get going.” He leaned down and shook Tarja’s hand warmly. “It’s been good having you here, Tarja. I shall miss you.”

“You’ll not be gone for that long.”

“No, but you will. You’ve been recalled to the Citadel, my friend.”

chapter 3

R’shiel hurried along the broad walkway to the Citadel’s Lesser Hall, buttoning the collar of her green Novice’s tunic as she half-walked, half-ran along the vine-covered brick path. She was late for Joyhinia’s reception, and her tardiness was among the many unforgivable sins her mother frequently criticized her for.

R’shiel did not want to be at the reception for Sister Jacomina, the new Mistress of Enlightenment. She was not looking forward to an evening of standing around in the Lesser Hall being accosted by her mother’s followers, who would ask her interminable questions about subjects she had no wish to discuss in public.

R’shiel was firmly convinced that Joyhinia had no friends, only followers. She hated being the daughter of a Quorum member. She often wished she had been born a boy. Then she could have joined the Defenders. It would be nice to be free from the shadow of her mother’s overweening ambition.

She reached the entrance to the Lesser Hall just as the Citadel’s walls began the Dimming. Some of the younger Novices whispered that it was magic that made the walls of the Citadel brighten slowly at the dawn of each new day and dim to darkness with the setting of the sun. The Probates simply considered it a unique architectural feature that was beyond the understanding of the Novices. R’shiel thought this a much more likely explanation. The Sisters preferred not to discuss it at all. Tarja told her it was because hundreds of years ago the Citadel had been a complex of heathen Temples. Whatever the reason, the glowing walls flooded even the deepest recesses of the huge white fortress with its hundred halls, both grand and humble, with soft white light. It also reminded R’shiel that she was late.

The faint sound of massed voices reached her ears as she eased open the heavy door to the Lesser Hall. Novices and Probates were required to gather each evening in the Great Hall, led by the senior Sisters, to give thanks to Sister Param and the Founding Sisters for their deliverance from the bonds of pagan worship. R’shiel had learned to recite the Daily Affirmation as a small child and knew well the punishment for not joining in enthusiastically. Harith’s cane was accurate and painful. The only benefit of being ordered to attend this reception that R’shiel could think of was that she had been exempted from attending the Affirmation.

The Lesser Hall was lit with hundreds of candles against the inevitable Dimming, although the walls had only just begun to lose their radiance. It was about half the size of the Great Hall, which meant it could still accommodate five hundred people comfortably. The domed ceiling, supported by tall, elegantly fluted columns, was painted a stark white – no doubt to cover the licentious heathen artwork underneath. The walls were white, like all the walls in the Citadel, and were made of the strange, impervious material that glowed and dimmed with the reliability of a Defender’s Oath. R’shiel glanced around and spied Joyhinia talking to Sister Jacomina and the Karien Envoy on the far side of the Hall as she edged her way along the wall. With luck, she would be able to convince her mother she had been here on time. R’shiel rarely defied her mother openly – she was not that foolish – but she was adept at walking the fine line between compliance and defiance.

Joyhinia looked up and caught sight of her with a frown. R’shiel gave up trying to hide and decided to brazen it out. She squared her shoulders and walked purposefully through the gathered Sisters and Defenders to greet her mother.

“Mother,” R’shiel said with a respectful curtsy as she reached Joyhinia and her companions. “Please forgive me for being so late. I was helping one of my classmates with her studies. I fear I lost track of time.”

Better that, than Joyhinia learn she was late because Georj Drake had been teaching her the finer points of knife throwing. R’shiel could not ever imagine having a need to use such a skill, but it was such an unladylike pastime that she couldn’t resist the offer to learn. R’shiel sometimes worried about her tendency to do things that would deliberately provoke Joyhinia.

Her mother saw through the lie but accepted it. “I hope your classmate appreciated your sacrifice.” R’shiel knew that slightly sarcastic tone from long experience. Her mother turned to the Envoy and said, “Sir Pieter, I would like to introduce my daughter, R’shiel.”

R’shiel dutifully curtsied to the Envoy. He was a solid man with lazy brown eyes and the weary air of a jaded aristocrat. He took her hand in his, kissing the air above it. His ceremonial armor creaked metallically as he bowed to her.

“A charming child,” he said, looking her up and down, making her feel rather uncomfortable. “And a noteworthy student, so your mother informs me.”

“I try my hardest to honor my mother’s faith in me, my Lord,” she replied, thinking that was almost as big a lie as her excuse for being late.

“Respectful and charming,” Lord Pieter said with an approving nod. “No doubt she will follow in your footsteps one day, Sister Joyhinia. The Quorum will soon benefit from two generations of Tenragan women, I suspect.”

“R’shiel will choose her own path, my Lord. I want nothing more for my daughter than her happiness.”

R’shiel did not bother to contradict her. She had less say in her future than the average Hythrun slave, who at least had the advantage of knowing he was a slave.

“You must be gratified to know that you have such dedicated students awaiting you in your new post,” the Envoy remarked to Jacomina.

The new Mistress of Enlightenment nodded somberly, although the look she gave R’shiel was far from enthusiastic. Jacomina might use many words to describe R’shiel, but “dedicated” was unlikely to be one of them.

R’shiel had thought it odd that her mother had taken Mahina’s promotion to First Sister so well, until she learned who had been appointed to fill the vacancy left by Trayla’s death and Mahina’s elevation. Jacomina was her mother’s creature. She probably didn’t have a thought in her head that Joyhinia hadn’t put there.

For R’shiel, Jacomina’s promotion was bound to prove awkward. As Mistress of Enlightenment, Jacomina would report even her most minor infractions to her mother, a situation that could only get worse when she graduated to the rank of Probate a few weeks hence.

A blonde Probate approached them bearing a tray of delicate crystal goblets filled with fine red wine, and Lord Pieter’s attention was thankfully diverted to the ample cleavage of this new arrival. The Probate offered the wine with a polite curtsy, giving R’shiel a look of pure venom as the younger girl accepted a glass. Selected Probates had been ordered to serve at Joyhinia’s soiree, but R’shiel, a mere Novice, was here as a guest. She would probably return to a room that had been overturned or to find all her clothes had been dunked in the garderobe. Being Joyhinia’s daughter might get her invited to social functions, but it did not save her from the pecking order in the dormitories.

R’shiel sipped her wine and remained politely silent while Joyhinia and Lord Pieter resumed their conversation. The room gradually filled with the upper echelon of Citadel society. Lord Pieter answered in monosyllables, apparently more interested in eyeing the young women present. The man had an appalling reputation, particularly for one from a country that was so puritan it was rumored that even thinking impure thoughts was a sin.

Blue-gowned Sisters outnumbered the red-coated Defenders in the Hall, who, to a man, looked stiff and uncomfortable in their high-necked dress uniforms. They did not like these formal occasions. The Sisters of the Blade ordered them to attend so they could flaunt their superiority. At least that was what Georj claimed. R’shiel thought it more likely that they just didn’t like all the bother it took to get dressed. A speck of dust, or a boot you couldn’t use as a shaving mirror, would catch the attention of the Lord Defender faster than a man could blink.

A raucous, high-pitched laugh caught R’shiel’s attention, and she turned toward the source. Crisabelle Cortanen was Mahina’s daughter-in-law – a chubby, crass woman who had married Mahina’s son Wilem when she was sixteen and had not managed to age mentally since that day. Crisabelle wore a frilly yellow dress that emphasized, rather than concealed, her bulk. Commandant Cortanen stood beside her, his expression one of long-suffering embarrassment. Refused a place in the Sisterhood as a child, Crisabelle was beside herself with glee now that her mother-in-law was the First Sister.

The main door was thrown open, and Lord Draco, the Spear of the First Sister, entered the Hall, followed by Mahina. Draco was tall, dark, and stern. To R’shiel, he epitomized the rank he held, but she found it hard to think of Mahina as the First Sister. She still looked more like a peasant than an autocrat, even in her beautifully tailored white silk dress with its seed-pearl bodice. Mahina accepted the bows and curtsies of her subjects with a maternal wave and approached Joyhinia, Lord Pieter, and Jacomina.

“My Lord. Joyhinia. Congratulations on your appointment, Jacomina. You honor us with your presence in the Quorum.”

Jacomina replied with some inane comment that R’shiel did not catch. She had managed to step back out of the circle of people surrounding her mother and closer to the tall stained-glass doors that led onto the balcony, which had been opened to take advantage of the balmy evening. She was wondering what her chances of being able to slip outside and escape were, when the door opened and Lord Jenga, accompanied by a number of his officers, arrived.

As the men stepped into the room, R’shiel was stunned and delighted to see her brother among the officers walking behind the Lord Defender. Every eye in the room was on him and the Lord Defender as they walked through the Hall toward the First Sister. The Senior Probates stopped serving and stared at him openly. The others in the room gaped for a moment and then quickly looked away. R’shiel could almost see their ears straining to catch what was about to be said.

Tarja had been banished to the border by Trayla more than four years ago, although the reasons why had never been clear to R’shiel. When he was sent away, all Joyhinia had told her, in a cold and angry tone, was that he had offended the First Sister. Judging from the startled looks of the gathered Sisters, he had done more than just offend her. Even Mahina, who had always had a fondness for her brother, looked shocked to see him, which meant it was obviously not she who had recalled him. R’shiel wondered if her appeal to Jenga had been the reason for Tarja’s recall, then decided it wasn’t. Jenga was not the sort of man to be swayed by a smile and a heartfelt plea.

“Your Grace,” said Jenga with a bow to the First Sister. “Lord Pieter. Sisters.”

“Lord Defender,” Mahina replied. She turned her attention to Tarja and gave him a long look. R’shiel glanced at her mother and was not surprised at her thunderous expression. Joyhinia was not pleased to see her son.

“Welcome home, Tarja,” Mahina said.

“Thank you, your Grace,” Tarja replied with a bow, then he turned to Joyhinia. “Mother.”

“I wasn’t aware that you’d been recalled, Tarjanian,” she remarked coolly. “I trust your time on the border has taught you something useful.”

“More than you could imagine,” Tarja assured her. He caught sight of R’shiel, and his eyes widened with surprise.

“This is your son, Sister?” Pieter asked Joyhinia, as he took Tarja’s measure. “You’ve never mentioned him before.”

Joyhinia’s expression did not change. “Tarja has been fighting on the southern border these past four years.”

“Killing Hythrun, eh?” Pieter chuckled. “A worthy cause, Captain. And just how many did you dispose of?”

“More than I care to count,” Tarja replied glibly. “Now, if you will excuse me, my Lord, I see that my sister is anxious to welcome me home. First Sister. Lord Jenga. Lord Draco. Sisters.” Tarja walked through the small gathering to R’shiel, took her arm none too gently, and led her away. He didn’t stop until they were through the stained-glass doors and standing on the balcony. As soon as they were out of the hearing of the gathering inside, Tarja let her go. “Founders, I was glad to see you! I don’t think I could have stood being surrounded by those vipers for a moment longer.”

“I can’t believe you had the nerve to show up here tonight. Mother looks ready to burst something,” she laughed. R’shiel was rather pleased at the disturbance his appearance had caused. Although it hadn’t occurred to her when she’d asked Jenga to recall him, she realized now that with Tarja back, Joyhinia would have another focus for her disapproval. She stepped back and looked him up and down, thinking that his time on the border had obviously taught him some restraint. A few years ago, he would have started fighting with Joyhinia the moment he laid eyes on her. “When did you get back?”

“Yesterday. You know, I almost didn’t recognize you. You’re all grown up.”

R’shiel pulled a face. “Hardly. I’m not even a Probate yet.”

“Being a Probate is not what I would use as a benchmark for maturity,” he laughed. “I suppose this means Joyhinia is still trying to mold you into the perfect little Sister of the Blade?”

R’shiel sighed. “I think she’s starting to wonder if it’s a lost cause. Somehow I get the feeling I’m not turning out quite the way she intended.”

“I don’t think either of us have turned out quite what Joyhinia intended.”

R’shiel had always been close to her half-brother, despite the fact that he was ten years older than her and already a Cadet in the Defenders when she arrived at the Citadel as a baby. Joyhinia forbade her to socialize with him, but it had been a futile effort on her mother’s part. As a child she had been spanked, on more than one occasion, for hanging around Tarja and the Cadets.

“Why do I get the feeling things are going to get rather interesting now that you’re back?”

“Because he’s a troublemaker,” a voice joked from behind. Startled, R’shiel spun around and found Georj Drake, Tarja’s best friend and her recent knife-throwing instructor, standing behind her. The young captain’s hazel eyes were full of laughter. “You should banish him again before he can do any damage.”

“Now there’s a tempting thought,” she mused. “Where shall we send him, Georj? Back to the southern border? Or maybe the Grimfield?”

“You are a cruel woman, R’shiel.” She liked Georj. He was almost as much a brother to her as Tarja. “Maybe you should order him to the Arena.”

“Georj!” Tarja warned. “I’ve already told you no.”

R’shiel looked from Georj to Tarja and back to Georj again. “What?”

Georj took R’shiel’s arm conspiratorially. “Well, you might be too young to remember, but back in the good old days, before Tarja publicly called Trayla a fatuous bitch, he was the undisputed champion of the Arena.”

“I remember,” she said, before turning to Tarja, wide-eyed. “Is that what you did? You called Trayla a fatuous bitch?”

Tarja glared at them but did not deign to answer. Georj tugged her arm to get her attention back. “Well now that he’s back, he has a duty to regain the title. Ever since we heard he’d been recalled, Loclon has been bragging about how he can beat Tarja. He’s issued a formal challenge, and your uncaring brother has refused it. The honor of every captain is at stake here.”

R’shiel knew of Loclon, a slender young lieutenant with lightning-quick reflexes. He had been the talk of the Citadel all summer.

“I said no, Georj!” Tarja snapped. “Cajoling R’shiel isn’t going to make me change my mind, either.”

“Why not? Are you afraid he’ll beat you?”

“No! I’m not afraid he’ll beat me. I’m afraid I’ll win, and then every half-witted, glory-seeking Cadet in the Citadel will want to take me on. I’ve done my time in the Arena, R’shiel. I don’t need to prove anything.”

“Why don’t you just take the challenge and lose, if that’s what you’re worried about?” she asked with somewhat contrived innocence, knowing full well the reaction such a suggestion would provoke. “Just let him beat you.”

Georj looked horrified. “Lose? How could you suggest such a thing, girl?”

Before she had a chance to answer, the Probate who had served the drinks earlier appeared at the doorway. She glanced coyly at Tarja and Georj before turning her attention to R’shiel.

“Sister Joyhinia wants you to come inside, R’shiel,” the Probate said pleasantly, although her smile was meant for the Defenders. R’shiel was surprised she had been allowed to spend even this small amount of time with Tarja.

She glanced at the officers and shrugged. “I have to go.”

“Poor little Novice,” Tarja sympathized. “Can’t ignore an order from mother now, can we?”

“Do you think if I called Mahina a fatuous bitch, I could get myself banished from the Citadel, too?” she asked under her breath.

The Envoy had moved away from the circle of women surrounding the First Sister and her mother, and was standing, half-hidden by a column on the other side of the room, fondling a rather startled-looking Probate.

R’shiel suspected her mother pandered to Lord Pieter’s appetites for her own reasons. Morality and sin were hallmarks of religion and the Sisters of the Blade never practiced anything that smacked of religion. The hidden artwork throughout the Citadel was concealed because it offended the Sisters to see the gods depicted, not because they cared what carnal activities the heathens were engaged in. Good government was based on law and common sense, not some heathen notion of morality. In R’shiel’s opinion, Lord Pieter had crossed even that generous line, and it was simply a sign of Medalon’s fear of offending Karien that no one remarked on the man’s outrageous behavior.

R’shiel, with Tarja and Georj close behind her, approached her mother. She was listening with interest as Sister Harith complained about the growing number of heathens.

“It is time for another Purge,” Harith was suggesting loudly.

“I agree they are getting out of hand again,” Joyhinia remarked, which made Jacomina nod enthusiastically in support. Joyhinia could suggest running naked through the Citadel, and Jacomina would probably nod enthusiastically in support, R’shiel decided. “The rumors of a demon child have flared up again, too. But a Purge?”

Mahina glanced at the Sisters and shrugged, unconcerned. “The demon child rumor has been around for two centuries, Sisters. We should pay it as much attention now as we have in the past.”

“But this time it seems to be really taking hold,” Harith remarked. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it reached all the way to the southern border.” She glanced past R’shiel at Tarja. “You’ve just come from there, Captain. Have you heard anything?”

“I heard a crazy man ranting about it. But nobody took him seriously.”

“There! You see?” Harith announced, her point proved.

R’shiel wondered what rumor they were talking about. The goings-on among the few miserable heathens left in Medalon were not something that reached the ears of a mere Novice, even one as privileged as R’shiel. She leaned toward Georj and whispered, “What’s a demon child?”

Mahina heard her and answered her question. “According to heathen legend, R’shiel, Lorandranek, the last king of the Harshini, sired a half-human child. They call him the demon child. He is supposed to have a great capacity for destruction.”

“All the more reason to hunt him down and kill him,” Harith added.

Mahina chuckled. “Hunt him down and kill him, Harith? This child was supposed to have been sired by a man who was last seen two hundred years ago!”

“But we don’t believe in the gods; therefore logically, such a child cannot exist.”

Mahina nodded in agreement. “Well said, R’shiel! And we are not going waste valuable resources sending the Defenders out to hunt down this nonexistent child. The rumor will die down as it always has.”

“But you cannot deny that the number of heathens seems to be on the rise,” Joyhinia pointed out. R’shiel recognized that feral gleam in her mother’s eye as Joyhinia neatly maneuvered the First Sister into making a public blunder.

“I don’t deny it, Sister. It is a matter of great concern to me. But I have to ask myself, what have we done to make these people turn from the Sisterhood? Does the fault lie with our administration? We should clean up our own house before we start looking at others.”

Joyhinia bowed to the First Sister. “By your words you demonstrate the wisdom worthy of a true First Sister, Mahina.”

The older woman nodded in acknowledgment of Joyhinia’s eloquent compliment. R’shiel glanced at her mother and shuddered. She knew that look, knew that venomous, bitter gleam better than anyone. Joyhinia despised Mahina. R’shiel sipped her wine as she watched the elder Sisters and wondered how long it would be before there was another funeral, another public Burning, and another First Sister. She caught Tarja’s eye and thought he was wondering the same thing.

chapter 4

R’shiel straightened her tunic, checked that her fingernails were clean, and smoothed down her braid before she knocked on the door to her mother’s rooms. The spacious apartment on the third floor of the Sisters’ main residential wing had ceased being her home from the day she put on the Green. Not since she had been sent to the Novices at twelve had she returned without requesting entry. There was still a room referred to as her bedroom in the apartment, but it was bare of any personal touches. Visiting home was as warm and welcoming as visiting one of Brodenvale’s well-kept inns. But she didn’t really mind – one of the advantages of being a Novice was that it meant she didn’t need to live at home. It was perhaps the only reason that she had never done anything serious enough to get herself expelled.

The door was opened by old Hella, Joyhinia’s long-suffering maid, who stood back to let her enter with a barely polite curtsy. Joyhinia was sitting by the fire, an open book on her lap. The room was uncomfortably hot. Although the bitter winds of autumn had begun to swirl through the streets of the Citadel, today had been unseasonably warm. Joyhinia preferred the heat. She looked up, closing the book carefully.

“You may go now, Hella.”

The maid curtsied and let herself out. Joyhinia studied R’shiel’s new gray Probate’s tunic for a moment before looking her in the eye.

“Well?”

R’shiel shook her head. This ritual had been going on for years now. Every Restday, when R’shiel arrived for their weekly dinner, Joyhinia met her with the same question. At first, when R’shiel was younger, Joyhinia had asked the whole question: “Well, have you had your menses yet?” As the years dragged on and nothing happened, the question had become abbreviated to a short, impatient “Well?” She had seen every physic in the Citadel, and none could give her a reason why she had not begun her cycle. All her friends had reached their time before they were fifteen. R’shiel had just turned eighteen, and although she had every other physical sign of womanhood, she remained amenorrheic. She wished Joyhinia would stop asking her.

Joyhinia shook her head impatiently at her reply. “Gray is not your color,” she remarked, placing the book carefully on the side table. “You looked much better in the Green, with that red hair.”

“I shall try to become a Sister as fast as I can, Mother. Perhaps the Blue will suit me better.”

Joyhinia either did not notice the edge in her voice or chose to ignore it. “If you applied yourself, there is no reason you couldn’t get through the two years as a Probate in one,” she said thoughtfully.

“I was joking, Mother.”

Joyhinia looked at her sharply. “I wasn’t.”

“Shall I pour the wine?” R’shiel walked to the long, polished table, which was already set with dinner, and picked up the decanter. It was time to get off the topic of her academic progress. That route could lead to awkward questions R’shiel did not want to answer.

“So, have you moved into the Probates’ Dormitories yet?”

“Last Fourthday. I’m sharing with Junee Riverson.”

Joyhinia frowned. “Riverson? I don’t know the name. Where is she from?”

“Her family come from Brodenvale. They started out as fisherfolk on the Glass River. Her father’s quite a wealthy merchant now. She’s the first in her family to be accepted into the Sisterhood.”

Joyhinia sipped her wine and shook her head. “I’ll have you assigned to a room with someone more appropriate. The daughter of another Sister, at the very least.”

“I don’t want to be moved. I like Junee.”

“I really don’t care what you like, young lady. I’ll not have you rooming with some river peasant from Brodenvale.”

“We are all equal in the Sisterhood.” At least that was what the Sisters of the Blade espoused.

“There is equal, and there is equal,” Joyhinia replied.

“If you interfere with my rooming assignment, everyone will know,” she pointed out, handing Joyhinia her wine. “There is already a suspicion that I’ve only succeeded so far due to your influence. If you change my room for a better one, that suspicion will become fact.” To be more accurate, the suspicion was that were she not the daughter of a Quorum member she would have been thrown out of the Novices long ago, but Joyhinia did not need to be reminded of that.

Joyhinia glared at her for a moment, before relenting. “Very well, you may stay with your pet peasant. But don’t come crying to me when you can no longer stand her screeching accent or her infrequent bathing habits.”

R’shiel was not fool enough to gloat over this minor triumph. “I promise I shall suffer the consequences of my foolishness in silence, Mother.”

“Good,” Joyhinia agreed. It was odd how her mother only ever seemed truly pleased with her when she was able to outwit her. “Now let’s eat before the roast cools.”

R’shiel took her place at the table as Joyhinia lit the candles from a taper. The walls had dimmed to about a quarter of their daytime luminosity, and the candles did little to light the room. R’shiel waited until her mother was seated before she lifted the domed silver cover off her plate. It was roast pork, accompanied by a variety of autumn vegetables. The pork was tender and pale, and smothered in rich gravy. The sight of it made R’shiel’s stomach turn.

“What’s the matter?”

R’shiel glanced at her mother, wondering if she should say something about the meat. It smelled off, but then most meat did these days. Then again, she was probably wrong. She had warned her friends about eating meat that she could have sworn was rancid, only to find they considered it perfectly sound.

“Nothing,” R’shiel replied, picking up her fork. “It looks wonderful.”

“It should,” Joyhinia grumbled. “It took enough effort to arrange. You would think I’d asked for some exotic Fardohnyan seafood dish, the way the cooks carried on when I ordered pork. You’d better eat every bite, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

With a grimace R’shiel cut into her meat. They ate in silence, R’shiel forcing down every swallow. Joyhinia appeared to be enjoying the meal. If there had been even a hint of taint on the meat, she would have sent it back to the kitchens with a blistering reprimand for the cooks.

Finally, Joyhinia put down her fork and studied R’shiel across the table. “Jacomina says you missed class three times this week.”

“I wasn’t feeling well.” Having her mother’s closest ally as the Mistress of Enlightenment was proving rather uncomfortable. Mahina had never reported half the things she got up to. “I’ve been getting headaches. They seem to get better if I rest.”

“Have you seen a physic?” Joyhinia had no patience with illness or invalids.

“I hadn’t thought a headache worthy of a visit to a physic.”

“Well, see Sister Gwenell if they continue. You can’t afford to be missing classes.”

“Yes, Mother,” R’shiel replied dutifully. Missing classes was the only thing her mother seemed to care about – not if she might be ill. Annoyed, R’shiel pushed her unfinished meal away and said the one thing guaranteed to aggravate her mother. “Have you seen Tarja, recently?”

“Your half-brother does not choose to visit with me nor I with him. I suggest you adopt a similar policy.”

“But he’s my brother.”

“Half-brother,” she corrected. “However, that is irrelevant. Tarjanian is a troublemaker and you would do well to disassociate yourself from him.”

“That makes it kind of awkward for you, doesn’t it? A woman in your position? It’s a good thing I toe the line.” Most of the time, she added silently to herself, and then just barely.

Joyhinia’s expression clouded with annoyance. “Don’t presume to threaten me, my girl. I’ve no need to remind you what will happen if I hear of you misbehaving again.”

“I’ll make certain that the next time I misbehave, Mother, you don’t hear about it,” she promised with a perfectly straight face.

Joyhinia sipped her wine and studied her daughter critically. “You will push me too far one day, R’shiel. And I can assure you the consequences will not be pleasant.”

R’shiel knew that look. A change of subject was in order.

“Why is the Karien Envoy here?” she asked. Politics was the one topic she could rely on to divert Joyhinia.

“I’m surprised you have to ask. He’s here because we have a new First Sister. He wants the treaty between Karien and Medalon reaffirmed.”

“Oh,” R’shiel said. Any first-year Novice could have worked that out, but for the time being, her shortcomings were forgotten.

“He’s also here to observe the Sisterhood,” Joyhinia continued. “He wants to assure himself that we are not wavering on our policy of suppression of heathen worship. He wants Mahina to initiate another Purge. He’s lobbying members of the Quorum to support him. Harith is already on his side. Francil won’t care one way or the other, so long as it doesn’t interfere with the running of the Citadel. If I can be talked around, Jacomina will follow, and he’ll get what he wants.”

“Isn’t a Purge a bit extreme? There can’t be that many heathens left. It hardly seems worth the effort to rid Medalon of a few scabby peasants secretly worshipping trees or rocks, or whatever it is that they hold divine.”

Joyhinia frowned at R’shiel’s impudence. “I see our new First Sister has her supporters. I hope you don’t espouse such sentiments publicly, R’shiel. You must never forget that you are my daughter.”

“Don’t worry, Mother, there’s no chance of me ever forgetting that.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ve done everything I could to make your life as easy as possible, R’shiel. I expect you to return that consideration, one day.” Joyhinia’s face was hidden by the goblet, so it was hard to read her expression, but R’shiel had a bad feeling that Joyhinia already knew exactly how she expected R’shiel to repay her.

R’shiel also had a very bad feeling that whatever Joyhinia had in mind, she probably wouldn’t like it.

chapter 5

The Lord Defender waited until the end of the month of Helena, three months after Mahina’s promotion, before approaching the First Sister with the plans he had for some much-needed changes in the defense of Medalon. He unconsciously straightened his red coat as he and his officers strode the long hall that led to the First Sister’s office. The sound of the officers’ boots was muffled by the blue, carpeted strip that stretched with stark symmetry toward the large double doors at the end of the hall. The walls were at their brightest this early in the afternoon. On his left strode Commandant Garet Warner, the officer in charge of Defender Intelligence. A slender, balding man, with a deceptively mild manner, he had a soft voice which disguised a sharp mind and an acerbic wit. On his right, carrying a stack of rolled parchments, was Tarja Tenragan.

Sister Suelen, Mahina’s secretary, rose from her desk as they approached. “My Lord Defender. Captain. Commandant. I’ll tell the First Sister you’re here.”

The three men waited as Suelen knocked and then vanished inside the double doors. Jenga studied the plain, unadorned doors with curiosity. They were veneered with a thin coating of bronze to conceal, presumably, the heathen artwork underneath. There were many doors, walls, and ceilings like this one throughout the Citadel – covered with any material that would disguise the origins of their builders. Jenga had seen enough of the exquisite murals and delicate friezes to lament their camouflage. The Harshini who had built the Citadel were accomplished artists, but their subject matter tended toward the baser side of human nature and unfailingly depicted one god or another. Before the Sisterhood had taken possession of it, the Lesser Hall had been a Temple devoted to Kalianah, the heathen Goddess of Love. It had a ceiling that was, reputedly, quite explicitly erotic. It was whitewashed every two years without fail, to prevent the heathen images from ever showing through.

Jenga’s musing was interrupted by the reappearance of Suelen. “The First Sister will see you now.”

Jenga pushed aside the heavy door and entered the office first, followed by Garet and Tarja. Mahina stood as they entered. Draco remained standing behind her desk, his expression as inscrutable as ever. Mahina came around the desk to greet them, holding out her hands warmly. Jenga could not remember the last time a First Sister had shown him so much respect or had treated him so like an equal.

“My Lord Defender! Am I so daunting, now that I’m First Sister, that you felt the need for moral support?”

“Never, your Grace. I’ve brought these two along so that you can question them and spare me.”

Mahina’s brow furrowed with curiosity. “This is not a social call then, I gather? Well, let’s be seated. By the look of that pile Tarja’s holding, this is going to take a while.”

The First Sister’s office was a huge room, although Jenga had never been able to divine its original purpose. The walls shone with the Brightening, and large, multipaned windows that reached from floor to ceiling looked out over a stone-balustraded balcony. The massive, heavily carved desk sat in front of the tall windows, making the most of the natural lighting. Four heavy, padded-leather chairs, normally reserved for the Quorum, sat before the desk. Mahina indicated they should sit and took her place behind the desk, placing her hands palm down on its polished surface.

“So, my Lord Defender, what can I do for you?”

“I have a number of proposals, your Grace,” he began. “Issues that concern the Defenders and the defense of Medalon.”

“Such as?”

“The Hythrun Raiders. The treaty with Karien. The defense of our borders. The issue of internal unrest.”

Mahina frowned. “That’s quite a list, Jenga. Let’s tackle it one at a time, shall we? Start with the Hythrun.”

“As you wish, your Grace,” Jenga nodded. “I want permission to allow the Defenders to cross the border into Hythria in pursuit of Hythrun Raiders.”

Her matronly face was puzzled. “Jenga, are you telling me our boys simply stand on the border and watch the Hythrun ride away with our cattle?”

“I’m afraid so, your Grace.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“A decade, or so,” Tarja replied for him, making no effort to hide his contempt for the practice. “Trayla introduced the prohibition while she was visiting Bordertown about ten years ago. Her carriage broke down and she was stranded for the afternoon on the side of the road. She decided that if the Defenders had been closer to home, rather than across the border chasing the Raiders, she would have been spared an uncomfortable afternoon in the heat. She issued the order the next day and refused to counter it, despite numerous pleas by both the Lord Defender and Commandant Verkin.”

“Is that right, Draco?” Mahina asked, looking to the First Spear of the Sister for confirmation. Draco nodded, his expression neutral.

“I believe it is, your Grace.”

“Consider it countered,” Mahina snapped, turning back to Jenga. “That is the most absurd thing I have ever heard. How much have we lost to the Hythrun in the last decade, because of her fussing? By the Founders, I wonder about my Sisters sometimes.” Suddenly she looked at the three Defenders and grimaced. “I trust your discretion will ensure my remarks never leave this room, gentlemen?”

“You can rely on our honor, your Grace,” Jenga assured her. Draco made no comment. He was privy to every secret of the First Sister and to Jenga’s knowledge had never broken that trust in over thirty years.

Mahina glanced at Tarja. “Four years you were on the border, weren’t you, Tarja? And forbidden to cross it? I’ll send an order to Verkin today, countering Trayla’s order.” She smiled at Jenga. “See, that was easily taken care of, wasn’t it? What was the next item you wished to discuss?”

“I want to strengthen the defenses on our northern border,” Jenga told her, privately delighted at her reaction to his first request. “Or, to be more accurate, I would like to implement defense of our northern border.”

Mahina leaned back in her seat. “Our northern border is protected by the treaty with the Kariens, my Lord. It has been for nearly two hundred years. What need for defenses in the north, when the money could be better spent elsewhere?”

Jenga glanced at Garet and nodded. This was his area of expertise. “We don’t believe the Karien treaty is as mutually beneficial as they would have us believe,” Garet said carefully.

“I’ve just signed a treaty with them, assuring our protection for another twenty years,” Mahina pointed out. “Are you suggesting the Kariens are not planning to honor that treaty?”

“Your Grace, I think we need to consider the history behind the treaty,” Garet replied, “... what brought it about in the first place.”

“I know the history of Medalon,” Mahina reminded the Commandant. “I was Mistress of Enlightenment for quite some time, young man.”

“I’m aware of that, your Grace, but I would ask that you hear me out.” Mahina nodded and indicated that the Commandant should continue. “You need to understand the situation in Medalon at the time of the abortive Karien invasion, two hundred years ago. In those days the Sisterhood, although growing fast, was not yet a power to be reckoned with. Medalon was little more than a loose collection of towns and villages, most of which followed the pagan gods of the Harshini. The Sisterhood had evicted the Harshini and taken over the Citadel, but that was as much a sign of the Harshini aversion to confrontation, as it was to the strength of the Sisters of the Blade. Medalon had no military power to speak of.”

“None of this is news to me, Commandant,” Mahina told him.

“Bear with me, your Grace,” Garet asked. “As I said, Medalon, as a nation, was nothing. They had no army. They had nothing that could be construed as a threat to Karien.”

“But they planned to invade us, nonetheless,” Mahina said.

“Actually, I doubt if they cared about Medalon much at all,” Tarja added. “The Kariens were on their way south, to Hythria and Fardohnya. Wiping out the Harshini along the way was only part of their plan. They wanted the whole continent, from the Northern Reaches to the Dregian Ocean.”

“But they failed,” Mahina pointed out, obviously enjoying the debate. “They were turned back at our borders by a storm.”

“They weren’t just turned back,” Garet said. “They were decimated. Incidentally, the heathens believe that Lorandranek called down that storm by magic and it was he who saved Medalon. But whether it was divine intervention or sheer good fortune, the end result was devastating for the Kariens. They had taken years to amass their invasion force, and King Oscyr of Karien had beggared the nation to do it. The failure of that invasion cost him the support of his Dukes and eventually caused the downfall of his whole house. But more significantly, it cost him the support of the Church of Xaphista. He was excommunicated and died in shame less than two years later. His half-sister’s son inherited the throne, and it is from her children that the current royal house is descended.”

“Commandant, I admire your grasp of history, but is there a point to all this?”

“Yes, your Grace,” Garet nodded. “The point is, that when the treaty was first negotiated between Karien and Medalon, the Kariens were an impoverished nation, ruled by a fourteen-year-old boy. The Sisters of the Blade controlled the Citadel and a few villages surrounding it. Neither party to the treaty was in a position of strength, but both gained from it. Medalon earned a measure of security – with the treaty in place they need not fear for their northern border and could turn their attention to protecting their southern borders. Karien gained breathing space, but more importantly, they gained a measure of redemption from the Church, by making the eradication of the Harshini and all forms of heathen worship in Medalon a condition of the treaty.”

“Which in turn,” Tarja said, picking up the narrative, “led to the formation of the Defenders. The Sisters of the Blade supported the Kariens’ demands because it suited their purposes to agree with them. The Church of Xaphista the Overlord is the most powerful force in Karien. It was safer to agree to their terms and keep them on their side of the border than to disagree and risk Karien knights on Medalon soil, or worse, their missionaries. The Defenders were created to rid Medalon of the Harshini and to crush all forms of heathen worship.”

“A task they performed more than adequately,” Mahina acknowledged. “And a philosophy we still hold to.”

“And therein lies the danger, your Grace,” Jenga said, deciding it was about time he added something to the discussion. “Just as the Sisterhood believes in the same thing it believed in two hundred years ago, so do the Kariens.”

“Three years ago,” Garet continued in his soft, deceptively mild voice, “King Jasnoff’s son, Cratyn, came of age and was formally invested as the Karien Crown Prince. During the ceremony, he made his first address to the Dukes. He promised to finish the job Oscyr started. ‘To see the Church of the Overlord stretch from one end of this mighty continent to the other,’ I believe were his exact words.”

Mahina shrugged. “The rhetoric of a boy newly come to manhood, surely? I cannot divert the sort of resources such an undertaking would consume on the idle boasting of one young man. Besides, as your very presence proves, we have the Defenders now. If the Kariens look like they are breaking the treaty, you are well equipped to defend us.”

Tarja shook his head. “Actually, your Grace, we’re not. We can defend the south, or we can defend the north. We can’t do both.”

Garet nodded in agreement. “Tarja’s right. There are too many Defenders utilized for duties that can only be described as ceremonial. If the Kariens made a move on us, we wouldn’t be able to stop them. For that matter, they wouldn’t need to declare war on us. A foraging army the size of the Kariens’ would strip Medalon clean in a matter of months.”

Mahina held up her hand. “Slow down a minute,” she pleaded. “You’re getting way ahead of me here. Let’s go back to the issue of whether or not the Kariens are even planning to break the treaty. You’ve given me nothing to suggest that they might.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, your Grace,” Garet said, knowing full well that he wasn’t. “But the treaty with Karien requires Medalon to stamp out all pagan worship and anything to do with the Harshini, doesn’t it? In the past two years, we’ve uncovered more cults devoted to various Primal and Incidental Gods than were discovered in the thirty years prior to that. And rumors of the demon child are stronger than ever. Nobody has even seen a Harshini for over a century and a half, yet the cults continue to surface.”

“The work of the Hythrun or the Fardohnyans, surely?” Mahina asked. “They still hold to the pagan beliefs. I hear that even after all this time, the Sorcerer’s Collective in Greenharbor still keeps vigil over some lump of magic rock in a cave somewhere, waiting for the Harshini to speak to them again.”

“It’s called the Seeing Stone,” Garet corrected. “It’s in the Temple of the Gods in Greenharbor.”

“Whatever,” Mahina said dismissively. “Surely they are the ones encouraging the spread of the pagan cults?”

“I believe it is the Kariens who are encouraging the spread of the heathens,” Garet replied.

“To what purpose?” Mahina asked. “They want to see the end of the pagans as much as we do. What possible reason could they have for encouraging them?”

“It’s because they wish to eradicate the heathens. All of them, including every heathen in Hythria and Fardohnya. Far from being helpful, Medalon stands in their way now. Two centuries ago we were nothing, and but for a fortuitous storm, the Kariens would have marched straight through Medalon to reach the southern nations. But in a moment of weakness, they signed a treaty with us that they are honor bound to uphold. The only loophole they have is if we are not keeping our side of the bargain, which is the suppression of all heathen worship. The more cults that spring up in Medalon, the more reason they have for crossing our border to put them down. They don’t have to break the treaty, your Grace. They can quite legally use it against us.”

Mahina sighed, not totally convinced, but Jenga could see that she was not skeptical, which was a hopeful sign. “Lord Pieter was strongly suggesting another Purge, Commandant. Hardly the action of a man waiting to pounce on us for our lack of performance.”

“A Purge achieves two things, your Grace,” Garet told her. “It publicly acknowledges the existence of the heathen cults, which is what the Kariens need to legally cross our borders, and it ties up even more of the Defenders on internal matters. We cannot win. If you refuse to instigate a Purge, then you’re not taking action against the heathens. If you start one, then you’re admitting that the heathens are a problem. Either way, the Kariens can claim we have not adhered to the terms of the treaty.”

“And if what you say is true, we have not the Defenders to repel an attack?”

“Not at present,” Tarja agreed, “but we could establish a civil militia.”

Mahina looked at the younger man steadily. “A civil militia?”

Tarja nodded. “A civilian force to take care of the internal policing of Medalon. Nearly half our military force is currently engaged in routing out small groups of heathens, who, for the most part, don’t even know how to fight. It’s a waste of men and training. We are a small nation jammed between three very large ones. We cannot afford to have our fighting force arresting farmers and confiscating chickens.”

“How would this militia function?” Mahina asked. Tarja reached for one of the scrolls he had brought with him, but Mahina waved it away. “Tell me Tarja, in your own words. I’ve no doubt your figures are sound, but if you want me to sell this to the Quorum, I need to know how you feel about it.”

Tarja put down the scroll. “Each town would have its own unit, commanded by an officer of the Defenders. The militia itself would be made up of volunteers – locals who would be trained by the officer in charge to undertake whatever action was deemed necessary to free the area of heathens. The Defenders would then be free to do something about our northern border. If necessary, you can claim the militia was established as a long-term alternative to a purge.”

Mahina sighed. “Every now and then, Tarja, you prove you really are your mother’s son. Or has four years of staring at the Hythrun from the wrong side of the border sharpened your instincts? I don’t remember you being so astute.”

Tarja did not like to be reminded that he might have inherited anything from his mother. “It’s good common sense, your Grace.”

Mahina shook her head. “Good sense is far from common, I fear, Tarja. However, you have given me much to ponder.” She waved a hand in the direction of the scrolls. “These are your detailed plans, I assume?”

“And their estimated cost,” Garet added.

Mahina smiled appreciatively. “A well thought-out battle plan, I see. If you attack our enemies as effectively as you have attacked me, Medalon will be well defended. I will study your proposal, gentlemen. And you’d best be prepared to defend it. I cannot take anything this radical to the Quorum without being certain.”

“I will be happy to provide any other information you require,” Jenga offered. His expression was stern, but inside he was filled with relief. For the first time since Garet and Tarja had approached him with their assessment of the Karien treaty almost five years ago, he had a woman in charge who was prepared to listen to him.

chapter 6

“R’shiel! Hurry up!”

R’shiel forced her eyes open and squinted painfully as the bright wall greeted her with its silent, glowing panels. Her pounding headache had abated somewhat, but she still felt groggy and listless. She rolled over on her narrow bed and stared sleepily at Junee.

“What?”

“Hurry up!” Junee urged from the open doorway. “We’ll never find a good seat if we wait much longer.”

Understanding came slowly to the younger girl. “Oh, at the Arena, you mean?”

“Yes, at the Arena,” Junee repeated with an impatient sigh. “Come on!”

R’shiel swung her feet to the floor and gingerly lifted her head. With relief, she discovered she could move it without too much pain. She must have slept the worst of it off. Her headache was the third one this week. R’shiel had almost reached the point of doing what her mother ordered by seeking help from a physic. She slipped on her shoes and stood up as Junee tapped her foot impatiently by the door. She caught sight of herself in the small mirror over the washstand and grimaced. Her skin was waxy and there were large dark circles under her eyes. Even her gray tunic hung on her loosely these days. R’shiel tried to recall the last time she had eaten. Every time she neared the Dining Hall and smelled the meat, she found herself running in the opposite direction. The last time she had forced herself to eat, she had thrown up. Her tummy rumbled and complained, but she ignored it. Hunger was preferable to the alternative. She picked up her gray knitted shawl against the chill of the late autumn evening and followed her roommate down the corridor of the Probate’s dormitory.

“Hey! Wait for us!”

R’shiel and Junee stopped and waited for the three girls who called after them from the other end of the hallway. Tonight was an event of some note at the Arena, and R’shiel was already regretting her decision to join Junee. Every Novice and Probate in the Citadel, every Defender not on duty, and probably a good many of the Sisters and civilians would be there. Georj had taken up the challenge that Tarja had refused. Everybody knew about it. Everybody wanted to be there.

Rumor had it that the only man Georj Drake had never beaten in the Arena when he was a Cadet was Tarja. Brash and good-looking, with a shock of golden hair, Lieutenant Loclon had been the undisputed champion of the Arena for months now. It would be a fight worth seeing, the other girls insisted – perhaps the best seen in the Arena for years.

Normally, R’shiel was not terribly interested in the fights in the Arena. She had grown up at the Citadel, and her brother was a Defender. There was little romance or excitement for her, watching men hack at each other with blunted swords. The fights had begun a century or more ago as training exercises. They were now the main form of mass entertainment and no longer restricted to the Cadets. Many officers and enlisted men continued to fight in the Arena long after they graduated to the ranks of the Defenders. Occasionally a brave civilian entered a bout, although the Lord Defender discouraged such rash bravado, even though the swords were blunted and the worst injury gained was usually a nasty bruise or the occasional broken bone. Tonight would be different, however. There would be no blunted swords and no quarter given.

The fight was to first blood. Loclon had formally challenged the captains and Georj Drake had accepted on behalf of his brother officers.

As she hurried along the street to the amphitheater with her friends, R’shiel worried about Georj. He had not been in the Arena for several years, whereas Loclon fought there almost every week.

By the time the five Probates reached the amphitheater, the crowd had grown considerably. A chill wind blew across the side of the small hollowed-out hill. With a shiver, R’shiel pulled her shawl tighter. Her headache had receded to a dull, throbbing pain at the back of her eyes, which she could ignore if she didn’t think about it. Junee grabbed R’shiel’s arm and pulled her forward, pushing through the crowd. When they reached the top of the grassy hill, she glanced around and then pointed at two red-coated figures leaning on the white painted railing.

“That’s your brother, isn’t it?” she asked.

R’shiel squinted into the setting sun and followed Junee’s pointing finger. Tarja stood talking with Garet Warner.

“Where?” Kilene asked excitedly, pushing her way forward to stand next to R’shiel on the other side. “Let’s go down there. Then you can introduce me.”

R’shiel glanced at Kilene and shook her head, understanding now why she and her friends had been so anxious to join her and Junee. “I’m sure Tarja doesn’t want a bunch of giggling Probates hanging around him. Besides, he’s with Commandant Warner. The last thing you want to do is bring yourself to his attention.”

Kilene looked uncertain for a moment, but her desire to meet Tarja outweighed her fear of Garet Warner. “Come on,” she urged. “We’ll never find a seat if we wait here.”

R’shiel sighed and followed Kilene, Junee, and the other girls down into the amphitheater. As they neared the two Defenders, the other girls’ bravery deserted them, and they stopped, waiting for R’shiel to catch up, before they approached the men. Tarja looked up as she neared him, his smile of recognition fading into a frown as he looked at her.

“Founders, R’shiel! You look awful.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Tarja.”

“Sorry, but you’re as thin as a hoe handle.”

R’shiel could feel an impatient tugging on her shawl, which she loftily ignored. “I’ve been getting headaches, that’s all.”

“She won’t eat, either,” Junee informed Tarja, forcing the introduction that she could feel her companions itching for.

“Tarja, Commandant Warner, this is my roommate Junee. And this is Kilene, Marta, and Wandear,” R’shiel said with a resigned shrug.

“Ladies,” Tarja said with a gracious bow. Garet looked over the young women with vast disinterest, nodded politely, then turned back to the Arena.

“Can we sit here with you?” Kilene asked boldly, ignoring Garet as being too old and not nearly handsome enough to warrant her attention.

“You’re more than welcome to sit here,” Tarja told her. “However, I will be down below with Georj. In fact, we were just on our way there, weren’t we, Commandant?”

Garet glanced at Tarja and then at the girls. “What? Oh! Of course! We’d better get a move on. Lovely meeting you all.” Garet strode off without waiting for him.

“I have to go, I’m afraid, although I’m glad you found me, R’shiel. Georj wants you to wish him luck.” He took her arm and before she could protest steered her away from the other girls toward the Arena. He opened the gate that led from the seating area to the sandy floor, then took her the short distance into the tunnel that led into the caverns that honeycombed the hill underground. R’shiel could hear male voices coming from somewhere to her left. As they entered the gloomy tunnel, Tarja stopped and spun her around to face him.

“You don’t look awful, R’shiel,” he said with concern, “you look like death. What’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know, Tarja. I keep getting the worst headaches, and every time I smell meat I want to throw up.”

“Have you told Joyhinia?”

“She told me to see a physic,” R’shiel admitted, a little reluctantly.

“For once, I agree with her,” Tarja grumbled. “Why not go home, R’shiel? You don’t need to be here. Get some rest. Try to eat something.” Then he smiled at her, and R’shiel understood why half the Probates in the Citadel wanted to be her best friend. “I’m sure Georj can redeem the honor of the captains without you cheering for him.”

R’shiel frowned. “He will beat Loclon, won’t he?”

“He’d better!”

“Can I see him before I go?”

“Of course,” Tarja said, taking her arm. “I’m sure if he’s planning to die tonight, the last thing he’d rather see is you, in preference to our ugly faces.”

He led her into the cavernous rooms below the amphitheater, which had been built to house and train the fabled magical horses of the Harshini, who, like their owners, were long extinct and barely remembered, except for a few pitiful heathens who insisted on following the old ways.

The Sisterhood scoffed at rumors of magical horses, just as they denounced the idea that the Harshini were anything more than licentious tricksters. Their magic, according to the Sisterhood, was nothing more than clever parlor tricks, their horses simply the result of good breeding. She wondered, sometimes, how a race as morally bankrupt and as supposedly indolent as the Harshini had ever managed to build anything as impressive as the Citadel.

Georj was sitting on a three-legged stool in a large torchlit alcove, surrounded by several of his friends. They were all offering him advice, much of which, from the pained expression on his face, he considered useless. He looked up at R’shiel’s approach and leaped to his feet, pushing away his well-meaning advisers.

“R’shiel!” he said, taking both her hands in his. “Has the thought of my glorious victory finally overcome your aversion to bloodsport?”

“I thought this was a duel, not a bloodsport, Georj,” she scolded.

“Never fear, little sister,” Tarja assured her. “Georj will give young Loclon a lesson in swordplay and a small scar to remember him by, that’s all.”

R’shiel leaned forward and kissed Georj’s cheek lightly. “Be careful, Georj. And good luck.”

“He’ll need all the luck he can get, my Lady.”

R’shiel turned to find Loclon standing behind her, flanked by two other lieutenants. She had only ever seen him from a distance before and decided that the Novices and Probates who spoke dreamily of his looks were, for once, probably speaking the truth. He was young, not much past twenty, and wore plain leather trousers, knee-high boots, a sword, and a blue sash tied around his waist. Georj was dressed identically, although his sash was red. Loclon moved with easy grace, his lithe body oiled and well muscled in the torchlight. Georj was taller and heavier than the younger man, who reminded R’shiel of a leopard feigning indifference to its prey before it closed in for the kill.

Loclon stepped forward. “Is this your sister, Captain Tenragan?”

Tarja did not appear too pleased that he had forced an introduction. “R’shiel, this is Lieutenant Loclon.”

“Lieutenant,” R’shiel said, with a barely civil curtsy. Something about this handsome young man set her teeth on edge. There was an air about him that spoke of arrogance, of cruelty.

“My Lady,” Loclon replied. “I would be honored if you would wish me luck as well.”

“I was under the impression you didn’t need anything as mundane as luck, Lieutenant.”

Loclon flushed as Georj and his friends roared with laughter. The young man’s eyes blazed dangerously for a moment before he composed himself.

“Then you’d best wish all your luck on Captain Drake, my Lady. The old man will need it.” With that, he stalked off toward the Arena.

R’shiel turned to the “old man,” who was all of twenty-eight, her eyes full of concern. “Be careful, Georj.”

“Don’t worry about me, R’shiel,” he declared. “Worry for all your friends in the Dormitories who will cry themselves to sleep tonight when I scar that pretty face of his.”

Georj followed Loclon toward the Arena, his seconds in tow, full of laughter and back-slapping camaraderie.

R’shiel turned to Tarja. “Tarja, you can’t let him do this.”

He put an arm around her thin shoulders and hugged her gently. “I couldn’t stop it R’shiel, even if I wanted to. Don’t worry about Georj. Hard-earned battlefield experience will win out over parade-ground bravado.”

“You’re as bad as Georj. You aren’t taking this seriously enough.”

A muted roar from the stands reached them as the combatants entered the Arena.

“Go home, R’shiel,” Tarja told her gently.

Suddenly R’shiel was no longer tired. “No, I’m coming with you. I want to watch this.”

Tarja shook his head but did not argue the point. Together they walked back through the tunnel to the rectangle of light that was the entrance to the Arena.

The fight started slowly at first – a tentative clash of blades, each man testing his opponent. R’shiel could tell that Georj had the longer reach, but Loclon had speed and agility on his side. She stood in the entrance to the tunnel, watching the duel with Tarja, Georj’s companions, and the two lieutenants who had accompanied Loclon. The crowd fell silent as the first blows were struck, the air charged with anticipation.

Loclon circled the sandy arena slowly, in a half-crouch, perfectly balanced on the balls of his feet. He flicked his sword out now and then, with a speed that seemed to take Georj by surprise. The captain was no longer smiling, his expression set in a mask of concentration. Georj was an accomplished swordsman. One could not rise to the rank of captain in the Defenders and be anything less, but he spent more time in the saddle than the Arena these days. He held his own easily enough. Loclon was unable to get through his guard, but he was fighting defensively. It was Loclon who had the initiative.

“Why doesn’t he just attack?” the captain standing next to Tarja muttered impatiently.

“Georj never rushes into anything,” Tarja replied, although R’shiel could tell he was wondering the same thing. “Give him time.”

Loclon suddenly launched himself at Georj. His blade moved so fast it was a silver blur in the twilight. Georj held off the younger man, but he was being pushed backward, step by step. The roar of the crowd was thunderous as Loclon pushed the captain. The sound of metal on metal was lost in the din of the three thousand or more spectators who had gathered to watch someone shed blood. Their cries irritated R’shiel. They didn’t really care who won. They just wanted to see a man bleeding.

Georj held off the attack well enough, but he appeared to be struggling a little. Loclon suddenly pulled back and turned to acknowledge the adulation of the crowd, a gesture that sent them wild. Georj recovered himself quickly, however, and the moment Loclon turned back to face his opponent Georj was on him, using his superior height and weight to push the younger man back. Loclon might have had speed, but Georj was as unstoppable as a rock in an avalanche. Loclon’s face lost its smug expression as Georj bore down on him. The blows from the bigger man obviously jarred his sword arm every time he blocked a stroke.

R’shiel could feel the tension draining out of Tarja and his friends as Georj attacked.

And then, so quickly R’shiel hardy even saw it happen, Georj overextended himself and left Loclon an opening. With a startled cry, Georj lowered his sword and glanced down at his left arm where a long, shallow cut marked his forearm. Blood dripped slowly onto the sand. He looked stunned that Loclon had gotten through his guard. Loclon bowed to Georj raising his sword in salute.

The fight was to first blood.

And Loclon had won.

The crowd was quiet for a moment, shocked into silence, before it erupted into a thunderous cheer for the young lieutenant. Around R’shiel, Loclon’s friends were laughing and congratulating each other as Loclon turned a slow circle, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd. R’shiel watched him with a frown, then glanced at Georj. Her stomach lurched as she saw the look on his face. She read murderous intent in his eyes.

“Tarja!” she cried, but it was too late. Georj raised his sword as Loclon turned his back to him, accepting the adulation of the spectators. With a wordless yell, Georj charged.

Perhaps he heard Georj’s cry over the roar of the crowd, or perhaps he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, but Loclon turned at the last minute, bringing his sword up to deflect Georj’s blow. The crowd fell silent as the fight resumed, sensing the change in the combatants. This was no longer a fight to first blood, no longer an argument between two officers trying to prove a point of honor. This was deadly.

Loclon defended himself with the same blinding speed that he had shown the first time he had attacked, but he was no longer playing to the audience. Georj was intent on murder as much as victory. R’shiel’s stomach cramped as she watched the men trade blows, watched cuts appear on both men go unnoticed in their frenzy.

“I think we should put a stop to this, Tarja,” a quiet voice said behind her.

R’shiel glanced over her shoulder and discovered Garet Warner standing behind her. She wondered for a moment where he had been but found her eyes drawn back to the Arena. Both men looked tired and bloodied, but neither was willing to concede victory as blade struck blade hard enough to throw sparks.

“Georj will never forgive us if we stop this before it’s resolved,” Tarja replied, although to R’shiel he sounded more angry than concerned.

“Someone is going to get killed,” Garet warned. “I’m sure Jenga would rather have a couple of peeved officers than lose a good man. It’s gone on long enough. Besides, Georj lost. He should know better.”

Tarja glanced back at Garet and then nodded. “You’re right.”

R’shiel held her breath as they stepped into the Arena, wondering if Garet’s rank and Tarja’s authority would be enough to overcome the bloodlust consuming both men. The crowd began to jeer as they realized what the appearance of the two officers meant. They were enjoying the spectacle. They didn’t want it to stop. Not when it had just got interesting.

The Arena was huge, and Tarja was still about twenty paces from the pair when Georj stumbled and fell backward. Loclon was on him in an instant, swinging his sword in a wide arc, slicing his blade across Georj’s throat in a spray of blood.

The crowd fell silent in horror as Georj screamed. R’shiel’s stomach cramped again as she watched Loclon standing there, gloating. Tarja and Garet broke into a run, followed by the men who had been waiting in the tunnel entrance. Almost faint with disgust, R’shiel clutched at the cold stone wall of the tunnel as she watched Tarja run toward his fallen friend.

But he scooped up Georj’s discarded sword, left his friend to the ministrations of his seconds, and turned toward Loclon. Garet was calling for a physic, in a voice that carried surprisingly well, considering how soft-spoken he normally was. As Tarja neared Loclon, the young man raised his sword again, preparing to take Tarja on. R’shiel bit through her bottom lip as another cramp seized her. Her fear was bitter enough to taste, mingled with the salty taste of her own blood.

Loclon crouched expectantly as Tarja walked toward him. The crowd held their breath. Georj had refused to cede the fight, and Loclon’s act was unforgivable, but it might not be over yet. The only sound that filled the Arena was Georj’s screams.

Tarja stopped just out of Loclon’s reach. The young man was panting heavily. He was waiting for Tarja to move. Tarja hesitated for a moment then brought up his sword. Loclon blocked the blow easily, but before he could recover his balance, Tarja struck again. Lulled by Georj’s deliberate movements, Loclon was unprepared for Tarja’s speed or strength. This was no ceremonial Citadel captain fighting for his honor. This was an angry, battle-hardened veteran. Loclon was disarmed before he knew it. The sword flew from his hand as Tarja contemptuously flicked his blade, opening a savage cut from Loclon’s left eye to his mouth. The lieutenant dropped to the ground screaming, clutching at his ruined face. Tarja left him there, turned on his heel, and walked back toward the tunnel, where Georj was being rushed out by his seconds and a blue-skirted physic who had run to his aid from the crowd.

R’shiel stood back against the cold stone wall as they hurried past her. Georj had stopped screaming. Carried by four of his comrades, he was unconscious now – from shock or loss of blood – and his head lolled backward as the blood spurted from severed arteries. Another crippling cramp seized R’shiel, and she realized that it had nothing to do with seeing so much violence. So much blood. Something else was wrong.

As Tarja approached the tunnel, she shrank back from the anger in his eyes. He did not appear to notice her as he strode past, too consumed by rage to notice anything. Another cramp, even worse than the last one, twisted her belly and she cried out. The sound must have cut through Tarja’s fury. He stopped and glanced back at her.

“I warned you to go home,” he told her.

R’shiel didn’t answer him – couldn’t answer him. Pain ripped through her like a gutting knife. She held out her hand, as she felt a warm rush between her legs. She looked down and was surprised to find herself standing in a puddle of bright blood.

“Founders!” Tarja rushed toward her as she fell. He caught her and scooped her up into his arms. The last thing she remembered before falling into a swirl of blessed darkness was Tarja holding her. Running. Calling for help.