Medalon

chapter 7

The Greenharbor docks were a chaotic mix of sounds and smells, of tar and curses, of rank fish and screeching fishmongers, saltwater and damp sails. A forest of tall masts stretched around the harbor as far as the eye could see. There was a vibrancy that set this port apart from any other Brak had visited.

The crescent-shaped, natural bay was striped with different shades of blue, marking the deep channels that led out to the Dregian Ocean. The ships anchored at the wharves were a haphazard mixture of Hythrun square-riggers and Fardohnyan oared traders, and occasionally a garishly painted Karien galleon squatting nervously between her pagan neighbors. Farther around the bay, moored at the dock reserved for visitors to the Royal Enclosure at the foot of the huge white palace, Brak noted the sleek lines of a Fardohnyan oared warship displaying a Royal Standard. He spared the ship barely more than a passing glance. At last count, King Hablet of Fardohnya had enough offspring to populate a fair-sized town. Any one of his children might be here to seek guidance from the Sorcerers, make an offering at the Temple of the Gods, or just cause trouble.

There was no other port quite like Greenharbor and Brak fervently wished that he had not been forced here this time. In his experience, Greenharbor meant the Sorcerer’s Collective and that meant they wanted something of him. Something he undoubtedly did not want to give them. But he could hardly blame Captain Soothan for his decision to head for the lucrative Greenharbor markets. Finding a rare school of blue-finned arlen at this time of year was a gift from the gods. Aden was a prized delicacy in Greenharbor. That one catch alone would see him through the rest of the year.

Brak had been at sea long enough to know that finding a school of blue-finned arlen in such warm waters was not unusual – it was damned near impossible! He kept his suspicions to himself about the source of this unexpected bounty, collected his pay and his bonus, and left the ship as soon as it docked. His prudence was well founded. The ship was in port less than half a day before it was visited by a smartly dressed troop of soldiers from the Sorcerer’s Collective. Brak watched them from the safety of a dockside tavern, downed his ale in a gulp, and slipped away while he still had the chance.

Greenharbor had only two seasons – hot and muggy or unbearably hot and muggy. With the northern winter approaching, fortunately it was just hot. It was also the High Prince’s birthday and the white, flat-roofed city was crowded to overflowing with visitors from every Province in Hythria. Merchants and slavers, farmers and thieves, prostitutes and gamblers, the jaded and the awestruck – all descended on the Hythrun capital this time every year. All seven Warlords were in the city to make their annual offering at the Temple of the Gods. By law, they were restricted to three hundred Honor Guards each, but that was more than enough to cause trouble. They would need little encouragement to brawl with their enemies, and their enemies were any poor sod wearing the colors of another Province. Brak despaired of Hythria. Two centuries ago, they had been a proud and enlightened nation. Now they were little more than barbaric warmongers.

Zegarnald, the God of War, had much to rejoice in, he thought sourly. But it was not the God of War’s fault that Hythria had fallen into a constant state of armed conflict. Like any primal god he merely took advantage of the circumstances. The blame lay squarely with the Harshini, who had withdrawn unexpectedly and left these people without guidance. Neighboring Fardohnya was just as bad. The current Fardohnyan King was a profiteering opportunist whose facility for changing sides left the casual observer’s head spinning. Maybe that accounted for the Fardohnyan ship in the harbor, Brak mused. Perhaps Hablet had decided that his antagonistic attitude toward Hythria for the past three decades was no longer profitable and had sent an envoy to make peace. Brak doubted it, but anything was possible.

Brak pushed his way through the streets thinking about the current state of affairs in Hythria and Fardohnya. The Harshini King had thought only to leave Medalon to its own devices, to save lives by vanishing from sight so the Sisterhood would think their Purge successful. When the continued Harshini presence in the southern nations alerted the Sisterhood to their survival, the Purge in Medalon had gained savage momentum. Every Harshini in Hythria and Fardohnya had eventually been called home, leaving the southern courts without the calming influence of Harshini advisers, and the Sorcerer’s Collective without teachers and mentors.

Brak nimbly sidestepped a fistfight that spilled out into the street from a tavern across the way. As he did so, he wondered if Lorandranek had ever thought what the Harshini withdrawal would do to the nations of the south... Brak was sometimes sorry he had never asked him. Then he remembered that he had not given Lorandranek a chance to say much at all. Brak pushed the thought away. He had been running from that memory for almost two decades. He turned down the next street and walked straight into the High Prince’s birthday parade.

Cursing, Brak tried to step backward, but the crowd swept him up and carried him forward along the wide avenue lined with golden palms. Children clung like limpets to their ringed trunks in an effort to see over the heads of the crowd. Brak was taller than most men, and over the spectators’ heads, he could see the High Prince’s grandiose retinue slowly wending its way toward the Royal Compound overlooking the harbor. With a frustrated sigh, Brak gave up fighting against the crush. He let the throng carry him along and settled for watching the High Prince instead.

The prince was an old man now, a fact that startled Brak. He had not set eyes on him for years; but seeing how the man had aged reminded him sharply how he was different from normal men. Brak looked no older now than he had when he first met the High Prince as a young man, whereas Lernen Wolfblade was in his dotage.

The High Prince rode in an open carriage, a pretty young man by his side – no doubt Lernen’s latest plaything. Brak was a little surprised to think the old man still had it in him. Perhaps it was just habit, these days, which substituted for lust. Brak frowned as he watched the carriage roll by, Lernen smiling absently and waving at the masses. The High Prince’s predilection for young boys was, indirectly, another reason to fear for Hythria.

This nation had grown used to High Princes who had little but ceremonial value, and in that respect Lernen Wolfblade had fulfilled his duties better than anyone could have hoped. The Warlords valued their independence, and the once-powerful house of Wolfblade had degenerated over the past two centuries. Lernen epitomized the depth of their descent into depravity. The weakness of successive High Princes allowed the Warlords to rule their provinces as they saw fit, without interference. And Lernen was childless. From what rumor and gossip Brak had heard over the years, he had no interest in producing an heir, not even for the sake of his country. Consequently, the heir to the throne was not a simpering, court-raised dandy, as the Hythrun heir had been for a century or more. The current heir was Lernen’s nephew. The son of his only sister Maria, he had been raised far from court in Krakandar Province and was already a Warlord in his own right. Brak silently and fervently wished Lernen a long, long life as he disappeared from view.

The Warlords of Hythria did not want a strong High Prince, and by all accounts, Damin Wolfblade was unlikely to be anything else. There were tough times ahead for these people. What was currently a nation of provinces constantly niggling at each other could well explode into a fullblown civil war.

The elaborate open carriage that followed the High Prince answered Brak’s earlier question about the identity of the Fardohnyan from the ship bearing the Royal Standard in the bay. It was a young woman in her mid-twenties, undoubtedly one of Hablet’s countless daughters. She rode in the carriage and waved to the passing crowd with the experience of one raised to perform such mindless ceremonial duties. Brak wondered which daughter the raven-haired beauty with the bored expression was. A young couple standing in front of him, stretching up on their toes to see over the crowd, answered his unspoken question as they watched her carriage pass by.

“That’s Princess Adrina of Fardohnya,” the young woman sighed. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

Her companion laughed. “I heard she’s such a shrew, Hablet can’t find a husband brave enough to take her on.”

“Maybe that’s why she’s here,” the young woman suggested. “To find a husband?”

“Well, I hope she doesn’t have her eye on poor old Lernen,” the young man chuckled. “She’d be wasting her charms on him.”

Brak listened to the conversation with a faint smile. It seemed the Hythrun were under no illusions about their High Prince.

By the time the parade had passed, the crowd began to thin a little, and Brak was able to push his way through to a tavern a few streets over that he had last visited more than three decades ago. He was relieved to find it still standing and pushed his way inside to the cool interior. The establishment’s clientele had moved up a notch or two since his last visit, he noted idly.

The owner was new and eyed his rough sailor’s clothing warily as he entered. However, one look at Brak’s full purse was enough for the innkeeper to put aside her concerns. Brak took a room, ordered a bath, and settled down to wait.

He knew if his old friend, Wrayan Lightfinger, was aiding their search, it wouldn’t take them long to find him.

Brak was sleeping when they burst into his room. He was dreaming of home: of white walls and peace and a forgiveness that he could never accept. It was a pleasant dream, one he rarely allowed himself. It was too easy to slip into, too hard to leave. The pull he felt toward home that filled him like a dull ache every waking moment flared into white-hot desire if he allowed himself to feel too much. Better not to dream of it. Better not to think about it.

The crash of the door being kicked in jerked him awake. Before his eyes were fully open the room was full of soldiers and he was pinned to the bed, the sharp point of a sword at his throat. The soldiers were from the Sorcerer’s Collective. They were smartly dressed in their silver tunics, and there were enough of them to take a Harshini by surprise. They asked no questions, certain of his identity, and gave him no chance to deny it. He wondered at the advisability of trying to escape. It would be easy enough. These men were soldiers, not sorcerers. He could cast a glamor over himself that would make him vanish before their eyes and walk out of the room unchallenged. But the sorcerers would feel his magic, and it would lead them to him like bloodhounds on the sent of a fresh kill. He was still debating the matter when a sorcerer entered the room.

“Gently, Sergeant,” the young sorcerer warned the soldier holding the blade to his throat. “Lord Brakandaran is an honored guest.”

The pressure of the blade eased a little, and Brak found himself able to breathe again. He looked at the young man. He wore a long black robe with the hood pushed back. He was fair-haired and older than he looked, Brak guessed. One did not normally wear the black so young.

“Honored guest?” he asked dubiously.

The sorcerer shrugged apologetically. “Would you have come if we simply sent a message, my Lord?”

“No. And I’ve no intention of going anywhere with you now.”

“My Lord, it grieves me that you feel that way,” the Hythrun sighed. “I am under instructions to see you delivered to the High Arrion, and she simply won’t take no for an answer.”

“She?” Brak asked curiously, despite himself. He had been away longer than he thought.

“Kalan of Elasapine has been High Arrion for the last two years, my Lord,” the sorcerer informed him. “I am Rorin, the High Arrion’s personal seneschal. She begs me to inform you that while she appreciates your desire for anonymity, she must insist on an audience. And, might I add, on a personal note, I am honored to be in your presence, Divine One.”

That did it. Brak pushed the sergeant away angrily. The man raised his sword threateningly but lowered it instantly as Brak’s pale blue eyes began to darken to almost black.

“Get rid of them,” he snapped.

Rorin ordered the men out with a wave of his hand. They left as quickly as they could without running. Brak could taste their fear like the tang of metal on his tongue. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed as his eyes returned to their normal color. He took a deep, calming breath, a little surprised that even after all this time, his power was still enough to frighten other men.

“Let’s get something cleared up right now,” he said. “I am not a Divine One.”

Rorin’s expression did not change. “As you wish.”

Brak shook his head with frustration. “Don’t give me that look! I’m a half-breed, nothing more. I know you pray for the return of the Harshini, but don’t look to me for your salvation. I’m not the one you want.”

Rorin listened politely. “My Lord, I know of you, by reputation at least, and if you wish to deny your divinity, that’s fine by me. But I must insist that you accompany me back to the Sorcerer’s Palace.”

“Do you have some sort of hearing problem, young man?” Brak asked irritably. “Have I not explained myself clearly enough for you? Give my compliments to the High Arrion and tell her I declined her invitation.”

“I would if the invitation came from her, my Lord.”

“If not the High Arrion, then who?” Brak snapped, afraid he already knew the answer. He had suspected it ever since the remarkable arlen catch in waters where they had never been seen before. Such a feat was beyond the simple tricks and spells of the Sorcerer’s Collective.

The sorcerer glanced over his shoulder, pushing the door shut to ensure they could not be overheard. That action alone confirmed the worst of Brak’s fears.

“The Seeing Stone spoke for the first time in almost two centuries, my Lord,” Rorin told him with a hint of awe in his tone. “His Majesty, Korandellen, King of the Harshini, appeared to us.”

It was odd hearing Korandellen referred to by his full title. Uncomfortable, too, particularly for the man who had made him king. Brak frowned at the news.

“What does Korandellen want?”

“He wants to speak with you,” Rorin told him.

Brak regretted his decision almost as soon as he made it. He had fought for so long to put Sanctuary behind him. He had spent years trying to let his human blood dominate his Harshini heritage. He thought he had succeeded. Sometimes the ache faded so much that he thought it was gone. Sometimes he went days without reminding himself of why he could never return home.

Rorin had a golden sorcerer-bred stallion waiting for him outside the inn. When it gave him a soft flicker of recognition he realized just how much he had deluded himself – and how sure that Rorin had been of his agreement. One did not offer such a priceless animal to an inexperienced rider.

The horse tossed his head as he approached, the touch of his equine mind filled with images of hay and oats and young fillies. Brak smiled at the stallion’s thoughts, privately delighted that the Sorcerer’s Collective had kept the breed true, even after all this time. The stallion’s iridescent coat shone gold in the light of the street lamps. Rorin nodded knowingly as Brak reached up and scratched the stallion’s forelock.

“No other could approach Cloud Chaser so fearlessly, my Lord,” Rorin told him. “You may not like to think of yourself as a Divine One, but there is no denying the bond.”

“Getting along with animals doesn’t make me divine,” Brak snapped as he swung into the saddle.

“It does with that beast,” Rorin chuckled. He turned to the soldiers who had mounted their own, less noble mounts and were waiting patiently, staring at Brak with a mixture of curiosity and awe. “Lead on, Sergeant.”

“Don’t bother,” Brak said, leaning forward to pat Cloud Chaser’s neck. “I know the way.” He reached for Cloud Chaser’s mind and told him where they were headed. With a shake of his magnificent head, the beast galloped off toward the Sorcerer’s Palace, leaving Rorin and his escort behind.

Brak’s mad ride was halted soon enough as he rode through the streets to the Sorcerer’s Palace, picking his way through the nighttime revelers. The palace sat high above the city on a bluff overlooking everything in Greenharbor, even the Royal Compound. Although everyone called it a palace, it was actually a complex of Temples and residences, encircled by a thick white wall constructed of stone quarried from the chalk cliffs west of the city. Their fragile strength was reinforced by age-old Harshini magic. It had stood for over two thousand years, almost as long as the Citadel.

He rode through the palace gates unchallenged. The guards stood back to let him enter, not knowing who he was but certain that anyone riding a sorcerer-bred mount had a right to be there. The night was dark although the buildings were lit in almost every window, crisscrossing the central paved courtyard with a tapestry of shadows and light. Brak paid the imposing buildings no mind at all. He rode straight up to the steps of the Temple of the Gods and dismounted, leaving Cloud Chaser waiting patiently. He took the marble steps two at a time, grimly determined to do this before he changed his mind.

The Temple was almost empty, but for a few sorcerers praying silently or staring in wonder at the large crystal Seeing Stone, which had suddenly spoken after nearly two hundred years of silence. He ignored them, striding down the center aisle of the Temple, his boots clicking loudly on the mosaic tiled floor. They looked up as he passed, muttering to themselves, some even thinking to object to the presence of this stranger. As he approached the front of the Temple, where a solid lump of polished crystal as tall as a man sat on an altar of black marble, a young woman stepped forward, blocking his path. Brak stopped and stared at her, surprised to see the diamond-shaped pendant of the High Arrion resting against her simple black robe.

She bowed elegantly. “My Lord Brakandaran.”

Brak studied her for a few moments. “You’re very young to be High Arrion.”

“And you don’t look nearly as old as you should,” she replied evenly, with the hint of a smile. “Would you like me to clear the Temple?”

Despite himself, Brak returned her smile. It was good to see a High Arrion who didn’t simper at the sight of a Harshini, even a half-breed with a bad reputation.

“Thank you.”

She waved her hand imperiously and within minutes the Temple was empty of everyone but the two of them. Brak was rather impressed by her air of authority. As soon as Kalan was certain they were alone, she turned to him, her expression serious.

“My Lord, the Seeing Stone has been silent for almost two hundred years. The political ramifications of this event are not to be underestimated,” she warned. “I have no idea why Korandellen wishes to speak with you, and I suspect I don’t want to know... But you must understand something: when the Stone came to life, the Warlord of Krakandar was here, making his annual offering to the Temple. If you know anything of Hythrun politics, you can imagine what effect that news will have, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep it secret. I beg you, my Lord, speak with your King and leave Greenharbor as soon as you are able.”

Your King, she said, not our King. The days when the Hythrun paid fealty to the Harshini were long gone.

“I will, my Lady, I can assure you.” He stepped up to the altar and studied the Stone for a moment before he turned to her. “What was Lord Wolfblade’s reaction?”

“His reaction?” she echoed. “One of great caution, thank the gods. My brother is no fool, my Lord. He plans to leave the city as soon as possible. Being divinely sanctioned might make the people of Hythria happy, but it won’t make him popular with the other Warlords. He quite sensibly fears assassination.”

Her brother? Suddenly many things became clear, while at the same time, the mystery deepened. The heir to the High Prince’s throne had already placed his sister in the Sorcerer’s Collective as High Arrion. She, in turn, was obviously surrounding herself with her own people. When Lernen died, he would take the throne with the most powerful group of individuals in Hythria supporting him. And now Korandellen, the King of the Harshini, had appeared in the Seeing Stone after two centuries of silence, in the presence of Lernen’s heir.

Would they never stop accidentally interfering with these people? If Damin Wolfblade was assassinated because the other Warlords feared his growing power, would Korandellen think himself responsible? He would have had no way of knowing who was in the Temple when he used the Seeing Stone... no way of predicting what effect it might have on this nation. The knowledge that he had been responsible for someone’s death might drive him mad, as it had his uncle. Brak could not imagine what was so important that he would break his silence and risk contacting these people after all this time. Another thought sliced through Brak like a sliver of sharpened ice. What would happen when word reached Medalon and the Sisters of the Blade? Brak suddenly wanted to speak with Korandellen very badly, if only to tell him he was a fool.

“I will leave you now, my Lord,” the High Arrion said with a small bow. Brak barely paid her any attention. He was focused on the Seeing Stone, almost afraid to touch it, knowing that as soon as he did, he would undo almost two decades of hard work, forgetting who he was. Forgetting what he had done.

With a sigh, Brak closed his eyes. He reached for the river of power nestled within his mind which he had tried so hard not to touch for so long. As he dipped into it, the power leaped at him with frightening intensity, as if it was anxious to escape the bonds he had so carefully placed around it. He opened his eyes, which had changed completely now. No longer were they a faded shade of blue, weathered and disillusioned. They were totally black. The whites of his eyes were consumed by the power that coursed through him. Brak reached forward, placed his hands on the cool crystal surface of the Seeing Stone, and sent his mind out to his king.

Brakandaran.

It seemed hours before the voice filled his mind, although he knew it could only have been minutes since he laid his hand on the magical stone. Korandellen’s face appeared in the surface of the Stone – no longer a lump of polished crystal but a milky backdrop for the proud face of the king. He wore his kingship a little uncomfortably. He had not wanted to be king. First Lorandranek’s insanity and then Brak’s own hand had forced him into it. Until now, Brak had thought he was doing a reasonable job.

“Your Majesty,” Brak replied silently. Although the High Arrion had vanished from sight, he did not put it past her to be listening in. She was human, after all. Better this conversation be of the mind. Brak was out of practice, but his telepathic ability was merely rusty, not forgotten. It was frightening how easily it all came back to him.

“I wasn’t sure you would answer my call,” Korandellen said.

“Your minions left me little choice,” Brak retorted. “Have you any idea what you’ve started by suddenly appearing in the Stone after two centuries of silence?” He realized this was hardly the way to address one’s monarch after a twenty-year absence, but he couldn’t help himself. His temper got the better of him. It always did.

Korandellen looked unrepentant. “I would not have called on you unless the matter was urgent. I know how you feel.”

“You have no idea at all how I feel, Korandellen. You cannot kill. You cannot even contemplate the thought. You cannot know what it is to live with what I’ve done.”

“But you are forgiven,” Korandellen assured him generously.

“By you, perhaps,” Brak said. “But I’ll never forgive myself.”

Korandellen shook his head sadly. “You were not to blame, Brak. You took a life to save a life. Lorandranek was insane. What you did could be viewed as a kindness. You put an end to his pain.”

“I killed my King. I took his life to save a miserable human.” Brak closed his eyes for a moment as the long-buried memories threatened to overwhelm him. He could still recall every detail as if it had happened only yesterday.

Brak had gone looking for Lorandranek té Ortyn at Korandellen’s request. The mad King disappeared quite often from Sanctuary, sometimes for months at a time. The Sanctuary Mountains seemed to soothe his tortured mind in a way that not even the magical halls of the Harshini could, and nobody had the heart to deny him that peace. But winter was coming on, and they were worried about him. Lord Dranymire and his demon brethren could feel the King through the bond they shared with the té Ortyn family, but Lorandranek was too close to human settlement for the demons to risk going after him. Brak was half-human. He could move among humans without the need for disguise. He had promised Korandellen he would bring his uncle home.

He had followed the Harshini King for weeks, through mountains painted a riotous blend of autumn colors, although the trail was almost cold by the time Brak was given the task of tracking down the King. He knew Lorandranek had a fascination for humans that bordered on dangerous. It did not surprise Brak to find Lorandranek heading for a human settlement. He sought out humans to reassure himself that they still flourished.

When he finally found Lorandranek one chilly, starlit night, almost a month after he had set out from Sanctuary, the scene that confronted him was too unreal to comprehend. He knew what he had seen but even now found it hard to accept. The King was living in a cave littered with the chattels of long habitation, perched high on the side of a mountain above a small human village. Brak had entered the cave cautiously, softly calling Lorandranek’s name.

The cavern was dark, lit only by the glowing coals of a dying fire. Brak saw a shadowed figure with a knife, poised over another prone body. The figure was trembling so hard the assailant could barely grip the blade. Brak reacted without thinking. He had drawn his own blade and hurled it with deadly accuracy at the assailant’s chest before he knew who it was.

The assassin cried out as he clutched at the knife. The enormity of his crime hit Brak like an anvil dropped on him by the gods. He vaguely remembered yelling something, barely remembered the screams of the sleeping girl as she awoke to discover Lorandranek dripping blood on her face. He recalled catching the dying King and holding him as the lifeblood pumped from his chest. The Harshini were long-lived, but not immortal. Brak didn’t need to look to know the wound was fatal. He knew his own ability too well.

“The gods... they ask too much of me, Brakandaran,” Lorandranek had breathed softly as he lay dying in Brak’s arms. Brak’s eyes were blurry. It had taken him a moment to realize he was crying.

“Why?” he had asked desperately. What had the gods asked him to do? “Who were you trying to kill? How could you even think of it? The Harshini cannot kill.”

But Lorandranek had never answered the question, Brak had held him until he grew cold in his arms and harsh daylight flooded the cave. When he could finally bring himself to move, the girl, whoever she was, had fled – presumably back to her village – and Brak never spared her another thought. Brak laid out the King and kept vigil over him for two days and nights, not eating, drinking, or sleeping. The following day he reached out through his bond to Lady Elarnymire.

Her demon had appeared soon after in the shape of a swallow, landing with incredible grace on the narrow ledge in front of the cave. To assume a larger shape meant melding with other demons, and Brak had specifically asked her to come alone.

The shock of seeing Lorandranek’s cold body startled the demon back into her true form. Elarnymire had stood on the ledge, her black eyes wide, her wrinkled skin a motley shade of gray, as Brak told her what he had done. He asked the demon to tell Korandellen. He could not bring himself to do it. Elarnymire had placed her tiny, cold hand in his and promised him faithfully that she would deliver the message.

Brak had buried his King in a grove of tall pines near the cave and never gone back to Sanctuary; never given in to the pull toward home; ignored the demons’ attempts to coax him back. He could never face the Harshini again in that palace of peace and harmony. They had always known his capability for violence and with typical Harshini tolerance, had accepted it as a part of him. But he could not – would not – ask them to accept this. He had turned his back on his people, denying the nagging need to see Sanctuary again, rejecting the magic that only those who cannot kill should be allowed to possess.

“I need you to finish what was started by Lorandranek,” Korandellen told him gently as he relived the memory through the mental link he shared with Brak.

“You do not need me at all,” Brak replied, shaking his head.

“There is a child. Lorandranek’s child.”

Brak looked up sharply, the painful memories pushed aside by Korandellen’s startling news.

“A child?”

“Lord Dranymire says the demons can feel the bond. It grows stronger every day. Somewhere, there is a child of té Ortyn blood approaching maturity.”

Brak’s eyes narrowed. The child of the girl in the cave? No. It was too soon. Harshini did not reach maturity until they were well into their third decade. On the other hand, a half-human child might mature earlier than a full-blood. He had come into his own power in his teens.

“If Lord Dranymire can feel the child, why doesn’t he seek it out?” It was a bitter irony, Brak thought, that he had killed his King to save a human woman, just so that nearly twenty years later he could hunt her child down.

“The child is living with humans, Brakandaran. Which is why I must call on you.”

“I am surprised the gods have let it live this long.”

Korandellen shrugged. “The gods have their own agenda. The thought of this child does not seem to concern them, only that it will do what they ask of it.”

Brak frowned. “And what is that, exactly?”

“They have not chosen to share that with me. I only know that they want the child found.”

Brak sighed. A human child of té Ortyn blood was a very dangerous being. The humans who worshipped the gods called such a being the demon child. And the gods, who had placed the prohibition on such a child ever existing, wanted this child for something. The gods, they ask too much of me, the King had said. For the first time in twenty years, Brak thought he understood what Lorandranek meant.

“Where is the child?” he asked, cursing the gods and their interference.

Korandellen hesitated. “The Citadel,” he said finally. “The demons say the child is at the Citadel.”

chapter 8

“You’re awake.”

Joyhinia stood over her, her arms crossed, her expression annoyed. It took a moment or two for R’shiel to realize she was in the Infirmary. “Mother.”

“You at least could have had the decency to announce the onset of your womanhood in a less public place,” she scolded. “I suppose I should be grateful that it was Tarja who found you, although why he insisted on running through the Citadel, yelling like a fishwife, instead of dealing with the matter discreetly, is beyond me.”

“I think I fainted.” R’shiel wished she had never left the peaceful serenity of unconsciousness. Any hopeful thought she might have had about sympathy from her mother was dispelled in an instant.

“Sister Gwenell says you lost a great deal of blood,” Joyhinia continued impatiently. “I expect you to follow her instructions to the letter and ensure that you recover as soon as possible. It’s not as if you’re the first woman to hemorrhage on her first bleeding.”

“I’ll try to do better next time.”

“If you eat properly, there won’t be a next time,” Joyhinia told her, ignoring the edge in her voice. “I don’t know what you think you hope to gain by starving yourself, my girl, but I have given orders that you are to be force fed, if you continue to refuse meals.”

Who had she been talking to? R’shiel wondered. Junee? Kilene? Some of the other Probates? But thank the Founders, her headache was gone. Even the dull throbbing at the back of her eyes had miraculously vanished. The pain had been such a constant companion lately, she almost felt empty without it.

“I’ll do as Sister Gwenell orders.”

“Good,” Joyhinia announced, as if that was the end of the matter. “Gwenell says you’ll need some time to recuperate, once she has discharged you. I suppose you’ll have to come back to the apartment until Founders’ Day. After that, I expect you to return to your studies, and I’ll hear no more about this.”

The discussion at an end, Joyhinia turned on her heel and strode out of the Infirmary, past the long lines of perfectly made-up beds, which for the most part were empty. R’shiel watched her go, wondering what it would take to make Joyhinia happy. For five years Joyhinia had been angry with her for not reaching her menses. Now that she finally had, she was angry with her for doing it in public. R’shiel turned over and pulled the covers up over her head, shutting out unexpected tears, and tried to wish herself back into oblivion.

Joyhinia did not visit the Infirmary again. Sister Gwenell kept her bedridden for almost a week, before she relented and let R’shiel out for short walks in the gardens outside the long windows of the Infirmary. R’shiel liked Gwenell, and once she was convinced her charge was not about to keel over if she sat up too fast, she would sit and talk with R’shiel or play a game of two-handed tharabac with her, even though R’shiel always won.

R’shiel suspected her continuing weakness was more from forced idleness than loss of blood. Her aversion to meat seemed to vanish with the headaches and the onset of her menses. She still did not actually crave meat, but it no longer smelled rancid or repulsive to her, which was a good thing, as Gwenell was firmly convinced that red meat was the only cure for loss of blood, and R’shiel was served it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Junee and Kilene were allowed to visit her on the third day of her confinement. Her friends were bubbling with the gossip sweeping the Citadel regarding the fight in the Arena. According to Junee and Kilene, Loclon had been treated for the gash that Tarja had given him, but it would scar him horribly, a fact that seemed to both delight and dismay the Probates all at once. The general opinion around the Citadel was that it was a shame such a handsome officer was going to be marked for the rest of his life, but he probably deserved it. Kilene claimed that Georj was dead before they got him out of the Arena. To die in such an awful way was just the worst luck, she declared, although he only had himself to blame. R’shiel wanted to strangle her.

To Kilene the Defenders were just soldiers, good for entertainment and an occasional roll in the sack. R’shiel chafed at the restrictions placed on her by Sister Gwenell and her own weakness, refusing to believe Kilene’s assertion that Loclon would not be tried for murder. Junee promised to see if she could find out something more reliable and the girls left, leaving R’shiel quite depressed by their efforts to cheer her up.

Two days later, sitting on a wrought-iron recliner piled with pillows, on the terrace overlooking the Infirmary gardens, she was still brooding about their visit. She was wrapped in a blanket against the cool autumn breeze, reading some forgettable text that Junee had left her, when Tarja finally paid her a visit.

He took the seat beside her, wearing his high-collared red jacket, his boots polished to a parade-ground gleam. She glared at him, angry that he had taken so long to visit her.

“Go on, tell me how terrible I look,” she snapped, before he could say a word.

“Actually, you look like hell, but it’s an improvement from the last time I saw you. How are you feeling?”

“Better,” she admitted. “Mother has already told me to get well or else, so I don’t really have a choice.”

“That sounds like Joyhinia,” Tarja agreed. “She’ll probably disown you, if you don’t.”

“Sometimes I wish she would,” R’shiel muttered, still smarting from Joyhinia’s unsympathetic reaction to her plight.

“It does have its advantages you know, being disowned,” he assured her.

R’shiel looked at him closely, but there was no bitterness in his tone. “Why does she hate you, Tarja?”

Tarja shrugged. “Who knows? For that matter, who cares?”

“I care.”

He took her hand in his. “I know you care, R’shiel. That’s because no matter how hard Joyhinia tries to mold you into another version of herself, there is a part of you she can’t seem to corrupt. I hope she never succeeds.”

Uncomfortable with Tarja’s scrutiny, R’shiel forced herself to scowl at him. “You’re not suggesting I won’t make a good Sister, are you, Captain?”

“From what I hear, you’ll be lucky to make the Blue at all, R’shiel.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“Isn’t it?” He looked at her skeptically.

“Well, maybe it is,” she conceded. “But I don’t ever recall being asked if I actually wanted to be a Sister. Joyhinia just assumed that I would.”

“And what would you do if you didn’t take the Blue?” he asked. “You’re singularly unsuited for anything else. Joyhinia has seen to that.”

She thought for a moment. What would I do, if I refused to follow the path Joyhinia has so clearly laid out for me? The fact that she could not come up with an answer was disturbing. Perhaps that was why she teetered on the brink of outright defiance, instead of taking that last, final step. There was nothing beyond.

“Tell me about the Arena, Tarja,” she said. Joyhinia was not a comfortable subject for either of them. Besides, he would know what had really happened in the aftermath of the brutal fight. “Is it true that Georj is dead? Kilene said he was dead before he left the Arena.”

Tarja nodded. “I’m sorry, R’shiel.”

For a moment, R’shiel saw her own grief reflected in his eyes, but he covered it easily. He had dealt with death too often and was hardened to it.

“What did Lord Jenga do to Loclon?” she asked.

“There’s nothing he can do, R’shiel. There is no rank in the Arena and no written rules. Georj went in knowing the risk he took.”

R’shiel was appalled. “But he was murdered! Loclon is a monster!”

“Well, Loclon didn’t win himself any friends, but that doesn’t make him a monster. Men have died in the Arena before,” he reminded her. “Loclon might have let his bloodlust get the better of him, but it was Georj who kept fighting.”

“I can’t believe you’re defending him, Tarja! Georj was your best friend!”

“I’m not defending him or what he did. But Georj was a fool for not realizing the sort of man Loclon was. Know your enemy, R’shiel. It’s the first rule of combat.”

“You should have killed Loclon when you had the chance.”

“To what purpose?”

“To rid the world of him!” she declared. “He is evil. If I believed in the heathen stories I’d say he was their demon child!”

Tarja looked at her curiously. “Evil? You haven’t been sneaking a peek at those pagan murals again, have you?” When she glared at him angrily, he shrugged. “If it’s any consolation, Jenga’s talking of transferring him to the Grimfield.”

R’shiel was only slightly mollified by the news. The Grimfield was Medalon’s prison town, and the Defenders who guarded it, like the prisoners who peopled it, were the dregs of Medalon. A posting to the Grimfield was the end of any promising career.

“That’s something, I suppose,” she grumbled. “Though it seems too lenient, to my mind.”

“I shall inform the Lord Defender of your displeasure,” Tarja told her solemnly.

“Don’t patronize me, Tarja! I’m not a child.”

“Then accept the reality, R’shiel. Georj took a risk and he paid the price. The simple solution would have been to refuse Loclon in the first place.”

“Like you did?”

“I’ve no need to prove myself against the Loclons of this world. I’ve met much more worthy opponents.”

R’shiel sighed. “I will never understand you.”

“Good. You’re not supposed to.”

“Where do you get all this big brother nonsense from?” she demanded. “Every time you want to weasel out of explaining yourself, I get the same excuse.”

He smiled but refused to answer. “You take care of yourself, young lady. Big brother will be checking on you when he gets back.”

She hurled a pillow at him, wishing it was something more substantial. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Up north,” he said as he ducked. “Garet Warner wants me to check on something.”

R’shiel’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you working with him? You’re a cavalry officer, not intelligence.”

“You mean I’m all brawn and no brains?”

She frowned in annoyance. “You know what I mean. Garet Warner is always plotting and planning something. Mother hates him. She says he’s the most dangerous man in the Defenders. If she had her way, he’d be removed.”

“Then let’s hope she never gets her way,” Tarja said. “But you needn’t fear, R’shiel. All I’m doing is a survey of the northern border villages. There are no deep plots involved.”

“Well, be careful, anyway,” she ordered.

“As you command, my Lady,” he replied with a small bow.

R’shiel frowned, certain he was making fun of her, but she had nothing left to throw. “When will you be back?”

“With luck, by Founders’ Day. I shall make a point of being here, just to annoy Joyhinia, if for no other reason.”

“Since when have you cared about riding in the Founders’ Day Parade?”

Tarja looked entirely too smug. “Mahina is going to announce some changes. I want to be where I can see the look on our beloved mother’s face.” He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead, something he had not done since she was a small child. “Take care, R’shiel.”

“You too,” she replied, but when she opened her eyes he was gone.

chapter 9

For three weeks Tarja and his small troop rode north toward the sparsely populated high plains on the border with Karien. As they neared the border the snowcapped Sanctuary Mountains in the distance loomed closer every day on the western horizon and the air grew chill with the onset of the coming winter. Low clouds gathered, blocking out the sun, but did little more than threaten rain, for which they were grateful. In a few weeks, the same clouds would gather over the mountains and bring snow to the high plains. Tarja hoped to be long back at the Citadel before that happened.

Garet had sent Tarja north to survey the villages close to the border for logistical reasons. He wanted a cavalry officer’s view of their ability to cope with the influx of Defenders that construction of fortifications on the border would entail. There also were the long-term effects of a permanent garrison to consider. Although horses could be grazed, a cavalry mount ate about twenty pounds of feed a day, which would have to be shipped to the border, along with everything else the garrison needed. Garet speculated that convenience, as much as trust, had kept the treaty with the Kariens alive so long. Having seen how inadequate the villages north of the Glass River were for the task, Tarja was inclined to agree with him.

The most vulnerable point on the border between Medalon and Karien was this high grassy plain, where the mountains ceased abruptly, exposing an open and undefended expanse of knee-high grass, which was rapidly browning as winter approached. Tarja and his small party reached the crumbling border keep, the only sign of human habitation on the plain, on the first day of Brigedda. He remembered the date as he rode at a trot toward the old keep, wondering who Brigedda had been. All the Medalonian months were named for the Founding Sisters, some of whom, like Param, who had wrested control of Medalon from the Harshini and established the Sisterhood’s government over Medalon, were quite famous. Others, like Brigedda, were remembered for no other reason than their names now marked the changing of the seasons.

He had not even realized this old keep was out here, until the innkeeper in Lilyvale had mentioned it to him. Curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he judged they had the time for a small detour. One look at the distant ruin was enough to convince him that strategically it was useless.

The keep was still some distance away when Tarja slowed his horse to a walk. Five small mounds of freshly turned dirt, topped with bunches of wilted wildflowers, were spaced at intervals beside the faint track that led to the keep. He stopped and dismounted, followed by Davydd Tailorson, the lieutenant Garet had assigned to him. He was a brown-haired, serious young man. Tarja had come to enjoy his quiet company. On the rare occasion he offered his opinion, it was usually an astute one. Davydd examined the mounds with a slight frown.

“Pagan graves,” he remarked, squatting down beside the closest mound.

“And too small to be adults,” Tarja agreed, glancing toward the abandoned keep.

“What do you suppose they’re doing way out here?”

“Better here than close to a town. Perhaps they thought no one would find them in such an isolated place.”

Davydd stood up and followed Tarja’s gaze toward the keep. “Or perhaps the keep isn’t abandoned?”

“Well, there’s one way to establish that for certain, isn’t there?”

Davydd nodded and remounted his horse. Tarja followed suit and waved to the four troopers who accompanied them to move out. The two officers rode side by side at a walk, making no gestures that could be construed as threatening – although if there were heathens hiding in the ruin, their uniforms would be threat enough.

“You know, it just occurred to me,” Davydd remarked, “that red coats against a background of brown grass make us an excellent target.”

Tarja glanced at Davydd and laughed. “I should introduce you to a certain Captain Gawn, currently stationed on our southern border. He has firsthand knowledge of the perils of brandishing one’s uniform against a brown background when there are enemy archers in the vicinity. But, I think in this case, we’re safe enough.”

“Unless the heathens in the keep are followers of Zegarnald.”

“If they followed Zegarnald, they’d be heading south. There isn’t much point in worshipping the God of War out here in the middle of nowhere, where there’s no one to fight.”

As they approached the keep, Tarja noted signs of human habitation. A small field had been cleared and planted along the western side of the ruin. Stones from the crumbling wall had been painstakingly dragged to form a rough enclosure that housed a thin milk cow and several unshorn sheep. The faint smell of burning dung reached his nose. On this treeless plain there would be no wood to burn. They rode past the wall and into the rubble-strewn courtyard, where a boiling copper sat unattended over an open fire. There was no sign of the inhabitants.

They stopped and waited for a while, to see if anyone would approach. The air was still. The smoldering dung stung Tarja’s nostrils.

He finally turned in his saddle and yelled: “Show yourselves!”

The keep was silent except for a slight breeze that stirred the dusty yard and the creaking of leather as the horses tossed their heads, as curious about this place as their riders.

“We mean you no harm!”

They waited in silence for a long moment until a figure appeared from behind the fallen wall of what had probably been the main hall. She was a thin woman of late middle years, dressed in rough peasant homespun, a toddler clutched at her hip. She eyed the soldiers warily, staying close to the wall.

“If you mean us no harm, then leave now,” she said, her cultured accent belying her rough clothing.

Tarja stayed on his horse, making no move toward her. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a boy, perhaps ten or twelve years old, hiding up on the decaying steps of the old tower to his left.

“It will be night soon, Mistress,” Tarja pointed out. “This is the only shelter for miles, and it looks like rain. Would you deny us what little comfort there is to be had on this barren plain?”

The woman took a step closer and glared at him. “You and your kind would deny me, quick enough. Do you really think I care if your men suffer a little, Captain?”

“But Kalianah, the Goddess of Love, says that all bounty should be shared,” Davydd answered, before Tarja could reply. He glanced at the younger man in surprise and then followed his gaze to the amulet hanging from a leather thong around the woman’s neck. It was an acorn tied together with several soft white feathers. The symbol of Kalianah. Tarja had seen some of Damin Wolfblade’s Raiders wearing the same amulet. The woman looked both startled and annoyed to have her own beliefs used against her by a Defender. “You speak the words, young man, but you have no idea of their true meaning. Leave us in peace. We harm nobody here.”

By now, Tarja had caught sight of another half dozen or more children hiding in the ruins. Was she alone out here, with all these children?

“We could insist, Mistress,” he warned.

The woman snorted at him contemptuously. “Have the Defenders fallen so low that they would attack women and children for the sake of a night out of the rain, Captain?” she asked, bending down to place the child on the ground. It looked up at the soldiers with wide eyes, sucking its thumb nervously. The woman walked across the yard and stood beside Tarja’s horse, looking up at him. “I had respect for the Defenders once, Captain, but no longer. Give me one reason why I should share anything with your kind?”

“You have no need to share anything, Mistress,” Tarja replied, meeting her accusing gaze. “We will share with you.”

The woman looked at him doubtfully. “You’re not ordinary Defenders, are you? Intelligence Corps is my guess. Nasty as the rest of them but marginally better educated. Well, we are finished here anyway, now that you’ve found us. If you mean what you say about sharing, then I’ll take whatever you can spare. I’ve seventeen motherless children to care for, and I’m not too proud to accept charity.”

Tarja dismounted carefully, anxious not to threaten the woman and her odd brood anymore than he already had. He was curious about these children. He had seen heathen cults aplenty across the length and breadth of Medalon but never anything that so closely resembled an orphanage. As they dismounted more children appeared, staring at the Defenders silently from the safety of the crumbling walls. To a child they were ragged and thin. None wore shoes, their feet bound with rags against the cold. It was more than likely they would not survive a winter here. Tarja called forward the trooper leading the packhorses and ordered him to leave them enough for their return journey and to give the rest to the woman. The trooper nodded and went about his task without question. That surprised Tarja a little. He was expecting some resistance. After all, feeding a bunch of starving heathens was hardly the patriotic thing to do.

“Where do all these children come from?” he asked as another trooper took his horse and Davydd’s to be unsaddled and watered.

The woman looked at him sharply, as if expecting the question to be the beginning of an interrogation. “Why do you want to know that?”

When Tarja did not answer, she shrugged, as if too tired to argue with him.

“They’re orphans, mostly. Their parents were accused of being heathens, or worse. Some were sentenced to the Grimfield or killed by Defenders. Not fighting, mind you, simply trying to save their homes from wanton destruction. I would ask that you tread carefully here, Captain. Most of these children associate that uniform with death.”

Tarja and Davydd followed the woman into the remains of the great hall, stepping carefully over the crumbling masonry. It had been a large hall once, but the roof had caved in and only the far end offered any shelter. Several children huddled around a small fire in a hearth so grand that he could have almost stood upright inside it. The children looked up at their approach, shying away from the Defenders.

“Don’t worry, my dears,” the woman assured the children with forced cheerfulness. “I’ll not let the red men harm you.”

“If it would be easier for you, we can stay outside,” Tarja offered, looking at the children with concern. One of them, a small girl of about five, was racked with painful coughs that made Tarja wince just to hear her.

“They’ll learn soon enough that there is no avoiding your kind, even in this remote place,” the woman replied with a shrug. “Perhaps if you leave without killing anyone or destroying anything, they may learn to hate the Defenders a little less.” She met Tarja’s gaze defiantly, but he refused to rise to her provocation.

“Why bring them out here?” he asked. “You can’t hope to survive the winter in such a place.”

“Where else do I take them, Captain... what’s your name?”

“Tenragan. Tarja Tenragan.”

The woman stared at him, her face suddenly pale, then turned on her heel and walked out of the hall. With a curious glance at each other, they hurried after her. She strode purposefully toward the trooper who was dividing the supplies.

“Don’t bother with that, soldier. I’ll not be needing any help from you, after all.” The man glanced at Tarja with a puzzled expression as the woman rounded on the two officers. “Take your provisions and leave, Captain. You are not welcome here.”

Understanding suddenly dawned on Tarja. “You know Joyhinia.”

The woman planted her hands on her hips. “You’re her son, aren’t you? I remember seeing you around the Citadel when you were a boy.”

Tarja was not surprised to learn that this woman had lived in the Citadel. Her accent betrayed her education. He nodded slowly, curious to learn what had turned her from the Sisterhood and what his mother had done to provoke such a reaction.

“Is my ancestry so abhorrent to you, that you would refuse my help?”

“Ever heard of a village called Haven, Captain?” she retorted bitterly.

“It’s a village in the Sanctuary Mountains, southwest of Testra,” Davydd said. He had a good grasp of geography as well as heathen customs it seemed.

“It was a village, Lieutenant,” she snapped. “It no longer exists. Joyhinia Tenragan ordered it burned to the ground and all the adults killed three winters ago. They turned the children out into the snow and left them to perish. There were over thirty children in that village. Nine of these children are the only ones left. The rest I have collected since then, for similar reasons. I was a Sister back then. After that day, I swore an oath to every Primal God that exists that I would never wear the Blue again.”

“Why?” Tarja asked in astonishment.

“You don’t know?”

“Should I?”

“She burned it to keep a secret, Captain. She burned it to cover her tracks and bury her lies.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Looks like she succeeded too, by the expression on your face. Have you no inkling?”

Tarja shook his head, glancing at Davydd, but the young man looked as puzzled as he was.

The woman glanced longingly at the supplies and then sighed. “I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. Nor should I let my anger get in the way of these children having a decent meal. I will take the provisions you offer, Captain. It makes up, in some small measure, for the actions of your mother.”

“You’re welcome to anything we have,” Tarja assured her, “but I want to know why... What possible reason could Joyhinia have for burning a village in the Sanctuary Mountains?”

She studied him closely for a moment, as if debating how much she should tell him, then she shrugged. “I suppose you have as much right to know as anyone. Come, let’s get out of this wind and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

They went inside the crumbling great hall and sat on the floor near the hearth. The fire gave little warmth, but Tarja barely noticed.

“Nineteen years ago, your mother was posted to Testra, just as I was, to administer the town and the surrounding villages. It’s what they train us for, you know. The Sisters of the Blade are the best-trained bureaucrats in the world.”

Bereth, that was the woman’s name, had shooed the children out to do their chores and help bring in the supplies that the Defenders had offered to leave them. The only child left was the little girl with the painful cough. She crawled into Bereth’s lap and stared at the Defenders with wide, frightened eyes.

Tarja tore his gaze from the child and looked at Bereth. “I remember. She enrolled me in the Cadets and left me at the Citadel. I was only ten.”

Bereth nodded. “Joyhinia arrived in Testra with quite a reputation. She’d already had you, and it was rumored that your father was Lord Korgan, although he always denied it. Four or five months after she arrived my mother died, and I was called back to Brodenvale to settle the family’s affairs. Joyhinia volunteered to take over from me, doing my rounds of the outlying villages. We all thought it strange at the time. She loathed being away from her creature comforts and despised the cold. Taking over at that time meant wintering in one of the mountain villages until the spring thaw. But she had her eye on a seat on the Quorum, even in those days, and we weren’t exactly swamped with volunteers, so she got the job.”

The child in her lap began coughing again, and Bereth stopped her narrative to gently rub the child’s back. When the coughing fit subsided, Bereth resumed her tale.

“By the time I returned to Testra, it was spring, and Joyhinia was on her way back from the mountains. She had wintered in Haven, which was a remote village populated with loggers and furriers, mostly. Hardworking, decent people, every one of them.” Bereth’s voice trailed off for a moment, as if she was lost in the past, then she looked at Tarja, her eyes hard and bitter. “Joyhinia returned to Testra with a child. A babe of a few weeks, which she claimed was hers and Jenga’s get, although anyone who knew Jenga doubted her claim. He was never a man for casual relationships, particularly with anyone as ambitious as your mother. And she’d shown no signs of being pregnant before she left for the mountains. Nor did she act the part. She had lovers aplenty, rumor had it. She called the child Rochelle, or something like that.”

“R’shiel,” Tarja corrected softly, afraid that if he spoke too loudly, Bereth would not finish her tale.

“R’shiel,” Bereth repeated, as if the word carried special meaning. “That’s a mountain name, by the way, not the name given to any child of the Citadel.

“Anyway, Joyhinia returned, claiming she had been pregnant, and the child was of the right age, so nobody thought much more about it. Jenga never formally acknowledged the child, but his silence was confirmation enough for most, I suppose. To this day, I don’t understand why he has never denied it.

“So, I went back to my duties and thought little more about it. Haven is very remote, and even I only managed to visit it every couple of years or so. By the time I returned to the village, it never occurred to me to ask about Joyhinia’s visit or the child.”

“You said the village was burned only three years ago,” Tarja reminded her. “What happened?”

“I learned much of the story from a woman in Haven, a furrier named B’thrim Snowbuilder. She was a widow who had lived alone for years, ever since her younger sister, J’nel, died the year Joyhinia wintered in Haven. The rest I learned from the survivors, some of the older children. B’thrim had an accident about eight months before the village was destroyed. She got caught in one of her own traps and lost her left foot to frostbite. It meant she could no longer trap the snow foxes, and the season before had not been a good one. She was on the verge of destitution. The last time I saw her, she told me she had sent a message to Joyhinia at the Citadel, asking for help, in return for the favor she had done her years before. Joyhinia’s response was to send a troop of Defenders to burn the village. B’thrim was one of the first to be killed.”

“What favor?” Tarja asked. Bereth had told him much, but in reality she had told him nothing.

“B’thrim’s sister, J’nel, died in childbirth, Captain. She died giving birth to the girl you know as your sister.”

Tarja stared at the woman, stunned.

“Who is she, then?” Davydd asked, giving voice to the question Tarja was unable to ask.

“R’shiel? She’s the child of an illiterate mountain girl and an unknown father, I suppose. The story I got was that J’nel had disappeared into the Mountains at the beginning of spring and returned just before winter, heavily pregnant. She was frightened, hysterical, and covered with blood when she returned but refused to name the father. Haven was a superstitious village, and while they profess adherence to the laws of the Sisterhood, there were many who believed the Harshini still inhabited the Sanctuary Mountains. As no man in the village would own the child, they decided the child must be a sorcerer’s get and rejected it. Joyhinia didn’t care what the villagers thought. The child was the right age for her to invent her deception and an orphan that nobody wanted. All she needed was Jenga to go along with her. She probably thought the villagers would forget all about the child after a while.”

“Until B’thrim sent a message asking for help,” Tarja said.

“Taking an orphan in is one thing,” Bereth continued, “but to claim that child is your own and try to foist paternity onto the Lord Defender goes beyond the pale.” She glanced at Tarja thoughtfully. “The child must be almost grown by now.”

Tarja nodded. “She’s a Probate at the Citadel.”

Bereth shook her head. “So Joyhinia has a daughter to follow in her footsteps, and I have a clutch of starving orphans whose parents died to keep her secret. Most of those villagers in Haven would not have even remembered the child. That was her worst crime, Captain. It was so unnecessary.” The child in her lap had fallen into an uneasy sleep. She stroked her fine hair absently and looked at Tarja. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this. I suppose you have some affection for the girl, although if Joyhinia has succeeded in raising her in her own image, I doubt she is very lovable.”

Tarja shook his head. “Joyhinia tries, but she hasn’t succeeded yet.”

“That’s something to be grateful for,” Bereth sighed. “But perhaps now, Captain, you can understand my reaction on learning who your mother is.”

Tarja climbed the crumbling tower later that evening and looked out over the dark plain. The clouds were breaking up, revealing patches of blue velvet sky sprinkled with pinpoints of light. He leaned on the cold stone, oblivious to the chill wind that cut through him, wondering what he should do with the information Bereth had given him. For that matter, would it even be his decision? Davydd Tailorson had heard the whole story and would report it to Garet Warner, without hesitation. That sort of information about a Quorum member was too important to keep to himself. He should have insisted on hearing the tale in private. He would have, had he any inkling of what he would learn.

The consequences to Joyhinia, when her lies were revealed, bothered Tarja not one whit. Joyhinia deserved whatever punishment the First Sisters deemed fit and the more severe the better. Expulsion from the Quorum, at the very least. She might even be forced into retirement. That prospect filled Tarja with savage delight. To see Joyhinia’s plans crumble at her feet like the ruins of this keep was almost worth it.

Almost.

There was R’shiel to consider. Joyhinia’s fall would drag R’shiel down with her. She deserved to know the truth, but did she deserve to suffer for it?

Tarja turned at the sound of a boot scraping on the stairs. Davydd took the last two steps in one stride and joined Tarja on the tower, glancing out over the plain, his arms wrapped around his body against the wind.

“Looks like it won’t rain, after all,” the young man remarked.

“Looks like it.” He waited for Davydd to speak again; he had not climbed the tower to talk about the weather.

“I have to tell the Commandant,” he said finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “It would be treason to withhold what I learned here.”

“Treason?” Tarja asked.

“The Commandant might not...” he began, but his voice trailed off. Both he and Tarja knew that Garet Warner would use the information against Joyhinia as surely as Davydd would have to report it.

“He will. But he has to know the truth. So does R’shiel, for that matter, although I worry more about her than Joyhinia. My mother deserves whatever is coming to her.”

“I’ve seen your sister at the Citadel. She’s very pretty.”

“She is,” he agreed. “And apparently she’s not my sister.”

“At the risk of sounding trite, there’ll be a lot of officers at the Citadel quite pleased to learn that, sir.”

Tarja laughed, despite himself. “Including you, Lieutenant?”

“I... er... well, it’s not that I ever...” Davydd stammered, the first time Tarja had seen him lost for words.

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant. I’m sure your intentions are entirely honorable. But before you tell Garet Warner what we learned here today, spare a thought for R’shiel. Once this becomes common knowledge, she’ll be an outcast.”

“It’s hardly her fault,” Davydd objected. “You don’t think people will hold it against her, do you? I mean, she’s a Probate. She’ll be a Sister within a couple of years.”

“You’ve a lot to learn about the Sisterhood, Davydd,” Tarja told him wearily. “They won’t care that Joyhinia lied to them. But they’ll be very put out that she has played them all for fools.”

“It doesn’t seem fair, sir.”

“That’s life, Lieutenant,” Tarja replied, more bitterly than he intended. The young man was silent for a moment, surprised at Tarja’s tone.

“Will you report this to Lord Jenga?”

“Jenga has a right to know the truth, too. Joyhinia has been trading on her supposed relationship with him for years.”

“Assuming he doesn’t already know,” Davydd remarked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, someone in the Defenders sent those men to destroy the village. Joyhinia didn’t do that alone. Besides, the Lord Defender could have exposed Joyhinia years ago, unless he had a reason not to.”

Tarja stared at the young man, appalled by his suggestion. “Jenga would never order such a thing!”

Davydd shrugged. “You know him better than I do, sir. But unless Sister Joyhinia forged the orders and the Defender’s seal that authenticates them, there is at least one senior officer involved. And you have to admit, Jenga’s refusal to deny he’s R’shiel’s father does look suspicious.”

Was it possible? Tarja shivered in the darkness, but the cold that chilled him came from inside. Ever since he had been old enough to recognize it for what it was, Tarja had watched the Sisters of the Blade grow increasingly tainted by the stench of corruption, like milk slowly souring in the heat on a hot summer’s day.

For the first time, Tarja allowed himself to wonder if that corruption had spread to the Corps and reached as high as the Lord Defender.

chapter 10

Tarja spent a sleepless night in the ruined keep, listening to the heartbreaking coughs of the little girl by the fire and wondering who in the Defenders had followed Joyhinia’s orders to destroy Haven. Any Commandant could, in theory, have issued the order. That narrowed the suspects down to about fifteen men, excluding Jenga, whom he was certain would never have countenanced such an act, despite what Davydd thought. Commandant Verkin, Wilem Cortanen, Garet Warner, and about a dozen more senior officers had sufficient authority. It was a depressing train of thought. He resolved to question Bereth again in the morning before they rode out. Perhaps she knew the name of the officer in charge of the raid. If he could discover that, he might be able to track down the culprit.

They stayed in the keep longer than he intended. Tarja had hoped to get away at first light the following day. His mission was to check on the border villages, and he had completed that task before riding out here on impulse to examine the ruined keep. It would be next to useless if Medalon were invaded. It was strategically ill placed in the middle of an open plain and had been built, hastily and poorly, by men with no understanding of war. An invading army would simply swing past it into Medalon, as if it were no more of an obstacle than a rock in the road. In the future, any defenses constructed would be farther north, right on the border itself, where the plain narrowed and the open grassland was flanked by the Sanctuary Mountains on the western side and the Glass River, where it emerged from the Jagged Mountains, on the east.

But his men undermined Tarja’s plans for an early departure, subtly and deliberately. First, Sandar, the trooper responsible for the packhorses and the supplies, announced that he thought he could possibly spare even more for the children, given time to sort through their provisions carefully. Then Nork, his corporal, suddenly announced that his horse had bruised his fetlock and would need a poultice to relieve it. One of the children had told him of a herb that grew wild on the plains that was ideal for the poultice, and would it be all right if he took several of the children and went in search of it? It would not take long, and a lame horse would slow their journey, he pointed out reasonably. By the time Ewan asked if the captain would mind if he made some repairs to the roof over the end of the main hall while they were waiting, Tarja threw his hands up in defeat. He climbed the tower again and looked out over the grasslands toward the border, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t wasting time. Davydd followed him up the crumbling steps.

“Let me guess. You’d like to build a schoolhouse for them, while we’re here.”

Davydd smiled. “Actually, I thought perhaps a morning room, facing east, with a vine-covered trellis, and maybe a solarium on the west wing.”

Tarja shook his head. “Tell me Lieutenant, just exactly how are we going to explain the presence of these heathens to our superiors? Or the fact that we did nothing to evict them?”

“Heathens, sir? I’ve seen no altars, or sacrifices, or other signs of pagan worship. They are orphans in the care of a retired Sister, aren’t they?” Davydd had conveniently forgotten about the acorn amulet Bereth wore.

“You could be right. Besides, the keep is of no strategic value.” He leaned against the crumbling wall and studied the young man curiously. “I’m not sure what surprises me most, Lieutenant, your willingness to overlook this irregularity or the fact that every man here seems bent on aiding these children.”

The younger man shrugged. “Garet Warner’s first rule is to assess any situation according to the seriousness of the threat. A handful of orphans and a bitter old woman hardly constitute a danger to Medalon’s security, sir. As for the men, most of them have children of their own. There’s nothing sinister or treasonous in their reaction to the children’s plight.”

“There’s that word ‘treason’ again. You seem to use it a lot, Lieutenant.”

“It’s this fort, I think. It has that effect on people.”

“I know what you mean. Perhaps we should name this place Treason Keep?”

Davydd smiled. “I imagine you’ll have some explaining to do if you put that in your report to Commandant Warner, sir.”

Tarja smiled thinly at the thought and looked back toward the border as a flash of sunlight reflecting off metal caught his eye. He scanned the horizon curiously until he saw it again. A cloud of dust hanging in the still air of the cool morning approached the keep, although it was yet several leagues away.

“What do you suppose that is?” he asked, pointing in the direction of the dust cloud.

The lieutenant moved to Tarja’s side and studied the plain for a moment. “Horses. Quite a few of them, I’d say. Coming in from the north, which means they’re coming from Karien. It could be a trading caravan.”

“Wearing armor?” Tarja asked, as the sunlight flashed like an irregular signal in the distance. “Still, it’s too small to be an invasion force.”

“A delegation, perhaps?”

“Possibly.” Tarja rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Lord Pieter prefers to travel by water. He doesn’t like the idea of overland travel.”

“But it’s also the long way round. Maybe time is more important than impressing a few Medalonian peasants with his big boat. The Fardohnyans might be making things difficult, too. King Hablet enjoys reminding King Jasnoff that Fardohnya controls Karien’s access to the only decent port in the north.”

“That’s assuming it is Lord Pieter.”

“It almost has to be,” Davydd told him. “No knight is permitted to leave Karien for fear of them being corrupted by the godless mores of the south – unless they’re at war or have a special dispensation from the Church of Xaphista. Pieter is the only knight with a standing dispensation, due to his role as King Jasnoff’s Envoy to the Citadel.”

Tarja looked at Davydd. “You appear remarkably well informed about the Kariens, Lieutenant.”

“I’m an intelligence officer, sir. It’s my job,” the young man shrugged.

He nodded, willing to accept the lieutenant’s quiet confidence. “Get the men together, then. Tell Nork to take the second packhorse as a spare mount and head for the Citadel. He’s not to stop for anything. He must let them know what’s coming.”

“Do we know what’s coming?” Davydd asked curiously.

“Trouble,” Tarja told him with certainty. “Find the banner. It should be packed among the gear somewhere.”

“We’re going to meet them?”

Tarja nodded, glancing back at the advancing Kariens. “I want to know what they’re doing out here. I would also rather they avoided this keep. Besides, if they are trying to surprise us, imagine how annoyed they’re going to be to find themselves being met by an official guard of honor.”

Davydd saluted sharply and hurried down the perilous steps to carry out his orders. Tarja turned back to watching the Kariens uneasily, wondering what trouble their unexpected appearance heralded.

A single rider cantered forward to meet them as Tarja and his men rode to confront the interlopers. His initial instinct was confirmed as he noticed pennants being hastily unfurled and the party forming into some sort of official order as the Defenders approached. The rider wore a full suit of elaborately gilded armor, his helmet topped by an impressive plume of blue feathers. His breastplate was adorned with a golden star intersected by a silver lightning bolt. The symbol of Xaphista, the Overlord.

“Halt and identify yourselves,” the armored knight demanded as he neared them. His lance was topped with a blue pennant that snapped loudly in the cold wind.

“Identify yourself,” Tarja called back. “You are on Medalonian soil now.”

The knight slowed his horse and raised his faceplate to look at them. “I am Lord Pieter, Envoy of the Karien King, His Majesty Jasnoff the Third.”

Tarja bowed in his saddle. “Lord Pieter. I am Captain Tenragan. I believe we met at the Citadel on your last visit.”

The knight rode closer and studied Tarja for a moment, before breaking into a relieved smile. “Joyhinia’s son! Of course! You gave me quite a start there, young man. For a moment, I thought word of my visit had preceded me. It really wasn’t necessary for your mother to send an escort, although I appreciate her gesture. It augurs well for our future negotiations.”

“Time and discretion are of the essence, my Lord,” he replied, trying to give the impression he knew what Pieter was referring to. “We are here to ensure your safe and timely arrival.”

“Excellent!” Lord Pieter declared. “Let’s head for that ruin behind you and have some lunch, shall we?”

“That would be inadvisable, my Lord,” Tarja advised. “The ruin is in a dangerous state of repair, and I would rather forgo an elaborate meal for the chance to expedite your journey.”

Pieter sighed but nodded in agreement. “You are right, of course. Your prudence does you credit, Captain. We shall place ourselves in your care.”

The remainder of Lord Pieter’s caravan had now reached them. It consisted of two heavily laden wagons, twenty men-at-arms, and, to Tarja’s surprise, a number of veiled women riding side-saddle in front of the lead wagon. But the figure that caught his attention was a small, tonsured man, who glared at the Defenders suspiciously. Pieter turned as his party reached them and waved the priest to him. “Elfron! Come here! Joyhinia has sent her son to guide us to the Citadel.”

The priest rode forward and stared at the Defenders for a moment, before raising his staff and laying it expectantly on Tarja’s shoulder. When nothing happened, he withdrew the staff.

“He is who he claims to be,” the priest announced with satisfaction.

Tarja looked at the priest curiously. “Was there any doubt that I was not?”

Elfron’s expression darkened. “Only through eternal vigilance can the light of the Overlord be allowed to shine in its full splendor, Captain. The wicked glamors of the Harshini can be used to disguise one’s true nature. Had you been an agent of evil, you would be writhing in unbearable agony by now. Such is the power of the Overlord.”

“The Harshini are extinct. How do you know the staff works?” It was a dangerous thing to say. Xaphista’s priests were notoriously fanatical, but he couldn’t resist baiting him.

“You do not believe in the power of the Overlord?” the priest asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.

“Medalonians believe in no gods,” Tarja reminded him. “Not your god, nor the dead Harshini gods, nor anyone else’s. Loyalty to the state first is our creed, as well you know. I ask merely out of scientific curiosity.”

“Yes, yes,” Lord Pieter snapped. “Enough theology for now. You can convert him along the way, Elfron. We must keep moving. Tell me, Captain, how far is it to the nearest village?”

“If we make good time we can be in Lilyvale by this evening, my Lord.”

“Does this village have a decent inn? I am heartily sick of roughing it out here in the wilderness.”

“It’s small but adequate,” Tarja assured him. With the prospect of sleeping in a bed tonight, Pieter would lose all interest in stopping at the keep. “I suggest we get moving, if we are to reach it by nightfall.”

“Yes, yes,” Pieter agreed. “By all means. Will you ride with me, Captain?” Pieter glanced meaningfully at the priest for a moment. “I find myself in need of some secular conversation.”

“I would be honored, my Lord.”

Elfron wheeled his mount around so hard that Tarja winced in sympathy for the poor beast’s mouth. He turned his own mount and fell in beside Pieter as the caravan moved off, leading them on a wide route to avoid Treason Keep. Davydd and the Defenders waited until the wagons had passed and then joined the caravan at the end of the line.

Once Elfron was out of earshot, Pieter leaned across to Tarja. “I would give my life for the Overlord, but I wonder at his choice in ministers, sometimes. I am sure Elfron has been set on me as some sort of test.”

“He seems very dedicated,” Tarja agreed, forcing himself not to smile. It was a relief that not all Kariens were as dedicated to the Overlord as Elfron. On the other hand, Pieter was Jasnoff’s Envoy. He was just as dedicated to the pursuit of power and territory as Elfron was to his god. It made the knight more dangerous than he appeared. At least the priest made no secret of his ambitions.

“Dedicated!” Pieter scoffed. “He’s a raving fanatic! It must come from such an unnatural upbringing. They all come from the same island, you know. The Isle of Slarn in the Gulf. It’s a godforsaken lump of rock, and I’m sure it does something to their minds. If I hear one more word about sin on this journey, I shall go mad.”

“I have no experience with the concept of sin, my Lord, so I promise not to raise the subject,” Tarja assured him.

Pieter looked at him thoughtfully. “No experience with sin, eh? In that case,” he added, lowering his voice, although none of the party following them would be likely to overhear their conversation. “When we get to this inn, do you think you could arrange some... company, for me?”

“Company?” Tarja asked innocently.

“Don’t be obtuse man. You know what I mean!”

Tarja glanced over his shoulder. “Isn’t the company you have with you sufficiently entertaining?”

“They are nuns, Captain,” the Envoy complained. “Dry old virgins, every one of them. Sworn to the Overlord. I’d get more satisfaction out of a knothole in a tree stump! I need something young and plump and alive!”

“Lilyvale is a small village, my Lord,” Tarja warned. “There may not be any professional company available.”

“Find me an innkeeper’s daughter then, man! Somebody like that young Probate at the Citadel who was so willing on my last visit. She was most enthusiastic.”

Tarja remembered Pieter cornering one of the Probates at Joyhinia’s reception, but he hadn’t realized the man had actually bedded the girl. The thought made him cringe. The man was old enough to be her grandfather.

“I’ll see what I can do, my Lord,” Tarja promised, a little uneasily. He was a captain of the Defenders, not a panderer. He had no wish to find himself procuring women for this man all the way to the Citadel.

“I know you’ll do your best, Captain,” the Envoy said confidently. “I trust your presence here means that your mother intends to keep her promise.”

Tarja glanced at the Envoy, hoping his ignorance didn’t show.

“Perhaps Joyhinia has not shared our agreement with you?”

The honor of the Defenders prevented Tarja from lying outright, but there was the truth – and there was the truth.

“I hold a special place in my mother’s heart, my Lord,” he assured the Envoy with complete honesty. No need to mention that Joyhinia did not actually have a heart. “I would not be here, otherwise.”

“Of course,” Pieter agreed. “I meant no offense. I’m just a little surprised she so willingly gave me what I asked for. Or that you appear unperturbed by the arrangement. But then, you Medalonians do look at the world differently from the rest of us.”

What? Tarja wanted to scream impatiently. What had Joyhinia offered this man?

“I mean,” the Envoy continued, oblivious to Tarja’s frustration, “when the Sisters themselves pop out bastards by the score, one can hardly expect the same sort of familial attachment as we in Karien hold dear. I can recount to you my family’s history for the past thirty-five generations. Most of you Medalonians don’t even know who your fathers are. You’re a bastard, I believe?”

“Legitimacy is determined by one’s mother in Medalon,” Tarja pointed out. “Her marital status is irrelevant.”

“A convenient policy. It accounts for your complacency. Although, there is such a difference in your ages, one could hardly expect you to feel much attachment to the girl.”

Tarja’s stomach lurched as he thought he understood what Pieter had meant about his complacency, his lack of family ties. He gripped his reins until his knuckles were white, to stop himself from reaching for the Envoy and pulling him to the ground in a metallic clatter to beat the truth out of him.

“You speak of my sister?” Tarja inquired as calmly as possible. My sister, who isn’t my sister, he thought. The child for whom a whole village was destroyed to protect Joyhinia‘s lies.

“Delightful girl,” Pieter agreed with an enthusiastic nod. “Met her the last time I was at the Citadel. Not my type, of course, much too skinny for my taste, but who am I to question the Overlord? Still, I think your mother should be quite satisfied with her bargain.”

“I’m sure she will be,” Tarja agreed with an equanimity he did not feel. “Provided you keep your end of the deal.”

Pieter was offended by the mere suggestion. “Captain, I can assure you, I will do as I promised. I will stand before the Quorum and denounce Mahina’s handling of the heathens. King Jasnoff takes the whole issue of the treaty most seriously, and Mahina’s inability to suppress the heathens is of great concern to him. If the Sisterhood does not gain some measure of control over the situation, we will be forced to take the matter into our own hands. Fortunately, your mother seems aware of this, which is why we are prepared to support her as First Sister.”

“If you are so firmly behind my mother, I wonder that you need R’shiel to sweeten the deal,” he remarked, holding back his rage by sheer force of will. His horse sidestepped nervously, as if he could feel his rider’s fury. Why? Why does he want R’shiel? As a hostage to ensure Joyhinia’s cooperation?

“I don’t want the girl, Captain, the Overlord does. Why do you think I suffer a priest on this journey? Elfron had a vision or something, probably the result of too much self-flagellation, I suspect, but one does not question a priest when he’s on a mission from Xaphista. If the Overlord wants your sister, then he shall have her.” He looked at Tarja closely. “Perhaps you are not as comfortable with this arrangement as you first appeared, Captain?”

Tarja forced himself to shrug. “As you said, my Lord, we Medalonians have a different view of the world. You might do well to remember that, when dealing with my mother.”

The Envoy nodded in agreement, and they rode on in silence for a time. The keep and its desperate occupants slowly disappeared from view. Tarja kept his anger tightly under control. Lord Pieter’s agreement with his mother was too awful to comprehend. Joyhinia was planning to impeach Mahina and was prepared to sell R’shiel to the Kariens to do it.

Yesterday, he might have considered such a plan beyond even her, but in light of what Bereth had told him, he did not doubt it at all. R’shiel was not even her child. Which brought to mind another disturbing question. Whose child was she?

Tarja glanced back down the column wondering where Davydd and the others were. When they got to Lilyvale this evening, maybe he could invent an excuse to send the lieutenant on ahead. He had to warn Mahina that the instrument of her downfall was riding toward the Citadel while she unsuspectingly made plans for the future. He had to warn R’shiel that Joyhinia had traded her for the First Sister’s mantle.

And he had to find out why the Kariens wanted R’shiel so badly they were prepared to unseat the First Sister just to get their hands on her.

chapter 11

It was another week before Gwenell declared R’shiel was fit enough to return to her mother’s apartments. She was discharged with strict instructions regarding her diet, how much weight she was expected to gain, and the herbal infusions she was required to take daily to regain her strength. R’shiel grimaced when she saw the list. Gwenell was one of those physics who thought the worse something tasted, the better it was for you.

It was late in the morning, and Joyhinia was not home when R’shiel knocked on the door of her mother’s apartment. Old Hella opened it, pushed back a strand of wiry gray hair, and sighed mournfully when she saw R’shiel.

“Come in, then,” she said. “Your mother told me you’d be arrivin‘ today. It’s not as if I don’t have enough to do, without nursin’ an invalid.”

“I don’t like this any more than you do, Hella. I won’t be in the way.”

“Easy for you to say, girl,” the old woman grumbled. “I’ve already wasted a whole mornin‘ airin’ your room out. I’ve sent the wall hangin’s to be cleaned, so you’ll have to suffer the heathen creatures on the walls till they get back. I don’t know what your mother was thinkin‘, lettin’ you come here. It’s not as if I don’t have anythin‘ to do round here.”

Hella enjoyed being a martyr, a handy attribute when one worked for Joyhinia. R’shiel let her grumble on without interruption and carried her bag through to the room she had occupied as a child. She pushed open the door and looked around in astonishment.

The wall on her right glowed softly with the late morning Brightening, filling the room with gentle white light. Her bed, a large, carved four-poster, sat in the same position it always had against the wall. On the far wall, underneath the diamond-paned window beside the hearth, a matching dresser, polished to a soft gleam, stood unmoved from where it had always been. As long as she could remember, the wall on her left had been covered by a floor-to-ceiling tapestry depicting the stern countenance of Sister Param holding court with the first Quorum.

But now, the wooden frame where the tapestry had been nailed was empty, revealing the most astonishing scene R’shiel had ever seen.

A huge golden dragon, its wings outstretched, swooped down over a tall mountain range, where a white palace of impossible beauty sat perched high on the central peak. The wall was etched, yet smooth to the touch. The colors had not faded, despite the mural’s great age. It was as if the etchings were living images sealed behind glass. As she moved closer, the individual components of the illustration became clearer. What had at first seemed just a large landscape was filled with exquisite detail.

On the slopes of the mountain leading to the many-spired palace were figures of slender, naked, golden-skinned children, gamboling with small, wrinkled gray creatures amidst trees that seemed to have every individual leaf depicted in minute and loving detail. The closer she looked, the more complexity she discovered, the more the mural revealed. R’shiel thought with wonder that she could stand here for hours and still not take it all in. Were these the long dead Harshini? Were the tall graceful men leaning on the balconies and the black-eyed, elegant women the people of the lost race? Were the squat, ugly creatures supposed to be demons? She had expected them to be much more fearsome. She studied the dragon again, wondering how anyone could have conceived of such a creature, even in their imagination. A rider sat on the shoulders of the dragon, dressed in dark, velvety, skin-tight leathers, his dark red hair streaming out behind him, his expression rapturous. R’shiel smiled as she looked at him, thinking she would be wearing a similar expression if she had been riding such a glorious creature.

“Hope it don’t give you nightmares,” Hella said, pushing past R’shiel clutching fresh linen for the bed. The old woman looked at the mural for a moment and shuddered. “Damn, if that thing don’t give me the creeps.”

“It’s beautiful.”

All the years she had slept in this room she had never suspected the mural was there, although she had seen other etchings and other murals in more public places throughout the Citadel. Usually such artworks were painted over, but some of them had a surface that simply refused to take the whitewash. Those were covered with heavy, concealing tapestries. It was almost mandatory to accept a dare to sneak a look at the images of the forbidden Harshini depicted behind the tapestry in the Lesser Hall, which listed the virtues of the Sisterhood in dry, formal stitches. But she had never before seen a Harshini mural in the full light of day. Guilty glimpses of pale murals by torchlight were nothing compared to this.

“Beautiful?” Hella snorted. “It’s wicked! Look at those heathens! Not one of them is doing a lick of work. Just lollin‘ about naked or fornicatin’ like animals.”

R’shiel had to study the mural for quite a while before she discovered the couple Hella referred to, through one of the tall windows in the palace, locked in an explicit embrace that made her blush. She wondered how long Hella had studied the mural to find them.

“Well, I’ll try not to let it distract me,” she promised.

“See that they don’t,” Hella warned, tugging on the sheets to tuck them in. She finished making up the bed and straightened her back painfully. “There! Now you get yourself unpacked, and then we’ll be seein‘ about lunch. You look thin as a broom handle. I don’t know about young girls, these days. In my day, you took what food you was given and gladly. And you didn’t starve yourself till you looked like a refugee, neither.”

R’shiel wanted to tell Hella that she had done nothing of the kind, but there didn’t seem much point. As she left the room, still muttering about what it was like in her day, R’shiel crossed the room to the dresser and picked up the silver-backed hand-mirror that Joyhinia had given her on her twelfth birthday. It had never left this room. Such a gift was too valuable to leave lying around in the Dormitories, where girls of less noble breeding might be tempted. Or so Joyhinia had claimed.

She looked at her reflection, a little surprised at how thin her face was. Gwenell had prescribed a number of infusions to cleanse her liver, claiming her skin was yellowing, a sure sign that her liver was not functioning properly, and no doubt the reason for her inexplicable aversion to meat. R’shiel couldn’t see it herself, but one did not argue with Gwenell and hope to win on matters relating to the human body. The black circles under her eyes had faded a little, but her violet eyes seemed darker than normal, almost indigo. It was no doubt a sign of her failing kidneys, she thought grumpily. Or perhaps a sign of irregular bowels. R’shiel was heartily sick of the whole topic of her health. She actually felt better than she had in months. Her headaches had vanished, her appetite had returned, and everything seemed clearer, sharper than it had before. The prospect of spending another four weeks until Founders’ Day, recuperating under the watchful eye of her mother and Hella, was extremely depressing.

“R’shiel!”

She sighed at the sound of her mother’s voice and placed the mirror carefully on the dresser. No doubt Joyhinia had returned to the apartment for lunch. That she might have come home to check on her daughter, to assure herself she was well, did not occur to R’shiel, anymore that it would have occurred to Joyhinia.

Now that she was home for every meal and her mother was no longer compelled to set aside time for her daughter, dinnertime in Joyhinia’s apartment became an informal meeting of her cronies. Hella was given the evenings off, and R’shiel served her mother’s guests, as befitted her status as a Probate, albeit a temporarily inactive one. The most frequent guest was Jacomina, who would sit in silence and listen to Joyhinia list her endless complaints regarding Mahina’s mismanagement of the Sisterhood and Joyhinia’s plans to correct things, once she was First Sister. Much of Joyhinia’s rhetoric sounded as if she were rehearsing for a public forum.

One evening, soon after R’shiel arrived, Harith joined the small gathering. She appeared uncomfortable to begin with, gulping down her first glass of wine with indecent haste. Joyhinia wisely kept the conversation on mundane, everyday things all through the main course and dessert. Not until the women took their wine and moved to the armchairs around the fire, did Harith finally seem sufficiently at ease to discuss the reason for her visit.

“As you know, I’ve little patience with your schemes normally, Joyhinia,” she began, staring into the flames to avoid meeting the other woman’s eyes. Joyhinia and Jacomina remained silent. R’shiel cleared the table as quietly as possible, afraid that the clattering of dishes would draw attention to her presence. For once, this looked like being interesting, and she did not want to be banished to her room. “But this time, I fear you may be right.”

Joyhinia nodded solemnly. “My first care has always been for Medalon, Harith.”

“Perhaps,” Harith remarked, rather more skeptically than Joyhinia would have liked. “But as you know, Sister Suelen, the First Sister’s Secretary, is my niece. She brought something to my attention that I find disturbing.”

“Much of Mahina’s administration is disturbing,” Joyhinia agreed. “Exactly what has she done that causes you concern?”

Harith took another gulp of her wine. “I think Mahina is planning to declare war on Karien.”

Joyhinia looked astonished, although R’shiel suspected she was acting for Harith’s sake. “I believe Mahina capable of many things, but I doubt she would deliberately provoke an armed conflict with an enemy so much stronger than us.”

“Jenga has had several meetings with Mahina in the past few weeks,” Harith told them. “One of which included that sly little bastard Garet Warner and your son, who, I might add, has not been seen in the Citadel for weeks. Rumor has it he is in the north already.”

Joyhinia leaned back in her chair and rested her chin on steepled fingers.

“R’shiel!”

“Mother?” she replied, startled to be included in the conversation.

“Did Tarja say where he was going when he visited you in the Infirmary?”

The question surprised her. Was Joyhinia keeping tabs on her? “He said he was doing a survey of the northern border villages for Commandant Warner.”

Harith nodded with satisfaction. “There! What did I tell you!”

“That hardly proves she’s planning to start a war, Harith.” Joyhinia was enjoying this rare chance to be the voice of moderation.

“No? Then why has she got detailed plans, costs, even troop numbers and plans for a civilian militia, sitting on her desk?”

From where R’shiel stood, gently stacking the dishes on the small cart, ready for their return to the kitchen, her mother looked to her like a hawk about to swoop down on an unsuspecting rabbit. “Are you certain of this, Harith?”

“I’ve seen them myself. She plans to create a civil militia to bolster the Defenders and move a good half of the troops to the northern border.”

“King Jasnoff will take that as an act of war,” Jacomina pointed out with alarm.

“Perhaps Mahina already knows that.” Joyhinia looked at the two women closely, gauging their mood. “I have just learned that Lord Pieter is on his way back to the Citadel. King Jasnoff of Karien is unhappy with the upsurge of heathen cults, and these demon-child rumors refuse to go away. Mahina’s lenient attitude toward the heathens is just as dangerous as her plans for war.”

“Who would have thought a mouse like Mahina would turn out to be a warmonger?” Jacomina smirked. Both Joyhinia and Harith looked at the Mistress of Enlightenment in annoyance.

“She has to be stopped. If she continues on this course, she will destroy Medalon.”

“I wholeheartedly agree, Harith, but such a course of action could be considered treason, if not handled correctly.”

Harith’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Mahina must be impeached. Legally, openly, and without any doubt that the Quorum is in full agreement. If not, the Defenders will refuse to swear allegiance to the new First Sister. Mahina would be quite within her rights to have us hanged as traitors.” Joyhinia seemed to be deliberately trying to frighten her cohorts. Maybe she wanted to be sure now, before this moved from discussion to action, that her coconspirators would see this through to the bitter end.

“Then we need Francil,” Harith said.

“Francil will never agree,” Jacomina scoffed.

“She will if you give her what she wants. Everyone has their price, even Francil.”

“So what is her price?” Harith asked.

Joyhinia shrugged, smiling coldly. “I have no idea, Harith, but believe me, I intend to find out.”

As Founders’ Day drew nearer and with it the start of winter, the frequency of tense and furtive meetings in the apartment increased. Blue-robed sisters came and went, often looking up and down the hall nervously before they entered to ensure they were not observed. Joyhinia displayed a disturbing lack of trust in her daughter, so R’shiel was excluded from the discussions. But she overheard enough to know that her mother was planning to denounce Mahina at the annual Gathering following the Founders’ Day Parade, with the aide of the Karien Envoy.

R’shiel wanted no part in the plot. As Mistress of Enlightenment, the First Sister had educated hundreds of Novices, Probates, and Cadets – R’shiel and Tarja included. Mahina was a popular figure, particularly among the Defenders. She had championed the cause for Cadets to receive an education equivalent to that of Probates.

Torn between loyalty to her mother and her affection for Mahina, R’shiel didn’t know what to do. Short of going to Mahina and warning her personally, she could think of no way to foil her mother’s plans – and even that notion proved a futile hope. Joyhinia was well aware of R’shiel’s sympathy for Mahina’s policies and had obviously taken precautions. Hella seemed to be under orders to ensure that she remained cut off from the outside world and watched her like a fox sitting outside a chicken coop. Junee and Kilene were turned away when they came to visit. There was no way of getting to the First Sister, no way of warning her. Even a note would be subject to Suelen’s scrutiny. R’shiel fretted over her helplessness. It burned in her gut like a bad meal.

In spite of Joyhinia’s schemes, R’shiel recovered her strength quickly, gained a little weight, although not nearly as much as Sister Gwenell would have liked, and began to feel almost like her old self again.

Almost. Some things were not quite the same. For one thing, she had grown even taller, as if her menses had triggered one final growth spurt. She had always been tall for her age, but now she could look many of the Defenders in the eye. Joyhinia did not seem to notice, although she only came up to her daughter’s chin. R’shiel wondered if her height came from her father. Jenga was a big man, and she guessed she was as tall as he was now. She had not had another bleeding, but Gwenell did not seem concerned about it. These things took time to settle into a cycle, the physic had assured her when she came to visit under Hella’s watchful eye. R’shiel fervently hoped her next cycle would not be as spectacular as the first.

Strangely, her skin had retained the golden cast it had acquired during her illness, despite the herbal infusions. Gwenell was far more worried about it than R’shiel was. She felt fine and did not think, as Gwenell grimly forecast, that her liver was in imminent danger of collapse. However, she drank the bitter herbal tea each day to avoid a well-meaning lecture, if nothing else.

As Founders’ Day drew nearer, R’shiel became aware of something else that she could not even explain to herself, let alone Sister Gwenell. It happened the first time when she was sitting by the fire, waiting for Joyhinia to come home. She had dozed off in the warmth of the room, which was stuffy and overheated. Hella had come in, fussing about something or other. R’shiel opened her eyes and glanced at the old woman, startled to discover a faint shimmering light surrounding her, fractured with pale red lines and swirling with dark colors. She blinked in surprise and the vision disappeared, but she had seen it again, on odd occasions, about other people. She could not explain it or control it and was quite certain that if she mentioned it, Gwenell would produce another evil-smelling concoction to cure her of the spells.

But even more disturbing was something so intangible that she wondered if, like the auras she imagined around people, she was just inventing it. It had begun as a gentle tugging that caught her unawares as she was about to fall asleep one evening to the muted voices of Joyhinia and Harith plotting the downfall of Mahina in the other room. It was a feeling that someone or something was waiting for her, calling to her. A feeling that there was something just out of her reach and that if only she embraced it, it would make her complete.

The notion had grown steadily stronger in the past few weeks, until R’shiel had to consciously force herself to ignore it. It made no sense. Finally, R’shiel decided that it must be the result of her inability to prevent Joyhinia’s coup. Mahina may not be ruling Medalon the way Joyhinia liked, but she did not deserve to be unseated for it. Harith was, perhaps, genuinely concerned, but Joyhinia’s power grab was entirely selfish. Jacomina simply followed along in her mother’s wake. Francil, whom R’shiel had always considered the least corruptible member of the Quorum, had sold out for the promise of immortality.

Joyhinia had, as she predicted, quickly discovered the old sister’s price. Francil wanted to remain Mistress of the Citadel until she died. She wanted to name her own successor, and she wanted her name immortalized, in recognition of her long service to the Sisterhood. R’shiel was appalled when Francil had joined the others for the Restday dinner fully prepared to support them. On Joyhinia’s elevation to First Sister, the Great Hall would be renamed Francil’s Hall, the conspirators agreed. It was no wonder, R’shiel decided, that she was feeling as if the Citadel was suddenly alien to her. The honor of the Sisterhood had proved to be a commodity that could be bought and sold as easily as fish at the Port Sha’rin markets. She asked herself the same question that Tarja had posed in the Infirmary, over and over again. She was coming to think of it as The Question. What would you do if you don’t become a Blue Sister? She had no answer, and the nothingness beyond paralyzed her.

Three days before Founders’ Day, R’shiel was in her room, lying on her stomach across the bed staring at the Harshini mural. Losing herself in the forbidden mural meant not having to answer The Question. Every day she discovered something new in the picture, whether it was a den of snow foxes filled with playful, black-eyed cubs, or the solitary, golden figure who stood on the peak of a snowcapped mountain, reaching up with hands outstretched, to speak with the thunderstorm that hovered above him. Perhaps the man on the mountain was a sorcerer or a wizard and the clouds his magic? Was the storm meant to represent the Weather God, she wondered?

Did the Harshini have a Weather God? They seemed to have gods for everything else.

“R’shiel!”

She jumped guiltily. Joyhinia glared at the mural before turning to her daughter.

“Where are the wall hangings?” she asked, irritably.

“Hella sent them to be cleaned,” R’shiel explained, hurriedly climbing to her feet.

“That was weeks ago. Hella!”

The old maid appeared at the bedroom door wiping her hands on her apron. “My Lady?”

“Find out where the wall hangings for R’shiel’s room are,” she ordered. “At once! I want them back where they belong by this evening!”

“As you wish, my Lady.” Hella turned away muttering to herself.

Joyhinia ignored the maid and turned her attention back to R’shiel. “You’re still too thin.”

“Oh, so you noticed?”

Joyhinia seemed distracted. So distracted she did not rise to the taunt. “That’s what I came to see you about. You appear to be recovered, and I see no reason for you to stay any longer. You may move back to the Dormitories today. I will send for you when I need you.”

With a sinking heart, she realized her emancipation meant that Joyhinia’s plans were so well advanced that she could do them no harm, even if she marched straight from the apartment to the First Sister’s office. “As you wish, Mother.”

Joyhinia nodded absently and glanced at the mural again. “Damned heathens. That wall makes my skin crawl.”

chapter 12

It took nearly two hours for the Founders’ Day Parade to wend its way through the streets of the Citadel to the amphitheater. The weather was perfect for the event: cool but sunny, not a cloud marring the cobalt blue sky. First Sister Mahina, her Quorum and their families, Lord Draco, and the Lord Defender watched the parade from the steps of the Great Hall. The Defender’s drum band led the parade; their crisp marching tattoo almost drowned out by the cheering spectators who lined the route five deep on either side of the street. They were followed by every Defender in the Citadel not engaged in controlling the crowd that had flocked to the Citadel for the parade.

Following the infantry, who marched ten abreast in precise unison, the cavalry appeared, their perfectly groomed horses stepping proudly on the cobbled street, bringing an even louder cheer as they rode by. Jenga’s stern expression softened a little as he took the salute, his fist over his heart. The Defenders were his life, and the sight of them, in their full dress uniforms, their red jackets pressed, silver buttons glinting in the sunlight, never failed to touch him. Mahina stood beside him and smiled at him as the cavalry passed.

“Your Defenders do us proud, my Lord,” she said. “They are your Defenders, your Grace,” he replied, with genuine respect for the old woman.

“Then they do us both proud,” she agreed graciously.

Jenga bowed to the First Sister and turned back to watch the Parade.

Following on the heels of the cavalry were the floats of the Merchant Guilds. The first was a huge wicker pig on a flower-draped wagonbed drawn by ten burly men, all dressed in matching green aprons, their thick leather belts displaying an impressive array of dangerous-looking knives. Behind the Butcher’s Guild, the Brewer’s Guild and their float appeared. If they could not be first in the parade, then they were determined to be the most popular, Jenga decided. A number of young women, dressed in barely decent white shifts, were dipping into the barrels, passing out free tankards of ale to anyone within reach. The float had collected a tail of enthusiastic youngsters, eager to take advantage of this unexpected bounty.

On the tail of the raucous throng trailing the Brewer’s Guild, the float of the Musician’s Guild trundled into view, although he heard them well before they rounded the corner. Their wagon was packed with fiddlers, harpists, and flautists, belting out a merry air as their wagon trundled past the Great Hall, the melody interrupted sporadically as tankards of ale were passed along from the Brewer’s wagon in front. The parade was entertaining, but after ten or more floats had passed by, Jenga found his mind wandering to other things.

Five days ago Corporal Nork arrived with a message from Tarja warning that the Karien Envoy was probably on his way to the Citadel. There was no good reason why the Envoy would return to the Citadel so soon or why he would discomfort himself by traveling overland to do it. The only thing he could think of was that perhaps the Envoy had a deadline to meet. If Nork’s information was correct, and he had no reason to assume that it was not, then they should have arrived days ago. Had something happened to the Envoy? Or Tarja? Had they been delayed by accident? Or by design? The worry niggled at Jenga like a toothache. Even more worrying was that Mahina was not expecting the Kariens. When Jenga had passed on Tarja’s message, Mahina had been as surprised as he was.

To further add to his woes, Garet Warner was certain that Joyhinia Tenragan was up to something and had sought permission several weeks ago to investigate the matter.

Jenga’s responsibility was the defense of Medalon. He had no charter to investigate the goings on among the Sisters of the Blade. Nor did he wish to become involved in anything that Joyhinia Tenragan was mixed up in. She had been scheming and plotting for as long as he had known her, and even he was not immune to her machinations.

His brother had been gone from the Citadel these past twenty-three years, his crime forgotten. Dayan had hardly distinguished himself on the southern border, but he had kept out of trouble. Joyhinia remembered Dayan, though. The woman standing on Joyhinia’s left, Jacomina Larosse, the Mistress of Enlightenment, had her position because Joyhinia delighted in reminding Jenga that her testimony would see his brother hanged. The fact that Dayan had been little more than a foolish Cadet at the time and Jacomina a frivolous Probate, did not lessen his crime. Rape was a capital offense and Jacomina’s silence was the result of Joyhinia’s intervention. For that he had turned a blind eye to a great deal, and he did not want a man of Garet Warner’s piercing intellect investigating anything about Joyhinia, if he could avoid it.

He had refused Garet permission and been content with his decision, but since Nork had thundered into the Citadel on a horse that was almost foundered, Jenga wondered if he had done the right thing. Was Joyhinia up to something more serious than usual? Did it have anything to do with the sudden return of the Envoy? And where was he? Where was Tarja?

For all that he loathed Joyhinia and despaired of the hold she had over him, her unwanted son held a special place in Jenga’s affection. His mother had placed him in the Cadets at the tender age of ten – the youngest boy Jenga had ever accepted as a Cadet – and then only because Trayla had ordered him to take the boy in. Despite his misgivings about the boy’s ability to cope, Tarja had thrived away from his mother. If anything, Jenga suspected he had excelled to ensure that he was in no danger of being returned to her care. As an adult, Tarja was one of a handful of men whom Jenga trusted implicitly and among the even smaller number of men whom Jenga counted as a friend. He had missed Tarja sorely, when Trayla banished him to the southern border, although he had considered the young man lucky to escape the First Sister’s wrath so lightly. One did not insult the First Sister so publicly and expect to get away with it, no matter how much even Jenga had silently agreed with Tarja’s blunt and extremely tactless assessment of her character.

“Shall we join the people for lunch, my Lord?”

Jenga started a little at Mahina’s question, rather surprised to see the last float slowly disappearing around the corner of the huge Library building across the street. The crowd flowed into the street in the wake of the wagon, heading for the amphitheater and the banquet laid out for the citizens of the Citadel. For the next few hours the First Sister and the Quorum would mingle with the people as they partook of the bounty of the Sisterhood, until the amphitheater was cleared at sundown to allow the annual Gathering to take place.

“Of course, your Grace,” Jenga replied with a bow. He offered the First Sister his arm, and together they walked down the steps of the Great Hall, followed by the other dignitaries. As he turned, he caught sight of Joyhinia, muttering something to R’shiel. The girl had changed somewhat since her illness, he thought with concern. She seemed even taller than he remembered, her skin touched by an unfashionable golden tan, her once-violet eyes now almost black. The overall effect was one of strangeness, giving her an almost alien mien, and he found himself wondering again at her parentage. Who had really fathered Joyhinia’s child? No Medalonian, that was for certain. Had Joyhinia found herself a Fardohnyan paramour? They tended toward the same swarthy complexion. Or perhaps a Hythrun lover, although they were fairer than their Fardohnyan cousins. But the long-standing mystery of R’shiel’s paternity seemed unimportant at this moment. Joyhinia looked annoyed. Had R’shiel said something to upset her mother, or was Joyhinia’s concern the same as his, but for different reasons?

Jenga escorted the First Sister into the street and the cheerful, happy crowd. He saw Joyhinia glancing back down the street in the direction the parade had come from, toward the main gate, her expression for a moment unguarded. She was expecting something, he knew with certainty, feeling decidedly uneasy.

The sandy floor of the Arena had been set up with trestles laden with food for the celebrations. The people of the Citadel and the outlying villages, from as far away as Brodenvale and Testra, milled about the tables, loading wooden platters with slices of rare beef, minted lamb, fresh corn, potatoes roasted in their jackets, and wedges of fresh bread that had kept the bakers’ guild busy since early this morning. Jenga moved among the crowd, nodding to a familiar face here and there, keeping an eye on the men assigned to ensure that the food was distributed as evenly as possible in this chaos. Generally, once the citizens had their food, they moved up into the tiered seating around the amphitheater, more to avoid being trampled than for comfort. Still, it was early afternoon before the crowd in the Arena began to thin noticeably.

Jenga was on the verge of deciding he could risk trying to get a meal without being crushed when he spied Garet Warner striding purposefully toward him. He had not seen the Commandant all day and wondered where he had been. Even command of the Defenders’ Intelligence Corps did not exempt one from the Founders’ Day Parade, although Garet undoubtedly had a perfectly good excuse. As he did Tarja, Jenga trusted the man implicitly, but although he respected him, he would hesitate to call him a friend.

“Nice of you to join us, Commandant,” Jenga remarked dryly as Garet reached him. “Not keeping you from something important, are we?”

Garet did not even smile. “Actually, you are. Can you get away from here without attracting notice?”

“Whose notice in particular?” Jenga asked.

“Joyhinia Tenragan’s,” Garet replied.

Jenga frowned. “I specifically ordered you not to involve yourself in matters concerning the Sisterhood, Commandant.”

Garet did not flinch from Jenga’s disapproving gaze.

“Tarja’s back.”

Jenga had to force himself not to run.

Tarja’s disheveled appearance was in stark contrast to the parade-ground smartness of the rest of the Citadel’s Defenders. He was waiting in Jenga’s office, standing by the window looking out over the deserted parade ground behind the Defenders’ Building, with a young, brown-eyed lieutenant in an equally unkempt condition. Both men looked exhausted.

“Is the Envoy with you?” Jenga asked, without preamble.

Tarja nodded. “I had him taken to the guest apartments with his priest.”

“His priest?” Jenga asked in surprise. Lord Pieter rarely traveled with a priest. It inhibited his enjoyment of life outside of Karien far too much. “What’s he doing here? Why has he come back?”

“The Karien Envoy is here to denounce Mahina. He and Joyhinia have made some sort of pact.”

Jenga sank heavily into his leather-bound chair. “What does she hope to gain from such a display?”

“The First Sister’s mantle, probably,” Tarja said wearily. “But it gets worse. Joyhinia has agreed to let him have R’shiel in return for his support. According to Pieter, the Overlord spoke to the priest and told him to take R’shiel back to Karien.”

Jenga made no attempt to hide his shock. “That’s absurd! Surely you’re mistaken? Not even Joyhinia would stoop so low!”

“How little you know my mother,” Tarja muttered. “But it’s a little easier to comprehend when you realize that R’shiel is not her daughter. Or yours, for that matter.”

“I can assure you, I have always known she was not my child,” he said grimly. “Anyway, what do you mean – not daughter?”

Tarja folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the window. “You tell him, Lieutenant.”

With remarkable composure, the lieutenant related the tale of their meeting with Bereth and the orphans, although he omitted any reference to Bereth’s conversion to heathen worship. Jenga listened with growing concern as the young man told him of the fate of Haven. He spared Garet a glance, but the Commandant had heard the tale already, and his expression betrayed no emotion. Tarja stared out of the window at some indeterminate point, almost as if he wasn’t interested. When the lieutenant finished his report, Jenga sagged back in his chair, not sure where to start.

“Why would she pretend the child is hers?” he asked finally, of nobody in particular.

Tarja glanced at him, as if he should already know the answer. “The only child she gave birth to was inconveniently male. Joyhinia wants a dynasty. For that she needs a daughter. Acquiring somebody else’s child is a far less troublesome way of ensuring the succession.”

Jenga was a little surprised at Tarja’s ability to so objectively analyze his mother’s motives, particularly as he had been cast aside to make room for them.

“Perhaps her dynastic ambitions explain her willingness to send R’shiel to Karien,” Garet suggested. “This Overlord business could be merely a ruse. If Joyhinia gains the First Sister’s mantle, R’shiel becomes an eminently suitable consort for Jasnoff’s son. Cratyn is the same age as R’shiel and still unmarried. Why stop at the First Sister’s mantle when you can have the Karien crown?”

Tarja shook his head. “Pieter spoke of the priest having a vision. He didn’t act like a man coming to escort a bride home.”

“What do you intend to do, Tarja?”

“R’shiel is not a child any longer, Jenga. She might be relieved to discover she’s not related to Joyhinia. Or me. For that matter, I’m not at all certain she won’t jump at the chance to leave the Citadel with the Kariens, whatever the reason. But the real issue here is who ordered that village burned.”

Jenga had been wondering the same thing. “Did Bereth know the name of the officer who led the raid?”

Davydd shook his head. “We asked her, but she couldn’t name him. She wasn’t there when the village was raided.”

“Would it surprise anyone to learn that Jacomina was the Administrator in Testra three years ago?” Garet asked.

“Our recently elevated Mistress of Enlightenment?” Tarja replied. “Well, that explains a lot. Order a few hapless villagers torched and get a seat on the Quorum in return.”

There were other reasons for Jacomina’s elevation, but Jenga did not bother to elaborate. He rubbed his chin as he considered the news, not sure what bothered him most. A whole village had been destroyed by his men, without his knowledge. Who had done such a thing? Who among his officers would so readily turn on his own countrymen?

“Garet, what can Joyhinia hope to achieve by this? Realistically?”

The Commandant thought for a moment before he answered. “At best, it would merely embarrass Mahina. It depends on what the Kariens are threatening. It could just be bluff and bluster on their part.”

“And at worst?” Jenga asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“Well, in theory, if she has the support of the Quorum and enough of the Blue Sisters, Joyhinia could move to have Mahina impeached.”

“Can she do that?” Davydd asked.

“It’s happened before,” Garet shrugged. “Once. Although in that case the First Sister was accused of murder. I guess the question is whether or not Joyhinia has sufficient support to try it.”

Jenga shook his head. “Jacomina would support her, but Harith opposes her on principal and Francil has never been one for involving herself in the power games of the Quorum. I find it hard to believe that a majority of the Blue Sisters would support her.”

Tarja laughed harshly at Jenga’s assessment of the situation. “I admire your optimism, Jenga, but if Joyhinia moves to impeach the First Sister, I promise you, she has the numbers.”

“Then we must warn Mahina.”

“Tell her about R’shiel, too,” Tarja suggested. “It will give her ammunition to use against Joyhinia. If she’s exposed as a liar, it may shake the faith of her supporters.” Tarja looked him in the eye, his expression a blatant challenge. “Although there will be some who wonder why you’ve never denied R’shiel, my Lord.”

“Aye, there will be,” he agreed uncomfortably. “But that is none of their concern. Or yours.”

“But with proof of Joyhinia’s deliberate lie...” Garet began.

“I said the matter is none of your concern. I’ll hear no more about it.” The distrust in Tarja’s eyes pained him, but he was too far down this road to turn back now. “Tell R’shiel if you must, Tarja. She deserves to know. But you will not reveal it publicly. Nor you, Garet, and that’s an order.”

The Commandant nodded his agreement with some reluctance and more than a little suspicion.

“Maybe you should tell Lord Pieter,” Davydd suggested. The other men looked at him in surprise, and the young man found himself having to defend his statement to the senior officers. “I mean, he’s expecting to return with the daughter of the First Sister, isn’t he? His enthusiasm might wane a little when he learns she’s nothing more than an orphan from the mountains.”

“He has a point,” Garet remarked thoughtfully.

“If Pieter believes Elfron has spoken with Xaphista, I doubt R’shiel’s parentage will unduly concern him.”

“Aye, and much as I am fond of the girl, I cannot worry about her at the moment,” Jenga added. “I’m more concerned with Joyhinia’s plans for this evening,”

“We still have several hours before the Gathering,” Garet reminded them. “Perhaps we can think of a way to disrupt her plans by then.”

“And perhaps not,” Tarja predicted. He looked straight at Jenga. “Have you considered, my Lord, that if Joyhinia succeeds, you will be required to swear allegiance to her?”

“I am the Lord Defender, Tarja. If Joyhinia wins the First Sister’s mantle by legal means, I will have no choice but to swear the Oath of Allegiance to her, on behalf of the Defenders.”

“You may swear the oath on behalf of everyone but me,” Tarja told him bleakly. “I’ll not serve under Joyhinia’s rule.”

“You are a captain of the Defenders,” Jenga pointed out, surprised that Tarja would even contemplate such a thing. “You are not some common trooper who can run home to his farm when he is tired of playing soldier. Your oath is binding until death.”

“Then I’ll desert,” Tarja replied. “You can hunt me down and hang me for it, Jenga, but not for any price will I serve in the Defenders if Joyhinia is First Sister.”

chapter 13

Despite the promise of perfect weather earlier in the day, impatient storm clouds gathered over the Citadel during the afternoon. By the time the amphitheater was due to be cleared for the Gathering, a blustery wind stirred the treetops, and the dull rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. Mahina ordered the Gathering moved to the Great Hall and sent word that revellers could stay in the amphitheater as long as the weather held.

The announcement was met with a general cheer, and the Guild musicians struck up another lively tune. They had moved their wagon into the Arena as an impromptu stage, pushed tables back to make way for dancing, and a bonfire was started to stave off the chill of the evening. Every Blue Sister in the Citadel would be at the Gathering as soon as the sun set. The Novices and Probates were left with a rare opportunity to enjoy themselves away from the watchful eyes of their superiors. Fully aware that the young women would be unsupervised until well after midnight, the Defenders hovered around the Arena, waiting for that magical moment when the last blue figure disappeared from view.

R’shiel watched the dancing from the side of the Arena, unconsciously tapping her foot in time to the music, as Junee and Kilene filled her in on all the latest gossip from the dormitories.

“By the Founder’s!” Kilene suddenly declared dramatically. “It’s him!”

A little taken aback by Kilene’s sudden change of subject mid-sentence, R’shiel looked at her friend in puzzlement.

“Davydd Tailorson,” Junee explained with a world-weary air. “Kilene goes to sleep every night dreaming about him.”

“Who is he?” R’shiel knew most of the officers who had graduated with Tarja by name, but as a rule, she did not follow the goings-on in the Corps with quite the same dedication as her friends. Having spent the last few weeks in virtual imprisonment in Joyhinia’s apartments, she was even more out of touch than usual.

“Over there,” Kilene said, “In the red jacket.”

“In the red jacket? Kilene, every man here is wearing a red jacket, you fool.”

“You know what I mean. He’s standing next to Luc Janeson. No! Don’t look at him!”

R’shiel had no idea who Luc Janeson was either and in the crowd of red jackets in the fading light, was hard pressed to tell one Defender from another. She glanced at Junee who laughed at both of them. “You’d better get a look at him soon, R’shiel. She’ll be in love with someone else before dinnertime.”

“Don’t be so cynical!” Kilene declared with a wounded look. “I will love him until I die.”

“Or until someone better comes along.”

“So what’s so special about... what’s his name?”

“Lieutenant Davydd Tailorson,” Kilene said with a reverent sigh. “He’s in Intelligence.”

“He’s very intelligent, too,” Junee agreed with a wink at R’shiel. “He avoids Kilene like the pox.”

“He does not! He’s been away, that’s all.”

“With you panting after him like a bitch in heat, it’s a wonder he didn’t volunteer for the southern border.”

Kilene loftily ignored Junee and stared across the Arena at her idol for a moment before clutching R’shiel’s arm painfully. “They’re coming over!” she gasped with a mixture of terror and delight.

R’shiel finally spotted Kilene’s object of adoration walking toward them with two other lieutenants, weaving their way between the dancers and the helpful souls dragging several large logs toward the bonfire. The sun was almost completely set, and shadows concealed the faces of the Defenders as they approached. Kilene’s champion, when he finally drew close enough to be seen clearly, was a young man of average height with a pleasant but unremarkable face.

“Would you ladies care to dance?” he asked, with an elegant bow. “It’s too cold to stand around gossiping.”

Kilene was on the verge of fainting with happiness. “Yes, please!”

She stepped forward eagerly and was immediately whisked away by the officer standing on Davydd’s right, her face crestfallen as she looked back over her shoulder toward the object of her affection as her partner pulled her into the crowd. The young man on his left grabbed Junee with equal enthusiasm, and they too rapidly disappeared.

R’shiel realized she had been very effectively cornered. “Nice maneuver, Lieutenant. Do they teach you that in the Cadets?”

“Actually, they do,” he replied. “It’s called Divide and Conquer. But fear not, my designs on you are completely honorable.”

“Is that so?”

“Tarja wants to see you.”

“My brother is in the north.” She’d heard her share of lines from dozens of Cadets and Officers, but nobody had ever tried using Tarja before.

“He arrived back earlier today. We both did. With the Karien Envoy.”

“Where is he, then?”

“In the caverns under the amphitheater. He asked me to take you to him.”

R’shiel studied him for a moment before deciding he was telling her the truth. She let him lead the way toward the tunnel, more curious than concerned, wondering why Tarja wanted to see her.

“Keep watch,” Tarja ordered. The lieutenant nodded wordlessly and vanished into the shadows. She looked around curiously. The last time she had been in these caverns, Georj had died fighting Loclon, and she had fainted from the onset of her menses.

“You look a lot better than the last time we met,” he told her, taking her hand and leading her deeper into the caverns.

“I can’t say the same for you,” she remarked, pulling away from him to study him more clearly. He looked exhausted. “In fact, you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“I haven’t,” he agreed wearily, “so that probably accounts for it.”

“Are you in trouble again?”

“Not yet,” he assured her with a faint grin. “But the night is young.”

“I’d laugh, except I have a bad feeling you’re not joking. Why all the secrecy? If you wanted to see me, you didn’t have to send your lackey. You could have just come to the party, you know.”

“I’m not in a party mood.” He walked further into the dim cavern. In the distance, R’shiel could hear the faint sounds of a couple giggling and urging each other to silence. They were not the only ones seeking privacy down here tonight.

“So you sent for me? I’m not one of your troopers, Tarja. You can’t just order me around like a Cadet.” R’shiel knew she sounded angry, and it was hardly fair to take it out on Tarja, but the closer the Gathering came, the more she fretted over what would happen when Joyhinia set her plans in motion.

Tarja didn’t seem to notice. He studied his boots for a moment, which were scuffed and dusty with wear, then took a deep breath and looked at her. “I have to tell you something, R’shiel. It’s going to be difficult for you to hear it, but you have a right to know.”

“What are you talking about?” She could not imagine what he could say that warranted such a warning. Tarja was not normally so cryptic.

He took another deep breath before he answered. “Joyhinia is not your mother.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“You’re not Joyhinia’s daughter.”

“That’s ridiculous! Of course I’m her daughter! Where would you get such an idea?”

He stood leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. “Your mother was a girl named J’nel Snowbuilder. She lived in a village called Haven, up in the Sanctuary Mountains west of Testra. She died giving birth to you.”

“That’s absurd!” She walked to the back of the cavern. “I know I was born in Haven. Mother never hid that from anyone. She was pregnant when she left Testra.”

“No, she wasn’t,” he said. “Although it’s true that she wintered in Haven that year. You were born to a girl in the village. She took you back to Testra in the spring, claiming you were hers. But you are not her daughter, R’shiel.”

The whole idea seemed too bizarre to be real. “If that’s true, why hasn’t Lord Jenga ever denied me?”

“I’ve no answer to that, I’m afraid,” he said. “Perhaps you should ask him.”

R’shiel sank down against the wall, until she was sitting on the sandy floor, her chin resting on her knees. Tarja stayed where he was. She could not read his expression in the dull light.

“Then who is my real father?”

“Your mother, your real mother, refused to name him. You had an aunt there, your mother’s older sister, but no other family, from what I know.”

R’shiel felt numb. “Where is she now, this aunt of mine?”

“The whole village is dead, R’shiel,” he told her. “Joyhinia had them killed three years ago, when your aunt threatened to expose her.”

R’shiel looked up at him. His voice had the ring of certain truth, but it was too dreadful a truth to acknowledge. She thought it odd that she felt nothing. No anger, or hurt, or even surprise. “How did you find out?”

Tarja kept his distance, leaning against the bare stone wall, studying her with an unreadable expression. “There were a few survivors. Children, mostly. And a Blue Sister. I met her while I was in the north. She spurned the Sisterhood after it happened.”

“Why?”

“I suppose she considered the Sisterhood—”

“But why did Joyhinia lie about me?” R’shiel interrupted impatiently.

“She wanted a daughter,” Tarja said with a shrug. “I don’t think she ever forgave me for being born male.”

“Then why not simply have another child?”

“And go through all that pain and discomfort with no guarantee the child would be a girl? Come on, R’shiel, you know Joyhinia well enough. You figure it out.”

A heavy silence settled over the cavern as R’shiel digested the news. Suddenly the feeling she did not belong here seemed eminently reasonable.

“Who else knows?” she asked eventually.

“Lord Jenga, obviously. Garet Warner. And Davydd Tailorson.”

“You stopped short of announcing it on the parade ground to the entire Defender Corps, then?”

He shook his head at her question. “And you accuse me of not taking things seriously enough.”

“Well, what do you expect me to say, Tarja? You drag me in here and calmly announce that I’m not who I think I am. You tell me Joyhinia and the Lord Defender have lied all these years about my birth and that Joyhinia had my real family and an entire village murdered. I don’t know what to say, Tarja. I don’t even know what to feel!”

“I warned you this wouldn’t be easy, R’shiel, but it’s not the worst of it, I fear.”

“You mean there’s more? Founders! If this is the good news, I can’t wait to hear the bad!”

Tarja sighed, as if he understood her anger. “She’s done a deal with Lord Pieter. She’s sending you back to Karien with the Envoy. She traded you for the First Sister’s mantle.”

R’shiel could feel the blood drain from her face. I’ll call you when I need you, Joyhinia had said. She stood up and paced the cavern until her angry steps brought her face to face with him. His expression was bleak.

“You must be mistaken.” It was more a hopeful question than a statement of fact. She knew Joyhinia’s ambition had no limit. “Why would the Kariens want me? It can’t be true!”

Just then, Davydd Tailorson appeared at the cavern entrance with Garet Warner at his side, coughing politely to alert them to his presence.

“I hate to break this up, children,” Garet said, his laconic tone easing the tension a little. “But Lord Pieter has just entered the Great Hall to address the Gathering. I suggest we get a move on, or we’ll miss all the excitement.”

R’shiel looked sharply at Tarja. “You can’t attend the Gathering! They won’t let you in. You know it’s restricted to the Blue Sisters.”

“And the Lord Defender,” Garet reminded her. “And whatever aides he deems suitable to the occasion. Now, if you will excuse us, R’shiel, we are rather pressed for time.”

Garet stood back and waited for Tarja, who spared her nothing more than a sympathetic look. R’shiel watched the three men leave. The torches hissed loudly in the sudden silence, leaving her alone with her anger. Impulsively, she ran after them.

“Wait! I’m coming too!”

“They won’t let you in, R’shiel,” Tarja warned her.

She looked at him defiantly. “Care to wager on that?”

“Come on, then,” Garet ordered, obviously annoyed but knowing there was little he could do to stop her. Davydd hurried after the Commandant, but Tarja caught her arm and held her back. She struggled against his hold but could not break free.

“R’shiel!” he said sharply, surprising her into stillness with his tone. “Look, whatever you may think of Joyhinia, whatever happens after tonight, you still have Lord Pieter to deal with.”

“That’s simple. If he tries to lay a hand on me I’ll slit his lecherous throat!”

“Which won’t achieve anything, except you being hanged for murder,” he pointed out with infuriating logic. “Anyway, the Envoy isn’t your problem. It’s his priest, Elfron, you need to watch for. He claims he had a vision or something from his god. He’s the one who wants to take you back to Karien.”

“Tarja!” Garet and Davydd had reached the end of the tunnel and were waiting impatiently for him.

“I have to go. Be careful, R’shiel.” Without another word Tarja strode off toward the entrance.

R’shiel had to run to catch up.

chapter 14

When R’shiel and the Defenders reached the Great Hall, Tarja and Garet continued up the steps to the massive bronze-sheathed doors. The two Defenders on guard saluted the officers sharply and stood back to let them enter. They were attending the Gathering as the Lord Defender’s aides and had a valid reason to gain admittance. R’shiel had no such excuse. She glanced at Davydd Tailorson questioningly.

“Now what?” she whispered, afraid her voice would carry in the deserted street. Everyone was still at the amphitheater. A soft rain had begun to fall, and the cobblestone street was slick and glistening in the moonlight.

“There’s no way they’ll let you in, R’shiel.”

She looked at him, her eyes glinting. “Oh, yes there is.”

R’shiel glanced up and down the deserted street then ran across to the alley between the Great Hall and the slightly less impressive Administration Hall next door, from where Francil ruled the Citadel. Davydd followed her down the alley to a shoulder-high brick wall that blocked the end of the lane. She grabbed the top of the wall and pulled herself up, turning to help Davydd. Balanced on the top of the narrow wall, Davydd looked up.

“You’ve got to be joking!”

“I hope you’ve a head for heights,” she said.

She pointed to the window ledge above them, which was out of reach by a few hand spans. With a shake of his head at his own folly, he cupped his hands and gave her a boost up to the ledge. As soon as she was safely up, she turned carefully, and lying flat on her stomach on the cold, wet ledge, she reached down to him. Davydd grabbed her outstretched arm and used it to anchor himself as he climbed up. Once he was beside her on the narrow ledge he helped her stand, and they carefully edged their way along the building toward the rear. The tall, stained-glass windows shed dull light from the torchlit interior, but it was impossible to see through them. Muted voices drifted up occasionally, as if the Gathering was voting on something. Once, she heard a male voice, accented and clipped, that she was certain must be Lord Pieter, although she could not make out the words. With a shudder, she forced her concentration back to what she was doing. She might not be afraid of heights, but that would not make falling from the slick ledge to the pavement below any less fatal.

They finally reached a small protruding balcony as the rain began to fall a little harder. Distant lightning flickered to the north, illuminating their way sporadically with flashes of whiteness. Davydd hauled himself up over the balustrade and reached down to help R’shiel up. As soon as she had clambered up beside him, shivering in her damp dress, he turned to the lock on the diamond-paned doors that led onto the balcony. The lock snicked open in a surprisingly short time. Hugging herself against the chill, R’shiel looked at the young man curiously.

“How did you do that?”

The lieutenant placed a finger on his lips, warning her to silence, then eased open the door. They slipped inside, and he pulled the door shut behind them, wincing as the wet hinges squealed in protest. Fortunately, a loud shout suddenly rose from the gathered Sisters below, masking the sound. Dropping into a crouch Davydd moved quickly and silently along the gallery. R’shiel picked up her dripping skirts and followed him, bent double to keep her head below the marble balustrade that circled the upper level of the Great Hall. About halfway down the gallery, Davydd stopped and motioned her forward. He dropped onto his belly, wiggling forward until he could see the floor below. R’shiel silently followed suit.

He had chosen an excellent vantage point. From here she could see the raised marble steps where the Quorum stood in their stark white dresses amidst a sea of blue skirts and capes. The only other splash of color was the bright red jackets of the Lord Defender and his two aides, Tarja and Garet, who stood silently behind their commander, and the huge symbol of the Sisterhood on the wall behind the podium. The Great Hall was filled with Blue Sisters who had traveled from all over Medalon for the Gathering.

Wondering how much she had missed, R’shiel looked down curiously at the podium. Mahina stood stiffly in the center, and even from this distance, she appeared angry. Standing in front of her, below the steps, in a small clearing in front of the podium, Lord Pieter and a slender, tonsured man confronted the First Sister. R’shiel looked at the priest who wanted to take her back to Karien in response to a vision. He must be insane, she reasoned. She could not see his face, but he was dressed in a magnificent cape. A five-pointed star intersected by a lightning bolt was embroidered in gold thread across the back. In his right hand he held a tall staff, topped by the same gilded symbol and encrusted with precious stones. It threw back the torchlight into the faces of the gathered women like chips of colored light.

“Your concerns are noted, my Lord,” Mahina was saying to the Envoy in a voice that dripped icicles. “But Karien has no leave to dictate internal policy in Medalon. I will deal with the heathens as I see fit.”

“Ah now, that is the problem, First Sister,” Lord Pieter remarked in an equally cold tone. “Your idea of dealing with the heathens is not to deal with them at all. There are more heathens in Medalon now than there were when the Harshini despoiled this land with their vile customs!”

A general murmur of anxiety rippled through the gathered Sisters. Lord Pieter’s statement was a gross exaggeration, everyone knew that, but that he would accuse Medalon of breaking the centuries-old treaty so publicly, was cause for concern.

“You waste the Gathering’s time with your wild accusations, my Lord. Return to your King and pass on my best wishes for his continued health and well-being. You might also like to tell him to mind his own business.”

R’shiel was surprised at Mahina’s undiplomatic rejoinder. She glanced at Joyhinia for a moment and saw the look of satisfaction that flickered across her face. Mahina was playing right into her hands. Even Davydd, lying silently beside her, hissed softly at the First Sister’s tactlessness. The sharp smell of wet wool filled her nostrils from her own wet clothes and the lieutenant’s damp jacket.

Lord Pieter sputtered in protest. Joyhinia smoothly stepped forward and held up her hand to quiet the startled mutterings that swept through the crowd.

“My Lord, the First Sister is right to be concerned that you accuse us of breaking the terms of the treaty so freely. Substantiate your claims, or leave her to rule Medalon as she sees fit.”

Had she not known how cleverly Joyhinia had orchestrated this scene, R’shiel would have been impressed by her mother’s – rather, she reminded herself grimly – her foster mother’s support of the First Sister.

R’shiel could tell that many of the Blue Sisters were impressed. Joyhinia presented a facade of loyalty to the First Sister that was as touching as it was false.

“Elfron!” Expecting this cue, the priest took a step forward.

“There have been one hundred and seventeen heathen cults uncovered in Medalon in the past two years,” the priest announced in a voice that was high pitched and rather grating on the ears. Were the Overlord’s priests eunuchs, perhaps? She had never heard that they were, but his voice lacked the masculine depth of the men R’shiel knew. Perhaps that accounted for his absurd vision. “Until the ascension of Sister Mahina, these cults were all dealt with in a similar manner. That is, confiscation of property and a prison sentence for the miscreants. Since Sister Mahina, however, there have been only three cases of confiscation and none of prison sentences.”

“Perhaps it simply means that the heathens are under control,” Joyhinia replied. R’shiel caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and saw Garet whispering to Tarja. He was no doubt concerned where the Kariens had gained their intelligence.

“Far from it, my Lady,” the priest replied. “From your southern border to the north, we have identified a growing number of cults and supplied that information to the First Sister. Yet many of these cults continue to flourish unmolested.”

Joyhinia glanced at Jenga. She had all but taken over the meeting. “Is this true, Lord Defender? Has the First Sister ordered you not to act on the information supplied by our allies?”

“The matters are under investigation, my Lady,” Jenga replied, not happy to be drawn into the discussion. “Prudence should not be confused with inaction. The Defenders will take every action allowed by the law, when the information has been verified.”

“There, you see, my Lord? You have it from the Lord Defender himself. Everything is under control.”

“I am afraid that is not good enough, my Lady,” Pieter warned with a shake of his head. “My King desires more than vague assurances. We were given those the last time we were here, and nothing has come of them. King Jasnoff requires a firm commitment to commence an immediate Purge against all heathens, known or suspected, in Medalon. If not, a force of Church Knights will be dispatched immediately, and we will deal with the problem ourselves.”

The Envoy’s statement brought a howl of protest from the gathered Sisters. Mahina stepped forward and held up both hands. The Sisters took noticeably longer to fall silent than when Joyhinia had used the same gesture. R’shiel watched the First Sister with a touch of pity. She was short and dumpy and lacked Joyhinia’s cold elegance. There was nothing regal in her bearing. She did not inspire confidence standing on the podium in the shadow of Joyhinia and Harith, both of whom stood a head taller than her. Mahina did not look like a First Sister should.

“Your advice will be taken under consideration, my Lord,” Mahina said, almost shouting to be heard over the slowly subsiding din. “I would ask that you leave us now to consider our formal reply to your King.”

Pieter bowed and motioned the priest back. “I will await your response, your Grace.” The two men turned as the crowd parted before them, to allow them to leave. The Kariens walked the long length of the mosaic-tiled Hall, ignoring the Sisters who watched them depart. As the doors boomed shut behind them the crowd once again broke into an uproar.

Mahina let the noise wash over her for a while, considering her next words carefully, before she held up her hands for silence. Slowly the Sisters quieted. Their mood was hard to fathom, but the idea of Church Knights on Medalon soil was unthinkable. Medalon had fought long and hard to rid itself of all religious ties. To the majority of the Sisters, even the small heathen cults were preferable. At least they, as a rule, were not armed.

“I have long expected such duplicity from the Kariens,” Mahina announced to the Gathering. R’shiel watched Joyhinia as the First Sister spoke. “Had I instigated a Purge when I became First Sister, the Envoy would have used the need for one as a weapon against us. I will not bow to blackmail.”

A cheer greeted Mahina’s statement, albeit a muted one. Rhetoric was a fine thing, but it did not remove the threat of an armed incursion.

“Fine sentiments, First Sister,” Harith scoffed. “But I fear the Envoy is not bluffing. What are you going to do? Stand at the border and ask the Church Knights, very nicely, not to move any further?”

“I will not suffer Karien knights on Medalon soil. We will meet their force with equal force,” Mahina replied confidently. “The Defenders will turn them back.”

“Warmonger!” The cry came from the back of the hall, no doubt a Sister in Joyhinia’s camp, primed before the meeting for such an opportunity. Several other Sisters took up the cry, and within moments the hall was filled with the chanting. “Warmonger! Warmonger!”

Joyhinia stepped forward and silenced the crowd. You have to admire her ability to manipulate people, R’shiel thought, rather begrudgingly.

“Sisters! Shame on you! I am appalled by this disrespect. If the First Sister says we can defeat a force of Karien knights, then we must believe her! Please, First Sister, explain your position. Have you thought of how we might face such a threat?” Joyhinia smiled so pleasantly, so supportively at Mahina, that the older woman had no idea what was coming next.

“I have, for some months, been examining our options in case such a situation ever arose,” Mahina explained. R’shiel glanced at the Defenders and saw Garet Warner shaking his head, as if trying to warn Mahina of the trap she was walking into. “I have detailed plans of how we might defend our northern border and the disposal of our forces. We can face the Karien threat confidently.”

“Then you have planned for this war, all along?” Joyhinia asked.

Mahina obviously assumed her colleagues would applaud her forethought. “I have, Sister. I have given the matter a great deal of thought.”

“You deliberately planned a war with the Kariens?” Harith asked, right on cue. “You have purposely set us on a course that is likely to destroy us? You planned a war with our allies?”

Before Mahina could deny Harith’s interpretation of her actions, the crowd once again took up the cry of “Warmonger!” This time many more Sisters joined in, and Joyhinia made no move to stop them. As the chant went on and on, it began to dawn on Mahina how expertly she had been duped. Her expression changed to one of anger as she looked first at Harith and then Joyhinia. Francil and Jacomina stood behind her, but they were yet to play their part. The First Sister tried to defend her position, but the chanting drowned out her voice.

Finally, it was Harith who managed to silence the angry Sisters. She stood at the front of the podium and addressed them loudly. “I am sworn to protect and govern Medalon. To serve the Sisters of the Blade. But I cannot serve under a woman who would so easily send us to war, with no thought to the deprivation such an act would cause. I cannot serve under a woman who shows so little thought to the safety of our people. Karien is a hundred times larger than Medalon. Her soldiers outnumber our Defenders ten to one. I cannot be a party to this!”

The crowd fell expectantly silent at Harith’s impassioned speech. They had not expected this.

Mahina looked at the Mistress of the Sisterhood in surprise. “Are you resigning, Harith?”

Harith glanced at Mahina briefly, then turned back to the crowd. “I am not offering my resignation. I am proposing that Sister Mahina Cortanen be removed. I propose that Sister Joyhinia Tenragan, who has already proved, this evening, that she is a match for the Kariens, be appointed the Interim First Sister, until a formal election can be arranged. I propose that we immediately instigate a Purge to rid Medalon of the heathen cults that flourish under Mahina’s rule. Do I have a seconder?”

The silence was so loud following Harith’s proposal that R’shiel could hear the blood pumping in her ears. She waited, unconsciously holding her breath, even though she knew that Jacomina would step forward. It seemed an eternity before she did. An eternity in which Mahina visibly paled and Lord Jenga’s expression grew bleak. Garet and Tarja behind him exchanged a glance but did nothing. There was nothing they could do. This was a matter for the Sisterhood.

“I second the proposal,” Jacomina announced loudly as she stepped forward. “I too cannot bear the thought of Medalon being plunged into war.”

The crowd muttered softly, oddly subdued in the face of such an extraordinary situation.

“You need the whole Quorum to agree, Harith,” Mahina pointed out. “I have no doubt Joyhinia shares your sentiments, but you have not polled Francil yet.”

All eyes turned to the oldest member of the Quorum. Francil had managed to stand aloof from the vicious politics of her Sisters for thirty years. She now seemed rather uncomfortable to be the focus of so much attention. She avoided looking at Mahina, instead focusing her eyes on a point somewhere above the heads of the crowd.

“I stand with Harith,” she said, her voice only reaching those in the front ranks. The message was passed along with a murmur, like a wave of astonishment washing over the Gathering.

“The Quorum stands united,” Harith announced. “Do you have anything to say in your defense, Sister Mahina, before I ask the Blue Sisters for their vote?”

R’shiel had never seen Mahina so angry, but she forcibly pushed away her fury to address the Sisters. If ever her lack of charisma worked against her it was now.

“Think well before you vote on this issue, Sisters. Do not let the clever words of ambition cloud your judgment. Think what is best for Medalon! A Purge will do nothing but make our people suffer for no better reason than to appease the fanatics in the Karien Church. We have freed ourselves from the chains of religion. Don’t let them bind us again!”

The Gathering heard her out, but R’shiel could tell they were in no mood to heed her words. Had it just been Harith or Joyhinia who had rebelled against the First Sister, they would have shrugged it off as the political games played among the Quorum members. But Francil’s defection carried enormous weight. She had survived three administrations without a whiff of scandal or a moment of disloyalty. Her support of Joyhinia was fatal to Mahina’s cause.

“How do you speak, Sisters?” Harith called. “Do you say ‘yea’ to my proposal?”

The “yea” that thundered through the Great Hall was deafening.

“Those of you who support Mahina?” Harith knew they had won. She did not even bother with the title of Sister. The silence that followed Harith’s question was like a death knell. Harith waited, letting the significance of the silence sink in before she continued.

“Then I declare Joyhinia Tenragan the Interim First Sister,” Harith announced. “Long Live First Sister Joyhinia Tenragan!”

“Long Live First Sister Joyhinia Tenragan!” the Gathering cheered. “Long Live First Sister Joyhinia Tenragan!”

“Sisters!” Joyhinia held up her hand. “Please! This is no time to rejoice! This is a time of grave peril for Medalon, and I will do my utmost to be worthy of the trust you have placed in me.” That brought another cheer from the crowd, as Joyhinia knew it would. “We face a crisis that must be dealt with immediately. My Lord Defender, will you swear the allegiance of the Defenders to me?”

Jenga hesitated for a fraction of a second before he stepped forward, a fact that did not escape the new First Sister. Together, the Lord Defender and his aides stepped forward to stand before the podium. Jenga unsheathed his sword and laid it at Joyhinia’s feet and then knelt on one knee. Garet also knelt, as tradition demanded.

Tarja remained standing defiantly.

Joyhinia looked at him, her expression betraying nothing of the anger she must be feeling as her son defied her so openly.

“Did you have something to say, Captain?” she asked, her voice remarkably pleasant under the circumstances.

Tarja’s back was turned to R’shiel, so she could not see the expression on his face, but she could tell by the stiff set of his shoulders that he was furious beyond words.

“What did you pay Francil for her support, mother?” he asked, loud enough to be heard throughout the Hall.

“Kneel with your commander and take the oath, Captain.” R’shiel was astounded that she was able to keep her temper so well.

“Afraid to answer my question?” he taunted. “Should I tell the good Sisters what you offered in return for Lord Pieter’s support? Your own daughter? Ah, but then I forgot. She’s not your daughter, is she? You lied about that, too.”

“Kneel with your commander and take the oath, Captain!” Joyhinia cried, her anger finally surfacing in the face of his dreadful charges. The Gathering murmured worriedly, wondering if there was any truth to Tarja’s accusations.

Tarja met her anger with a rage that matched it, breath for breath. “Never!”

Pale and shaking with fury, Joyhinia suddenly turned to the Lord Defender. “I will take your oath now, my Lord.”

Still on one knee before Joyhinia, Jenga turned and glanced over his shoulder at Tarja. “Kneel, Captain,” he said, his tone as close to begging as it was ever likely to get. “Take the oath.”

“Not if it costs me my life,” Tarja said.

“The oath, my Lord,” Joyhinia reminded him frostily.

“Why doesn’t she order him arrested?” R’shiel whispered to Davydd. “Why is she insisting Jenga take the oath?”

“She can’t order Jenga to do anything until he does,” he whispered.

“A moment, your Grace,” Jenga said, rising to his feet. He turned to Tarja. “You have brought disgrace on the Defenders, Captain. To take this oath with you present, while you defy the First Sister, is unconscionable. You will leave this Gathering and place yourself under house arrest until I can deal with your disobedience.”

Tarja stood in front of the Lord Defender for a moment, before saluting sharply. He then turned on his heel and strode toward the doors at the back of the Great Hall, his back stiff and unrelenting. The crowd parted for him and then closed again in his wake. R’shiel watched him leave in a cloud of anger and humiliation. She had not expected Jenga to turn on him so readily. She looked back at Joyhinia and felt such a surge of hatred that she trembled with it. At the front of the Hall, Jenga once more knelt, and his voice rang out clear and strong as he repeated the Oath of Allegiance to the new First Sister. The doors boomed shut, like a gong announcing Tarja’s impending doom.

“Tarja’s in a lot of trouble, isn’t he?” she said, glancing at the young lieutenant.

“He surely is,” Davydd agreed. “If they can catch him.”

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

“By ordering him out of the Hall before he took the oath, Jenga’s given Tarja time to get away.” He pushed himself backward and rose to a crouch. “Come on, we’d better get out of here, too.”

R’shiel followed Davydd back the way they had come, wondering at his words. Had Jenga really ordered Tarja out, to give him a chance to escape Joyhinia’s wrath? And if he had, would Tarja be smart enough to take the opportunity Jenga offered him, or would he stay to face the consequences of his rebellion? Knowing Tarja, it was quite likely he would choose the latter course out of sheer bloody-mindedness.

Then again, maybe he wouldn’t.

Maybe he would take the chance for freedom, take the chance to escape the Citadel and be forever free of Joyhinia’s manipulation and ambition.

The Question suddenly loomed in her mind, and the nothingness beyond it. Forever free of Joyhinia’s manipulation and ambition...

“We can’t go that way, we’ll be blown off the ledge.” The storm had reached the Citadel, and rain lashed furiously at the windows.

“I have to get out of here!” she hissed.

“We’ll have to wait, R’shiel. No one is likely to come up here until the meeting is over.”

“No!”

Davydd looked at her determined expression and shook his head. “If I get killed doing this, I’ll be very annoyed with you.”

“You’re a Defender! You’re supposed to enjoy this sort of thing,” she said, easing open the balcony door. The rain struck her like cold, sharp needles, but she didn’t care. Forever free of Joyhinia’s manipulation and ambition. The phrase repeated itself over and over in her mind. She still had not answered The Question, but for the first time she saw something beyond the emptiness, and no storm, no treacherous ledge, and no amount of common sense was going to stand in her way.