Medalon

chapter 15

Winter’s bite could be felt in the brisk wind that swept across the border from Medalon into Hythria. Although it never snowed this far south, it did not stop the chill wind, which blew off the snowcapped Sanctuary Mountains, cutting through everything with icy fingers. The sky was overcast and leaden and smelled of rain.

Brak sat on his sorcerer-bred horse overlooking a shallow ford that marked the line between Medalon and Hythria. It was a long time since he had been home. If he rode across the border and just kept heading northwest to the mountains, eventually he would reach the peace and tranquillity of Sanctuary. He could feel it calling to him. He could feel the pull, the closer he came to Medalon. The ache niggled at him constantly, tempting him to weaken. He pushed it away and looked north.

“They call it the Border Stream,” Damin told him, mistaking the direction of his gaze. “The gods alone know why. You’d think somebody would have given it a grander name, considering its strategic importance.” Brak glanced at the Warlord and nodded politely. The High Arrion had arranged for him to travel with her brother, the Warlord of Krakandar. Damin Wolfblade was anxious to be gone from Greenharbor, and it seemed logical that they should travel together. So Kalan had claimed. Brak had a bad feeling she was using him. Korandellen’s appearance in the Seeing Stone might place Damin in immediate danger, but it did no harm at all to his long-term claim on the Hythrun throne. Nor would escorting a Divine One north on a sacred mission. Of course, he had not told the High Arrion what he was doing, just as he continued to deny his right to the title of Divine One, but that didn’t stop her using it. Or making the most of his presence. Damin Wolfblade had at least been more amenable in that respect. Brak had asked simply to be called by his name, and the Warlord had agreed, quite unperturbed about the whole issue. He even went so far as to apologize for his sister.

Brak had learned much in the month he had spent in the young Warlord’s company on their journey to Krakandar Province and the Medalon border. He had known that Damin’s mother was Lernen’s younger sister, but he had not realized that she had gone through five husbands and her extended family included three children of her own and another seven stepchildren. Every one of them was carefully placed in a position of power. Kalan was High Arrion. Narvell, Kalan’s twin brother and the issue of Maria’s second marriage, was the Warlord of Elasapine. Luciena, her stepdaughter from her marriage to a wealthy shipping magnate, owned a third of Hythria’s trading ships. Damin’s youngest stepbrother, at the tender age of nineteen, was training in the Hythrun Assassins’ Guild.

Maria had known her brother would never produce an heir. She had used her considerable wealth and influence to raise her entire brood with one purpose in mind: securing the throne for her eldest son. Considering Damin could not be much past thirty, it was astounding that she had achieved so much, so soon. Brak also found the loyalty among Maria’s clan quite remarkable. Damin seemed certain of the support of each and every one of his siblings, a rare thing among humans, he thought cynically. Brak had only met Maria once, when she was but a child of seven and he could remember nothing about her that hinted at her strength of purpose in years to come. Brak’s fears for Hythria were allayed a little. Damin seemed an intelligent and astute young man. On the other hand, with the exception of Narvell, the other Warlords in Hythria were not terribly happy about the situation. It would be much better if old Lernen just kept on living.

“Am I boring you, Brak?”

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”

Damin laughed. “I was boasting of my many battles at this very site,” he said. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that such heroics don’t interest you. I do miss Tarja, though.”

“Tarja?”

“Captain Tarja Tenragan,” Damin explained. “One of the Defender’s finest. The son of a bitch could read me like a book. Damned if I know how he did it. He was recalled to the Citadel a few months ago, right after Trayla died.” Damin frowned, his expression miserable. “The idiot they sent to replace him hardly makes it worth the effort anymore.”

“How disappointing for you,” Brak remarked dryly. The news that there was a new First Sister surprised him. It reminded him sharply of how long he had been away.

“No doubt the God of War had him recalled as some sort of punishment,” Damin added. “He probably thought I was having too much fun.”

“Zegarnald is like that,” Brak agreed.

Damin stared at him, awestruck. “You have spoken with the God of War?”

Brak nodded reluctantly, wishing he had kept his mouth shut. Damin Wolfblade was a reasonable fellow, but like all Hythrun and Fardohnyans, he was in awe of the gods. Brak tended to take them much less seriously. Anyone who spent time in the gods’ company usually did. They were immortal, it was true, and powerful, but they were fickle and self-absorbed and generally a nuisance, as far as Brak was concerned. His present mission was proof of that. He often thought humans would be much better off without them.

“You said you had contacts in Bordertown,” Brak said, deciding a change of subject was in order. Damin would be calling him Divine One soon.

Damin nodded, taking the hint, although he was obviously dying to ask Brak more. “When you get to Bordertown, seek out a Fardohnyan sailor named Drendik. He has a barge that trades between Talabar in the Gulf and the Medalonian ports on the Glass River. At this time of year, he’ll be getting ready to sail north to Brodenvale so he can catch the spring floods on his way home. If you mention my name, he’ll give you passage. If you mention that you know Maera, the Goddess of the River, he’ll probably carry you there on his back.”

“How is it you have Fardohnyan allies? I thought Hythria and Far-dohnya were enemies.”

“We are,” Damin agreed. “When it suits us. At least we were when I left Greenharbor. That may have changed by now.”

“You mean Princess Adrina was in Greenharbor to broker peace?” Brak asked.

Damin shrugged. “Who knows? With some difficulty, I managed to avoid meeting Her Serene Highness, thank the gods. By all accounts, she’s an obnoxious and demanding spoilt brat. I hear that Hablet can’t even bribe anyone to marry her.”

Brak smiled, thinking that the young woman must be a harridan indeed if everyone, from the citizens in Greenharbor to the Warlord of a distant foreign province, knew her reputation. Damin reached down and patted the neck of his own sorcerer-bred stallion. Lacking any magical ability to communicate with the beast, Damin and his raiders controlled their mounts by nothing more than superb horsemanship. The Warlord glanced at Brak, his smile fading.

“One thing unites Hythria and Fardohnya, Brak: the Sisterhood’s persecution of pagans. Drendik has saved many lives in his time. For that, I can forgive him a lot. Even being Fardohnyan.”

Brak dismounted, lifting his pack off Cloud Chaser’s back. He would miss the stallion but would not risk such a valuable animal in Medalon. It was unlikely anyone in Medalon would recognize the breed, but the horse’s unmistakable nobility would cause comment. He preferred to remain anonymous.

“If there is anything else I can do for you,” Damin offered as he took Cloud Chaser’s reins, “you only have to ask.”

“You could try not starting a civil war while I’m away,” Brak said.

“Speak to the gods then,” Damin suggested. “They have more control over that than I do.”

Brak shook Damin’s hand. He genuinely liked the young Warlord, but that didn’t mean he thought he would listen to him.

“Trust your own judgment, Damin,” he advised. “Don’t leave it to the gods. They have their own agenda.”

Damin’s expression grew serious. “As do the Harshini.”

Brak did not deny the accusation. For a moment the silence was heavy between them.

“You seek the demon child, don’t you?” Damin asked quietly, although there was nobody within earshot who could overhear them. The troops who had escorted them to the border were well back behind the treeline.

“Who told you that?”

“Call it an educated guess,” Damin shrugged. “The rumors have been around for as long as I can recall. It is the only thing I can think of that would cause the Harshini to break their silence after all this time. Do you plan to kill him?”

Brak was a little taken aback by the blunt question. “I don’t know.”

“Well, before you do, answer one question for me,” Damin said.

“If I can.”

“If this child is truly Lorandranek’s child, then it will be like you, won’t it? Harshini, but not constrained against violence? If that’s the case, then he could kill a god, couldn’t he? Is that why Lorandranek withdrew all the Harshini to Sanctuary? To wait until a child was born who could destroy Xaphista?”

Brak wondered how the Warlord had been able to piece together so much from so little. But his sister was the High Arrion. The Sorcerer’s Collective knew much to which the general population was not privy. His question made a frightening amount of sense. It would explain why the gods were anxious to ensure that the demon child lived. Was Xaphista becoming so powerful that the Primal Gods would countenance the existence of the demon child? Brak shuddered and turned his attention back to Damin.

“One question, you said,” he snapped. “That was five questions.”

“So I can’t count.”

“And I can’t answer any of them,” Brak admitted.

“You won’t answer them,” the Warlord accused.

“I can’t,” Brak replied with a shake of his head, “because I simply don’t know.”

Bordertown had changed a lot since the last time Brak had seen it. It had grown considerably – new redbrick houses bordered the western edge of the town, and there were more taverns than he remembered. There were more soldiers, too. More red coats than he could ever remember seeing. The Defenders had changed since their rather inauspicious beginnings. They were no longer eager young men with more enthusiasm than skill. They were hard, well trained, and deserving of their reputation as the most disciplined warriors in the world. But their presence caused an indefinable tension in the town. People looked over their shoulder before they spoke. Even the talkative market stallholders seemed less garrulous than usual.

It had taken Brak almost two weeks on foot to reach the town. Discretion, rather than time, was of the essence. He had traded his sailor’s clothes for leather trousers, a linen shirt, and a nondescript but warm cloak provided by Damin Wolfblade. But for his golden tanned skin and unusual height, he looked as Medalonian as the next man. His father had been a Medalonian human, and besides inheriting his blue eyes, Brak inherited his temper. Although raised among the Harshini, his temper had been his constant enemy. Even the peace that permeated the Harshini settlements had never been able to quell completely his occasional violent outbursts. It was ironic, he sometimes thought, that twenty years of self-imposed exile among humans had taught him more self-control than the centuries he had spent at Sanctuary.

Captain Drendik proved to be a huge blond-bearded Fardohnyan, an unusual feature in a race that tended toward swarthy dark-haired people. There was Hythrun blood in him, Brak guessed, which perhaps explained his willingness to aid the Warlord. His boat was crewed by his two brothers, who were almost as large and blonde as Drendik, although not nearly as broad around the girth. Brak introduced himself as a friend of the Warlord’s, and Drendik seemed happy to take him at his word. He was not running a charity, however, he explained. He could work off his passage north or pay the going rate for a berth. Brak chose to work. Drendik was rather impressed with his seafaring experience so it proved to be a satisfactory arrangement on both sides. The Fardohnyan had no inkling of Brak’s true heritage or his reason for wanting to travel north, and Brak made no effort to offer one.

They sailed from Bordertown on the twentieth day of Margaran into a blustery breeze that pushed the small barge upstream in fits and starts. Drendik predicted it would take almost until midspring to reach Brodenvale. From there, Brak planned to make his way overland to the Citadel to find Lorandranek’s child.

The problem he faced when he reached the Citadel did not bear thinking about. He had no idea if the child, or rather the young adult by now, was male or female. He had no idea what he or she looked like, no idea what his or her name was. He had nothing to go on other than the knowledge the demon child was at the Citadel, a city of thousands of people. It was the very heart of the Sisterhood’s power. Presumably, the child favored its human mother in appearance. It was hard to imagine a Harshini child living in the heart of the Citadel going unremarked. It was quite reasonable to assume then, that the child looked as human as any other young man or woman.

Brak figured there was only one way he was likely to find the child: sheer bloody luck.

chapter 16

The day was as bleak as Jenga’s mood as he headed across the parade ground toward his office to the tattoo of booted feet as a squad of fourth-year Cadets practiced formation marching. The Citadel looked as unchanged as it had yesterday or the day before. The domes and spires still sparkled in the dull light. The Brightening and Dimming still waxed and waned as it had for two millennia or more. Winter was slowly relinquishing its grip on the highlands and soon the plains would bloom with their carpet of spring flowers. But for now, the day was cold and miserable, and Jenga was looking forward to the warmth his office promised. It seemed to have been such a long winter.

The atmosphere in the Citadel had changed dramatically after the fateful Gathering at the beginning of winter that saw Mahina unseated, the first time in living memory such a startling event had occurred. There was an air of tension now that permeated every part of the Citadel from the taverns to the Dormitories, from the Sisters of the Quorum to the lowliest pig-herder.

The Defenders were on constant alert as Joyhinia kept her promise to the Karien Envoy. Daily, red-coated patrols marched or rode out of the Citadel, returning days or weeks later, grim-faced and silent, with wagonloads of helpless-looking prisoners accused of following the heathen gods. Some of them were little more than children. It was obvious to everyone that the Defenders did not agree with the Purge, but the Lord Defender had sworn an oath. Jenga had been forced to discipline more than one of his officers for voicing opinions at odds with the First Sister’s policy of suppression. It was his duty.

To cater for the sudden increase of accused heathens, Joyhinia had set up a special court, chaired by Harith, which dealt with the influx of prisoners requiring trial. From what Jenga had seen, the trials were little more than a formality, the sentences the same, regardless of circumstance. Arrest was proof enough of guilt, and every Fourthday another caravan of tried and convicted heathens was dispatched to the Grimfield mines, where before the prisoners of the Citadel had only needed to be dispatched once a month. Jenga found himself constantly having to remind his men to be certain, beyond doubt, before they arrested anyone, while Joyhinia undermined him by addressing the Defenders personally, telling them that suspicion was enough. Where there is smoke there is fire, the First Sister was fond of saying.

In the aftermath of Mahina’s removal, Wilem Cortanen, Mahina’s son, was hastily appointed as Commandant of the Grimfield and was gone from the Citadel within days, his mother, now officially retired, and his dreadful wife, Crisabelle, in tow. To Jenga’s mind, it was the one bright spot in the whole miserable affair. Many might regret Mahina’s banishment, and it was common knowledge that Wilem’s posting was not to his liking, although he was well qualified for the post and would undoubtedly prove an effective administrator. But nobody in the Citadel, Jenga thought, was going to miss Crisabelle.

Lord Pieter had stayed at the Citadel until the day before, when he rode out of the gates with a full guard of honor to escort him to Brodenvale. He had stayed through the winter – partly to supervise the implementation of the Purge and partly because he wanted to sail home. He had no choice but to wait while his ship sailed north against the current to the nearest port. The Saran River that flowed past the Citadel was too shallow to be navigable. News had finally come that the ship had docked in Brodenvale and planned to take full advantage of the spring flood to hasten the Envoy’s journey home. Lord Pieter had cooled his heels in the Citadel, frustrated and helpless under Elfron’s watchful eyes, for long enough.

Lord Pieter had not had a moment’s privacy in the three months he spent at the Citadel. The rest of the Envoy’s party, including Elfron’s nuns, had shared the protection of the Envoy between them, apparently terrified that he might be tempted into sin by some wicked atheist. Jenga wondered if the Karien clergy had any inkling of Pieter’s behavior when he came to the Citadel without them. The nuns were dedicated in their duty, and Pieter’s frustration was a palpable thing. He waited and fretted, and spent a vexatious winter of abstinence. Elfron had looked thoroughly miserable riding out of the Citadel empty handed. Jenga still had no clue as to why the priest wanted R’shiel, and even Pieter seemed annoyed when the priest suggested they wait at the Citadel until she was found. Whatever the priest had in mind for the girl, Pieter did not share his enthusiasm. He wanted to go home.

Occasionally, Jenga overheard a few of the Defenders muttering something about Joyhinia and whether or not R’shiel was really her daughter, but such conversations usually stopped as soon as he entered the room. Tarja’s accusations had spread through the Citadel like a summer cold. R’shiel’s disappearance had fueled speculation, but fear of Joyhinia kept the rumors to an occasional furtive whisper. It was not a safe topic. The First Sister had spies everywhere. Jenga was grateful for that. Exposing Joyhinia’s lies meant exposing his own, and Dayan could still be tried, even after all this time.

Tarja had wisely fled the Citadel. Jenga assumed R’shiel went with him to avoid being handed over to the Kariens, although he could not say. Even Davydd Tailorson, the last person to have seen her in the Citadel, didn’t know where she had gone. Although there were many reported sightings, nothing reliable had been heard of either Tarja or R’shiel for months. A warrant had been issued for Tarja’s arrest, listing him as a deserter. If caught, he would be hanged. R’shiel had been branded a thief – she had taken a silver hand mirror or some other trifle from Joyhinia’s apartment before she vanished.

Tarja had always been a favorite son of the Defenders, respected by his peers, even when he had run afoul of Trayla. Defying Joyhinia had, if anything, increased the admiration of his fellow officers, who applauded his courage, though they questioned his wisdom. But when he walked away from the Defenders he had broken a sacred oath to the Corps, if not the current First Sister. That was unforgivable. Jenga knew, just from the talk in the taverns, that if found, Tarja would be unlikely to make it back to the Citadel alive. Too many officers felt that Tarja had betrayed them.

As the Purge continued unabated, there was a growing feeling of discontent among his officers. Arresting heathens was one thing, but the evidence required to convict a citizen of pagan worship was becoming less and less substantial. There were cases, Jenga suspected, where neighbors had accused each other to gain land.

It was rumored that the Purge was being used to settle old scores. It was as bad as the old days, some claimed, when two centuries ago the Sisterhood had set out to destroy the Harshini. Jenga found that hard to believe. Even the Sisters of the Blade acknowledged that had been a time of darkness. To think Joyhinia had returned Medalon to that bleak and best forgotten past, while he was in command of the Defenders... it was too awful to contemplate. He did not wish to be remembered by history as a butcher or a tyrant.

Jenga opened the door to his office, and the relative warmth of the room brought his thoughts back to the present.

“I was hoping you’d be back soon,” Garet Warner said, lifting his feet from Jenga’s desk without apology.

“Make yourself at home.”

The Commandant removed himself from Jenga’s chair to make room for his superior. He took the hard-backed wooden chair on the other side of the desk as Jenga reclaimed his own leather seat.

“How did your meeting with the First Sister go?”

“The same as usual.”

“That bad, eh?” Garet Warner had little respect for Joyhinia, but he usually had the sense to keep his opinion to himself. “Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think things are about to get worse.”

“It must be bad news indeed,” Jenga agreed heavily. “Have the Kariens invaded? The Hythrun, perhaps? Or is there a Fardohnyan fleet sailing up the Glass River to attack us?”

“If only we should be so lucky. I’m afraid my news is about Tarja.”

Jenga’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been bringing me reports of Tarja’s whereabouts all winter, Garet. None has proved worth a pinch of horse dung.”

Garet appeared unconcerned by the criticism. “Tarja’s one of the best officers the Defenders have ever produced, my Lord. Does it surprise you that he’s been able to give us the slip for so long?”

“No more than it surprises me that you’ve been unable to locate him. Have you something useful this time?”

“There’s been some trouble with a patrol. In a village called Reddingdale.”

“What happened?”

“The patrol was attacked. Three men were killed.”

“So the villagers fought back? I’m surprised none have tried it sooner.”

“I agree, we’ve been lucky so far. But I think the Purge has finally pushed some of the heathens too far. There are rumors of an organized rebellion. I’ve nothing definite yet, but not all the pagans worship benign gods. There are quite a few willing to put up a fight.”

“And you think this incident in Reddingdale is somehow connected with this organized rebellion?” Jenga asked.

“I’m almost certain of it.”

“And what of Tarja? You said you had news of him?”

“He was there,” Garet told him. “So was R’shiel, by all accounts. Tarja killed two Defenders. The other, I’m not certain about, although one report I have says it was R’shiel who killed him. The sergeant of the patrol identified them.”

Jenga shook his head. Had the world become so skewed that Tarja would turn on the Defenders? Or that R’shiel would kill a man?

“What do you think?” he asked. Perhaps Garet’s more objective view would offer some comfort.

“I think we have an organized rebellion on our hands,” Garet said. “And that Tarja and R’shiel are involved with them. Tarja’s a captain of the Defenders and R’shiel was raised to be a Sister of the Blade with Joyhinia Tenragan as her role model. I don’t think we’re facing a few fanatical heathens anymore, Jenga. With those two on the loose we could be facing a bloody civil war.”

chapter 17

Tarja left the Citadel in the storm that beat at the city with angry whiplashes of lightning, taking the chance that Jenga had offered him without giving much thought to the consequences. He took only his horse, his sword, and the clothes on his back, with the exception of his distinctive red Defenders jacket, which he left folded on his bunk. He rode out of the Citadel in the rain, dressed much as he had been when he was fighting on the southern border.

R’shiel was waiting for him at the small village of Kordale, cloaked against the rain, riding her long-legged gray mare with a pack thrown over her shoulder. She had fled the Citadel taking with her only a change of clothes, a few personal belongings, and every single coin Joyhinia had in her apartment. Her decision to run away appeared to have been far easier than his. She was bound by no oaths, hampered by no thoughts of treason. But she was nursing a smoldering rage which manifested itself as stubbornness. He had no more hope of convincing her she should turn back than he had of convincing himself.

At first, R’shiel’s determination and the coin she had stolen had sustained them. Of course, she did not consider it stolen. If Joyhinia was prepared to sell her to the Kariens, she told him, then she was entitled to a share in the profits. They rode south for want of a better direction. North was Karien. To the south lay Hythria and Fardohnya. Both countries were big enough to lose themselves in. Tarja was, after all, a professional soldier. There were plenty of openings for men with his skills, particularly in Hythria, where the seven Hythrun Warlords constantly waged war on each other. R’shiel was well educated, and there were plenty of noble families in the south who would pay well for a Medalonian governess, or even a bookkeeper. As Bereth had pointed out, the Sisters of the Blade were the best-trained bureaucrats in the world. Without even discussing it, they found themselves heading for Hythria.

They were on the road for a week or more before Tarja realized he had unconsciously decided to seek out Damin Wolfblade and hire himself out as a mercenary. The Defenders thought mercenaries the scum of the earth, but in Hythria, they were a necessary part of life. The southerners considered an army far better manned by career mercenaries, whose survival depended on their battle skills, than resentful slaves, or conscripts whose first concern was their farm or their sweetheart back home. Tarja found himself having to revise his own opinion. He no longer had the luxury of taking the high moral ground. He was a deserter. His life would be forfeit should the Defenders apprehend him, and he did not doubt that Joyhinia had ordered them to hunt him down relentlessly until they did. He had humiliated her in public. That thought almost made defying her worthwhile.

But it was a long way to Hythria, and what coin they did have would not last long if spent on inns. Besides, they were too well known in the lands around the Citadel to risk such creature comforts. So they cut inland, away from the Glass River, across the low Hallowdean Mountains and the Cliffwall, through the isolated farms and villages of central Medalon.

For most of the winter they survived by R’shiel’s wits and Tarja’s hunting skills or by hiring themselves out for a few days at a time to farmers, who would gladly trade a warm stable and a hot meal for chores around the farm. They dared not stay in one place too long. News of his desertion was only hours behind them. It would not take much for the farmers to recall the tall redhead and the dark-haired stranger who had stopped at their holding at a time when few people chose to travel.

R’shiel’s anger abated after a while, although Tarja suspected it would take little to fan it back into life. She began to treat their desperate flight like some grand adventure. She was pleasant company for the most part, provided they stayed off the topic of Joyhinia. R’shiel never complained, never shirked any task he asked of her. She had surprised him at the first farm where they sought shelter, when she had introduced herself as his wife rather than his sister. The Defenders were hunting for them, she explained when they were alone. If they questioned the farmer later, they might not connect the nice young couple on their way to visit their families in the south with the deserter and his runaway sister they were pursuing. Tarja didn’t think the Defenders were quite so easily fooled, but it seemed a wise precaution, so he didn’t make an issue of it.

Joyhinia’s Purge further complicated matters. Defender patrols were everywhere, despite the weather, in places they had not been seen for years. They had a narrow escape in the village of Alton, a small hamlet in central Medalon that consisted of a handful of families, all so interrelated that it was impossible to tell where one family began and another ended. They had just settled down for the evening. R’shiel was huddled close to him for warmth, drifting into a light doze to the pungent smell of the warm stable. He had grown used to her sleeping next to him over the winter.

He was weary and stiff from an afternoon spent swinging an axe when the sound of horses reached him, jerking him awake. He peered through the split wood of the loft and discovered a Defender patrol milling about in the street below. The lieutenant in charge was asking something of one of the villagers. Perhaps they were not looking for them specifically, but that would soon change if they were discovered here. Even his horse, stabled below, would give him away. The distinctive breeding of a Defender cavalry mount was easily recognizable. He shook R’shiel awake, motioned her to silence, and pointed down toward the street. She understood immediately and quickly pulled on her boots then gathered their meager belongings, hastily throwing them into saddlebags. Once down among the horses, Tarja threw their saddles over their mounts, loosely cinched the girths, and quietly led them out of the stable by the back door. They did not stop to saddle the horses properly until they were well into the trees outside of the town. They rode until the sun came up and then only rested for an hour or so, before moving on.

It was a hell of a way to live.

The incident in Alton forced Tarja to reconsider his plans. Although they had avoided pursuit thus far, the very isolation of the villages they rode through made them stand out. Strangers were rare enough to be commented on. Sometimes, it was the only noteworthy event for weeks. They decided it might be safer if they cut across to the Glass River, where the towns were more populous and strangers were the norm rather than the exception. So they had turned southwest and made their way slowly toward the river, avoiding patrols and villages as much as they could. He hoped they had left a clear enough trail that the Defenders would continue to search for them away from the river.

By the time they reached the small village of Reddingdale, the first tentative signs of spring had begun to manifest themselves. The air was warmer, the days a little longer, and the lethargy of winter was slowly being shed by the townsfolk. Tarja and R’shiel had ridden into the village at dusk and had chosen the first inn they came to. They were both tired of sleeping on the ground, and they worked out that they could afford one night in a warm bed with a fire and a belly full of ale and hot stew.

It was well into the night when the Defender patrol burst into the tavern and began rounding up the patrons, demanding names and occupations. They were sitting near the back of the taproom, having chosen the place carefully, both for its view of the front door and its proximity to the kitchen, which would offer a quick exit if they needed one. As the Defenders burst in, Tarja shrank back against the wall, judging the distance to their escape route. The taproom was quite large, and it would take the Defenders several minutes to get around to where they were sitting. R’shiel was edging her way along the bench slowly, to avoid attracting attention, when one of the Defenders hit the tavern keeper across the jaw with the hilt of his sword, presumably for some insult.

The rest of it happened so quickly, Tarja had trouble recalling the details later. A boy of about twelve or thirteen, the innkeeper’s son Tarja guessed, ran at the Defenders from the kitchen, yelling something incomprehensible. He clutched a small dagger in a hand still chubby with baby fat. His face was red and tear-streaked. He lunged at the man who had struck the tavern keeper. The Defender reacted instinctively to the threat and thrust his sword out to block the boy’s attack. The child ran onto the blade before he knew what had happened to him.

A high-pitched, heart-rending cry of agony rent the air. Screams of the tavern wenches, the tavern keeper and shouts of the Defenders yelling for order filled the smoky taproom. With a shocked expression, the Defender jerked his blade free and the child fell to the floor, blood spurting from the wound. Somebody else, Tarja had no idea who, tried to attack the Defenders and was dealt with as efficiently as the child. Tarja knew these men, if not personally, then at least how well they were trained. A taproom full of villagers stood no chance against them.

He glanced at the kitchen door and then caught the look on R’shiel’s face. Before he could stop her, she snatched his dagger from his belt and hurled it with astounding accuracy at the Defender who had killed the child. The blade buried itself in the man’s chest with a solid thunk. The man cried out, dropping his sword with a clatter as he fell. Tarja barely had time to wonder where she had learned such a deadly skill as the Defenders turned on them. He kicked the table over, ramming it into the oncoming Defenders and unsheathing his own sword all in one movement. R’shiel rolled to the side, pulling a sobbing serving wench with her as she went, to give him room to fight. He was on the attacking Defenders before he had a chance to stop and think about what he was doing. The first man fell with a bone-crunching thump as Tarja smashed his elbow into his face, driving splinters of bone up into the man’s brain, killing him instantly. He snatched the sword from the Defender’s fist and threw it across the room to a young man who had charged into the fray and was trying to hold off two Defenders with a table dagger and a gutful of courage. The lad caught the sword in mid-air and swung it wildly, his unpredictability making up for his lack of skill. In almost the same movement, Tarja turned on the remaining Defenders.

There was a startled moment of recognition as the lieutenant realized whom he faced. They stood in a tense island of stillness amidst the chaos as it dawned on the officer that he was vastly overmatched. It did not stop him attacking. Neither did it save him. Tarja parried his strike and countered it so effortlessly that he wondered for a moment at the dwindling standards of the Defenders. The man should never have made it to lieutenant. He would never make it to captain.

It had taken only moments, but the sergeant of the troop called the retreat before the carnage got any worse. Tarja recognized him. A battle-hardened man with more skirmishes behind him than his dead lieutenant had years. The Defenders were hampered by the tight quarters, the screaming civilians, and the fact that the men they faced seemed to care little if they lived or died. He ordered his troops back, and they battled their way to the door, fighting off both the men in the tavern who had leaped into the fight and the women who were hurling mugs, plates, and food at them, screaming hysterically. As the last Defender withdrew, Tarja lowered his sword and leaned on it, his chest heaving as he looked at the carnage that surrounded him. There would be no mercy for them now. R’shiel was climbing to her feet near the kitchen door. She looked angry. The rage she nursed against Joyhinia and anything to do with her was back and burning ferociously.

“Did you see them run!” cried the young man who had caught the sword, his eyes glittering. He stood on one of the few tables left standing, brandishing the weapon bravely. The letdown would come later, Tarja knew, when his blood had cooled and he had time to consider his own mortality. “We made them run!”

“They retreated because the fight was pointless,” Tarja said, wiping his blade off before he replaced it in its scabbard. “If you’ve any brains, you’ll do the same thing. They’ll be back, and next time they’ll be prepared for resistance.”

“I fought them off once!” the lad boasted. “The next time—”

“The next time they will cut your throat for being a fool, Ghari,” the tavern keeper snapped. He was sitting on the floor, cradling the head of the child in his lap, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked at Tarja, his eyes bitter. “I thank you for your intervention, sir, but I fear you have made things worse. They will be back.”

Tarja squatted down beside the older man. “If you’ve done nothing to be guilty about, then the Defenders will be reasonable.”

The man shook his head. “How little you know them, sir. There was a time when that might have been the case, but not now. My son attacked a Defender. That is all the proof of guilt they need. Jelanna cannot protect us now.”

Jelanna. The pagan Goddess of Fertility. “Then you really are heathens,” he said, with the bitter irony of knowing that he had killed Defenders to protect a heathen. He glanced up and looked at R’shiel, but her expression was unreadable.

“When this is justice according to the Sisters of the Blade,” the man retorted, stroking the fair hair of his dead son, “do you blame us?”

Tarja didn’t answer. Everything he believed in had taught him that the heathens were a danger to Medalon. He had spent a large part of his adult life stamping out pagan cults. He had never expected to find himself fighting to protect them.

“What will you do?” R’shiel asked, picking her way through the wreckage toward them.

“Flee,” the man said with a shrug, looking around at the ruins of his tavern. The cries of the wounded settled over the taproom like a blanket of misery. A woman in the corner was making an attempt to right some of the overturned stools. Others just stared, aghast at what had happened. “What else can we do?”

“Do you have somewhere to go?”

The old man nodded. “Some of us have families in other villages who will take us in. Others, like young Ghari and Mandah there, are far from home. It is the ones like them I fear for. They are the ones the Defenders will hunt down first.”

Tarja nodded in agreement. Joyhinia might want every heathen in the country destroyed, but the Defenders would do it their way. They would take out the dangerous ones first. Those who were young and hot-headed enough to resist. The Defenders might be acting under spurious orders, but it had not rendered them stupid.

The man clutched at Tarja’s arm suddenly, his grip painfully tight. “You could help them. You could lead them to safety.”

“There is no safety for your kind in Medalon,” Tarja pointed out, rather more harshly than he had intended. “The Sisterhood will destroy you.”

The tavern keeper shook his head. “No, the demon child comes. He will save us. Jelanna has given us a sign.”

Tarja stood up and glared at the man. “Jelanna could write it across the sky in blood, old man; that still won’t make it true. Forget this nonsense and get away while you can.”

“Are you afraid of the demon child?” Ghari challenged.

“No, we just don’t believe fairy stories,” R’shiel said. “And neither would you if you had any brains.”

“If you had any faith, you would know the truth of it,” the young heathen retorted. “Jelanna protects us.”

“Really?” R’shiel asked cynically. “I didn’t see her doing much to aid you this night.”

“But she has,” a female voice said behind him. Tarja turned to find a young, fair-haired woman standing behind him. She looked enough like Ghari to be his sister, with the same hair and pale green eyes. “The gods do not always work in the way we expect them to. Jelanna brought you here, Captain, to aid us.”

Tarja stilled warily as she addressed him by rank. “You mistake me for someone else. I have no rank.”

“You are Tarja Tenragan, Captain of the Defenders and the son of the First Sister. You and your sister are on the run, and there is a price on both your heads. Your presence here will distract the Defenders. They will ignore a simple cult of heathens for the chance to capture either of you. By bringing you here, Jelanna has, therefore, protected us.”

Tarja turned from her and discovered Ghari and the others staring at him, open-mouthed.

“You are Tarja Tenragan?” Ghari asked in a tone that bordered on awe.

“I am nobody,” Tarja countered. “Stay and face the Defenders if you must. We’re leaving. Unless your goddess has made you impervious to steel, you might think about doing the same.”

“We can help you,” the young woman said. “If you will help us.”

Tarja gripped the hilt of his sword as he glared at her. “Help you? As you so accurately pointed out, our presence will draw the Defenders’ attention from your cult. Haven’t we done enough?”

She stepped closer and looked up at him. “What you see here is nothing, Captain. This same scene is enacted every night in villages across Medalon. People are dying. Your people. Heathen and atheist alike. And what are you two planning to do? Ride south and live the high life in Hythria or Fardohnya, maybe? While your people are slaughtered by a woman who kills to assure nothing more than the consolidation of her own power?”

Tarja studied the young woman for a moment, wondering how a simple villager could glean so much from gossip and rumor.

“I was a Novice,” she said, as if she understood his unasked question. “For a while. Until I saw the truth about the Sisterhood. I was a couple of years ahead of you, R’shiel.”

He glanced at R’shiel who nodded slightly. “I remember. You were expelled.”

“That’s when I embraced the old ways.”

“Just what is it you expect of us?” he asked her.

“Teach us to fight!” Ghari declared enthusiastically.

The young woman held up her hand to restrain her brother. “Ghari, you talk too much.”

“But Mandah!”

Mandah turned back to them. “You could teach us how to resist.”

“If I had a hundred years, I could not teach your heathen farmers how to fight like the Defenders.”

“Most of our people have no wish to fight, Captain,” she said. “But you know the Defenders, and R’shiel knows the Sisterhood. You know how they operate. You know their strategies. Armed with that information, our people would be able to protect themselves.”

“You are asking us to betray them,” Tarja said.

“You deserted the Defenders and just killed three of them,” Ghari pointed out. “I’d say you crossed that stream a long time ago.”

Tarja shook his head. “You’ll have to fight your own battles.”

Mandah nodded understandingly and stood back as he strode through the debris to collect their saddlebags. R’shiel stood looking at the young woman, then followed him to the door. Mandah said nothing. He had jerked the door open, kicking a broken stool out of the way when her voice stopped them.

“Captain. R’shiel.”

Tarja glanced over his shoulder at her. The other men and women in the room watched them expectantly.

“What?”

“The Purge that destroyed the Harshini killed a thousand men, women, and children. It lasted a little over ten years. This one has been going on for three months and it has already taken more lives than that. The woman responsible is your mother. I hope you sleep well at night.”

“She’s not my mother,” R’shiel retorted.

He slammed the door behind them as they walked away.

chapter 18

Getting into Reddingdale had been easy. Getting out was a different matter entirely. They crossed the dark street to the Livery where their horses were stabled to the sounds of shouted orders further down the road. They did not have long, he knew. The sergeant had recognized them, and word of their presence in the town would have already reached the other troops. The men who had raided the inn were only a small part of a much larger force, which was unlikely to be under the command of another raw lieutenant. Telling the drowsy stableboy to go back to sleep, they saddled their horses quickly in the dim light cast by a shielded lantern and led them to the door.

Dousing the lantern, he opened the stable door fractionally, glancing into the street. Although he could not see anything in his limited line of sight, he could hear the Defenders moving toward the inn. The officer in charge called out an order to move up. Tarja cursed silently as he recognized the voice. Nheal Alcarnen was a friend, or had been once. They had served together on the border for a time. Tarja had no wish to confront him, no wish to kill him, and certainly no wish to be killed by him. As he pulled back into the stable, a figure detached itself from the shadows by the inn and ran across the muddy street toward him, slipping past him and into the stable as he pushed the door shut.

“You can’t escape that way,” Mandah warned as she pushed back the hood of her cape.

“You should be more concerned with yourself, than us,” Tarja whispered.

“Our people will be safe.”

“Jelanna’s looking out for them, I suppose?” R’shiel muttered.

“Jelanna taught us to honor her and the other gods, believe in them faithfully, and to build an escape tunnel through the cellar. My friends are well clear of the inn by now.”

“So, you heathens aren’t as helpless as you look.”

“We are still human, Captain,” she replied. “We simply choose to believe in the forces of nature, not man. We believe that humans should embrace the forces of the natural world, rather than—”

“Convince him some other time,” R’shiel interrupted as the sound of the advancing troop drew nearer. Doors slammed and angry shouts erupted as the Defenders checked the houses and stores on either side of the street. Nheal was an experienced captain. He was too adept to leave his rear exposed as he moved on the inn, even if his attackers might be little more than angry storekeepers. It was a maxim to the Defenders, drummed into Cadets from their first day: A weapon without a man is not dangerous; any man with a weapon is. They had only minutes before they reached the inn. “Jelanna didn’t happen to tell you to build an escape route out of here too, did she?”

“If I show you the way out of here, I place my friends at great risk. I cannot take such a risk unless there is something in it for us.”

Tarja frowned. “That’s blackmail.”

Mandah met his gaze, unconcerned by the sound of the advancing Defenders or by their imminent danger of arrest. “Not at all, Captain. The choice is yours. Escape or capture.”

Tarja wavered with indecision for a moment. He looked over her shoulder at R’shiel who shrugged, as if to say they had little choice in the matter and no time to argue about it. “All right, show us the way out.”

“And you will help us?” she asked, refusing to act until she had his promise.

“Yes!” he snapped. “Now move it!”

But it was too late. The door rattled as a Defender tried the latch. A fist pounded heavily on the door, waking the stableboy, who staggered toward the door, staring at them owlishly for a moment as he reached for the locking bar. Mandah pushed R’shiel toward the ladder that led to the loft.

“Quickly!” she hissed. “Up there!”

R’shiel kicked their saddlebags under the nearest stall and then scrambled up the ladder as Mandah grabbed Tarja’s arm and pulled him toward the first stall, pushing him so hard he landed on his back. She tore open her blouse and literally threw herself on top of him, kissing him furiously. Startled, it took a moment for Tarja to realize what she was doing.

By the time he had the presence of mind to kiss her back, the Defenders were inside.

Mandah screamed piercingly as a red-coated trooper peered into the stable, holding a torch high above his head. She allowed him a good long look at her generous pale breasts before she snatched up her skirts to cover herself, effectively hiding Tarja’s face in the process.

“What have we got here, then?” the Defender asked. He sounded like an older man.

“Get out!” Mandah screamed, then she burst into tears. “Oh! Please don’t tell my mother, sir! I love Robbie! Really I do! He loves me too! Tell him, Robbie!” She poked him under her skirts and he squawked with the sharp pain.

“I’ll not tell your mother, lassie,” the Defender said. “We’re lookin‘ for a deserter. Tall chap with dark hair. Dangerous lookin’ fella, he is. Got a redhead with him, near tall as him and very pretty. They were around here tonight.”

“Tall, you say? With dark hair?” she asked thoughtfully. “And redhead?”

“Aye, that’s our pair.”

“Then I saw them!” she cried, poking Tarja painfully in the ribs again. “We saw them, didn’t we Robbie? Don’t you remember? They were here! They ran off when they heard you coming!”

“How long ago?” the trooper demanded.

Mandah thought for a moment, letting the skirt drop a little so that there was more flesh than was decent visible in the flickering torchlight.

“Well, Robbie and I had already... you know... once... and it was a bit before that. Half an hour, maybe? I think they went that way,” she added, pointing east, away from the river.

The Defender nodded and turned to the saddled and patiently waiting horses with a shout. Defenders swarmed around the entrance to the stables as the beasts were led outside. Nheal’s voice rose over the others as he issued his orders, which carried clearly to Tarja, even buried under the weight of Mandah, who still sat astride him, and the smothering skirts that concealed him.

“They’re on foot!” Nheal informed his men. “And about half an hour ahead of us! Sergeant Brellon, check what’s left of the tavern. The rest of you with me!” The thunder of hooves made the ground tremble, even in the stable, as the Defenders rode off in pursuit of their quarry.

“Sir!” Mandah called as the Defender turned away to join his Company. Tarja bit back an exasperated sigh. Now what was she doing? The man was leaving! Don’t call him back, he pleaded silently. “You won’t tell my... anyone... about us, will you?” she asked sheepishly. “Ma doesn’t like Robbie much, you see. But once he’s finished his apprenticeship...”

“No, lass, your secret’s safe with me,” the Defender chuckled. “Good luck to you. To you and Robbie.”

Tarja raised an arm in salute as Mandah pulled the skirts off his face, threw herself down again, and resumed kissing him fervently. She did not stop until she was certain the Defenders had left the stable.

There were three boats docked at Reddingdale’s small wooden jetty that jutted out bravely into the dark waters of the mighty Glass River. The river was broad and deep but riddled with tricky currents that could lure the unwary into disaster. No one sailed the Glass River at night by choice. Lanterns bobbed in the darkness, their reflection poking holes in the black glass of the river’s surface. Mandah motioned Tarja and R’shiel to silence as they waited in the alley beside the chandler’s store for the Defender on guard to march to the far end of his beat. As soon as his back was turned, they ran in a low crouch toward the boats.

The first two boats were Medalonian barges, with distinctive shallow drafts designed for navigating the tributaries of the Glass River. The third boat, tied up at the far end of the jetty, was Fardohnyan. It was to this boat that Mandah led them. As they jumped aboard, Tarja noted with surprise that the sky was beginning to lighten. They had spent all night working their way toward the docks with the young heathen woman. She had said barely a word in that time, motioning them to follow with hand signals or a look. Since climbing off him in the stable and unselfconsciously lacing her blouse, ignoring R’shiel’s speculative gaze, she had been all business. Tarja found himself somewhat bemused by the young woman. And more than a little angry at her. She had extracted a promise from him that he had never wanted to make and showed no remorse at all for the way she had gone about it.

As they landed in a crouch on the boat, a big blond-bearded Fardohnyan appeared. “We almost sailed without you,” he told Mandah. “Who are they?”

“Friends,” Mandah assured the captain. “Tarja, R’shiel, this is Captain Drendik of the Maeras Daughter.”

The Fardohnyan offered Tarja his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Maera’s blessing on you, friend,” he said.

“And you,” Tarja replied. It did not surprise him that the Fardohnyan worshipped the River Goddess, but he was a little surprised to find him actively helping the Medalonian heathens.

“It will be light soon,” Drendik warned, “and I’d like to be away from here before it occurs to those red-coated fancy boys to search my boat. You three get below and tell Brak and those good-for-nothing brothers of mine to get up here. We’ll be out into the current before they realize it.”

Mandah stood on her toes and kissed Drendik’s cheek. “May Jelanna bless you with many more sons, Drendik.”

“Jelanna has been too kind already,” he complained. “Now get below.”

Mandah led them down a companionway to a narrow passage that Tarja was almost too tall to stand upright in. They followed her through the gloom to a door at the end of the passage, which she opened without knocking. The cabin was full of people, crowded around a small table, many of them from the inn.

Ghari flew off the narrow bunk as they stepped inside and hugged Mandah with relief.

“You made it!” he cried, unnecessarily. “And you brought them!”

“A little unwillingly, perhaps,” Mandah said. “But they have agreed to help us. Captain, R’shiel, this is my younger brother Ghari, and this is Padric, Jam, Aldernon, Meron, and Hari.” The young men around the table studied him warily, all except Padric, who looked old enough to be the grandfather of the others. He seemed openly hostile. “And of course, this is Gazil and Aber, the captain’s brothers,” she said, indicating the two Fardohnyans who stood leaning against the bulkhead. “And you must be Brak,” she added to the man who stood next to the door, his faded blue eyes watching them guardedly. “Drendik wants you up top.”

The two sailors, both younger and more slender versions of the captain and the tall crewman, pushed past them into the passage.

“How do we know we can trust them?” Hari asked Mandah as soon as the sailors had left.

“I gave my word,” Tarja replied.

“Do you think the word of a Defender, especially one who has already betrayed his oath to his own kind, is supposed to reassure us?” Padric asked.

“I don’t particularly care what you think, old man. I said I would help you and I will, as much as I’m able. But don’t try converting us to your cause or assigning noble motives where there are none. Mandah helped us, and we will help her in return. That is all.”

“Spoken like the professional killer he is,” Jam scoffed. “Why do we need him?”

“Because,” R’shiel answered, her voice steely with determination, “properly organized, you could bring down Joyhinia Tenragan and the Sisters of the Blade.”

Silence descended on the shocked heathens at her words.

It was Ghari who recovered first. “We could even restore Medalon to the old ways.”

Tarja stared at R’shiel. He opened his mouth to object, to deny that he had promised to do anything of the kind. He could show them how to defend themselves. Teach them the laws that defined the Defender’s actions. Warn them of the tactics the Defenders would use against them. But he had not agreed to topple the Sisterhood. He certainly had not agreed to restore Medalon to heathen worship. The expression on R’shiel’s face was savage. She had nursed her anger all through winter, he knew, letting it smolder while she pretended she didn’t care. These pagans had offered her a chance to even the score, to hurt Joyhinia on an unprecedented scale. She grabbed it with both hands.

“It’s time the First Sister learned a little about suffering.”

The heathens glanced at each other, taken back by her ferocity. Tarja looked at her with concern. She had no care for the heathens or their cause. R’shiel just wanted to pay back twenty years of lies and manipulation. She wanted revenge.

chapter 19

After Mandah sent them up to help Drendik cast off, Brak went forward to untie the mooring ropes on the prow. This was not the first time Drendik had helped fugitive heathens since Brak had joined his crew. Between that and the smuggling the Fardohnyan indulged in, it was a miracle he had the time or the space for legitimate trade. Nevertheless, these last two who had come on board worried Brak. They were not the usual dispossessed pagans Drendik aided, frightened and grateful for any assistance. This pair was dangerous – the First Sister’s errant offspring with a price on their heads and the entire Defender Corps on their heels. Their mere presence was a threat to them all.

Brak was still hauling in the thick rope, worrying about the new passengers, when the River Goddess suddenly appeared, draped over a bale of Bordertown wool. Her expression, Brak supposed, was meant to be seductive and alluring. Unfortunately, on Maera, it tended to have the opposite effect.

One of the drawbacks of being a god, Brak privately thought, even a Primal God, was that one was inevitably forced to assume the characteristics that one’s worshippers attributed to you. Only the very powerful gods, like Kalianah, the Goddess of Love, Zegarnald, the God of War, Dacendaran, the God of Thieves, or the Sea God, Kaelarn, were strong enough to assume any form they chose. Most were doomed to appear in the aspect their believers wanted to see, and Maera was no exception. Consequently, the Goddess of the Glass River was half-woman, half-fish, but not in the elegant manner of a mermaid. Rather, she sprouted a spiny dorsal fin down her back, small unblinking silver eyes, webbed hands and feet, and gills that made her appear to have numerous chins. She smiled her version of a smile at him, rather pleased that she had caught him off guard.

“You were not expecting me, Brakandaran?”

Glancing a little nervously toward the stern, where Drendik and his brothers were working, Brak shook his head. Following the direction of his gaze, she laughed. It was a wet, bubbling, and thoroughly unpleasant sound. “They cannot see me,” she assured him.

“What are you doing here?” Brak asked. Drendik would have been appalled by his lack of respect, but Brak knew the gods. They rarely made social calls. She was here for a reason, and if he did not get the reason out of her soon, Maera would probably forget why she came.

“You are not pleased to see me, Brakandaran?”

“I’m beside myself with happiness,” he assured her. “What are you doing here?”

“You’ve been visiting with Kaelarn, haven’t you?” The Sea God was almost as powerful as Kalianah or Zegarnald and far above a mere River Goddess in the general scheme of things.

“I never saw him. And anyway, I left the ocean to return to you,” he reminded her, which seemed to appease her vanity somewhat. “Why are you here, Maera?”

“What? Oh, that! I came to tell you about the child.”

“What child?” Brak made an effort to appear patient. Maera, like the river she held divinity over, was a fickle creature.

“Lorandranek’s child,” she said, as if Brak was just a little bit dense.

“Maera, I’m half-human. I need details. What do you have to tell me about Lorandranek’s child?”

Maera sighed heavily. “I can feel it. I felt it the last time it was on my river, but that was ages ago. Zegarnald told me I had to tell someone if I felt it again. So I’m telling you.” She pouted and stroked her scaly skin. “I don’t like Zegarnald. The river bleeds when he’s around.”

Brak’s eyes widened at the revelation. “You’ve felt the child before? Why didn’t you tell someone?”

“I did,” she objected with a frown that made her gills wobble. “I told Zegarnald.”

The War God had kept the information to himself for his own reasons, Brak thought in annoyance. “The demon child is on the boat now?”

“I said that, didn’t I?”

Brak ground his teeth with frustration. “Who is it?”

The goddess shrugged. “I don’t know. All humans look the same to me. They just arrived, though. I only felt it a moment ago.”

A moment to Maera could have been a second or a week, depending on the mood she was in. But if he assumed that she was speaking in human time frames, that narrowed it down to either Mandah, Tarja, or R’shiel. He dismissed the two from the Citadel immediately. Lorandranek had impregnated a mountain girl, not the future First Sister. He thought of Mandah’s placid nature and unswerving faith. She had been a Novice for a while. She had been at the Citadel. She was around the right age. It all fitted perfectly.

“How do I tell for certain?”

“By his blood,” Maera explained, a little annoyed at his inability to comprehend.

“You said ‘his.’ Do you mean it’s a man?”

“I don’t know! I told you, all humans feel the same to me.”

He was silent for a moment. “You don’t happen to know anything else about this child, do you?” he asked. “Its name, perhaps?”

Maera shrugged. “It is té Ortyn. Even you should be able to feel the bond.”

“I can only feel the bond if they draw on their power.”

“Stay with the humans, then,” Maera advised. “You’ll figure it out eventually.”

Before Brak could answer, the Defender patrolling the wharf finally noticed the Fardohnyan boat had slipped its moorings. He yelled at them as the boat floated into the current and was picked up by the river, which grabbed hold of the barge greedily and sent it speeding downstream. Drendik stood in the stern yelling back at the Defender.

“What you say? No speak Medalonian!” he was calling. “NO SPEAK MEDALONIAN!”

By the time the other soldiers had joined the guard on the wharf, signaling the boat to return with wild arm gestures, the barge was safely into the current. Drendik, Gazil, and Aber were waving at the Defenders, wearing uncomprehending expressions. Brak followed suit. They kept waving until the boat slipped around the bend of the river and the small Reddingdale dock vanished from sight in the gray dawn. Amused at Drendik’s simple but effective subterfuge, Brak turned back to the goddess, not surprised to find that she had vanished.

With a sigh, he secured the ropes and made his way below. If Maera was to be believed, he was going to have to join the rebels.

They sailed downriver to Testra for the next few days, Brak watching Mandah closely for some sign that she really was the one he sought. The young woman had a natural serenity about her that reminded him of the Harshini. A sort of trusting innocence that led one easily into trouble if he or she were not careful. If this was truly Lorandranek’s child, and the gods expected her to face down Xaphista, they were going to be sorely disappointed. Mandah worshipped Jelanna and Kalianah and held life sacred. She appeared to have none of the violent human tendencies that characterized Brak and his ilk. In fact, after watching her closely for several days, the only word he could find to describe her was... nice.

He did not have the same problem finding words to describe the young woman she had brought with her. R’shiel was trouble. Raised in the Citadel, she was intelligent and articulate and could talk the heathens into just about anything she set her mind to. That in itself did not concern him, however, but her fierce determination to destroy Joyhinia did. Since R’shiel had come on board, even old Padric had begun talking like a revolutionary. The runaway Probate had a gift for stirring the passions of her companions. She spoke of restoring religious freedom. She spoke of ending the Purge. She spoke of freeing those sentenced to the Grimfield. But she did not believe in the gods, and her motives were far from altruistic. She wanted revenge on Joyhinia for crimes Brak could only guess at. He considered her dangerous in the extreme. Tarja was far less complicated. He obviously intended to keep his promise to the rebels, but it irked him. Brak trusted Tarja’s reluctant oath over R’shiel’s savage enthusiasm for rebellion.

Brak sought out Mandah, the night before they reached Testra, to ask if he could join them. If she truly was the demon child, he did not plan to let her out of his sight. The young woman accepted him gladly, not questioning his decision to follow their cause. R’shiel raised a brow at the suggestion but did not object, and neither did Padric and the others. Brak was a member of Drendik’s crew, and that was enough for them. Only Tarja looked at him with a questioning frown. Brak could feel his distrust from across the cabin. He did not let it bother him. Tarja could do what he damned well pleased. He had found the demon child, he hoped.

All he had to do now was protect her from the foolish bravado of her companions, so that she lived long enough to reach Sanctuary. With R’shiel Tenragan inciting her companions to take up arms against the Sisterhood, Brak had a feeling that would not be easy.

chapter 20

As spring blossomed into summer, news of the heathen rebellion was the main topic of conversation in every tavern in Medalon. Even Brak had to admit that, with Tarja’s help, the rebels were becoming a real danger. He was a natural leader. People gravitated toward him almost unconsciously. If Tarja issued an order, others obeyed it without thinking. Brak mused that in her worst nightmares, Joyhinia Tenragan could never have imagined that her Purge would prove so costly. She did not expect any sort of organized resistance and certainly not of the caliber Tarja mounted.

No longer did Defenders ride unchallenged into villages to search for evidence of heathen worship. Often, they were turned away with no violence at all. The villagers of Medalon had acquired an astounding knowledge of the law, which they used most effectively in their defense. They began demanding warrants and refusing entry without them. They knew who could sign the warrants and who couldn’t. For a mostly illiterate population, they were suddenly and remarkably well informed about the letter of the law.

Of course demanding warrants and quoting the law did not stop the Defenders, it merely slowed them down a little. It was obvious where the information had come from, but while annoying, it was hardly a reason to be concerned. It simply meant the Defenders had to act within the law. Their staunch determination to do so annoyed Joyhinia intensely. Her answer was to present Lord Jenga with a list of officers she wanted transferred and others she wanted promoted. If the officers in the Corps did not suit her, she would fill their ranks with men who did. No First Sister had ever interfered so directly with the Defenders before.

It was common knowledge that Jenga was counseling an end to the Purge. By the end of summer news came that Joyhinia considered the Lord Defender’s objections proof of his attempts to undermine her authority. She had dismissed his recommendations out of hand and threatened to have him removed if he continued to defy her.

Not long after that, the desertions started.

Never, in its entire history, had the Defenders suffered more than the odd misfit deserting from his unit. Until Tarja, no officer had ever dared such a thing. With the growing strength of the rebellion, a number of troopers simply changed sides mid-battle. The Purge was hurting everyone, and the families that were being dispossessed and arrested were sometimes families with sons in the Defenders. Brak had overheard Tarja telling Ghari that more Defenders had deserted this year than had deserted in the previous two centuries.

Joyhinia’s response was as predictable as it was callous. News arrived soon after that she had issued an order decreeing that for every deserter, one of his brothers-in-arms would be hanged in his place. The desertions stopped overnight. Nobody thought Joyhinia was bluffing. The blow to the morale of the Defenders was enormous.

But enough men had joined the rebellion, moving it from an embarrassing nuisance to a real threat. Disorganized heathens brandishing pitchforks was one thing, but when well-trained, battle-hardened former Defenders joined the fray, the conflict became deadly. Every day it dragged on, the rebellion became less and less about the heathens and more about the Sisterhood.

There was one bright spot, Brak thought. A rumor had surfaced recently claiming Tarja was the demon child, sent by the long-dead Harshini to liberate the pagans from the Sisterhood. Tarja had been unimpressed when he heard it, and R’shiel had laughed at the notion, but more than a few rebels had looked at him speculatively. Some even ventured to call him Divine One, which caused Tarja to explode. Brak found the whole idea quite amusing, which for some reason made Tarja distrust him even more. Still, Brak could not help but wonder what Joyhinia Tenragan’s reaction would be on hearing the news. Being known as the mother of a Divine One was not a situation a First Sister would welcome.

The rebels had set up their headquarters in a deserted vineyard, abandoned by its owners after one too many spring floods had drowned the struggling vines. They made the farm their headquarters for several reasons. It was close to the Glass River, the lifeblood of Medalon. It was south of Testra, the largest town in central Medalon, but far enough away from it that they were not in danger of accidental discovery, and it was easily defensible against an attack. From here Tarja trained his fledgling army, assisted by the wave of deserters who had joined him in the spring. Of course there were no deserters now – not since Joyhinia had threatened to hang those left behind – but there were enough to make a difference. However, thought Brak, without a lot more resources and men, the best they could hope to do was merely annoy Joyhinia.

R’shiel disagreed. She was the one who constantly urged taking the offensive. And the bellicose young men in their group, like Ghari and his friends, lapped up her rhetoric. There had been several near-disastrous raids, unauthorized by Tarja, that R’shiel had been involved in, either directly or indirectly. When he first met them, Brak had thought Tarja and his sister were close, but they fought more often than not these days. Tarja counseled caution, while R’shiel advocated aggression. Given the chance, Brak thought she might try to tear down the Citadel, stone by stone, with her bare hands. R’shiel’s smoldering rage made him wonder what had been done to the girl to cause such resentment. Today’s argument had merely reinforced his opinion that she was dangerous.

Several rebels had been captured in a raid on a farm north of Testra and had unaccountably been released within hours. When they returned to the vineyard this morning, they carried a message addressed to Tarja in Joyhinia Tenragan’s own hand. The note was short and to the point.

This has gone on long enough, the letter said. Be at the Rivers Rest Tavern in Testra at noon on Fourthday next. Draco has full authority to negotiate on my behalf.

The note reeked of duplicity. Had Joyhinia sent Jenga, Tarja argued, he may have been less concerned, but Draco was the First Sister’s tool. He had served three of them and never given one of them a moment’s pause.

The rebels were ecstatic at the news. This was the proof they needed that their resistance was having an effect. Tarja argued against believing anything that came from Joyhinia until his throat was raw, and R’shiel agreed with him, for her own reasons. The rebellion had been a coherent force for less than a year. They were not yet strong or numerous enough to make a real impression. A few slogans splashed on walls and a handful of lucky skirmishes did not constitute a significant threat to the Sisterhood, Tarja tried to explain. The rebels argued otherwise. They listed their victories. They insisted that Joyhinia was under pressure from the Quorum to end the Purge.

Tarja had finally won a minor victory by insisting he be allowed to attend the meeting alone, although Ghari and several of his companions planned to enter Testra a day early to ensure the way was clear. Brak had volunteered to accompany him and bear witness to the negotiations, out of curiosity more than anything else. Tarja was not given a choice in the matter.

Since making the decision, the rebels had been in a buoyant mood. Some were talking about going home. Others dreamed of seeing lost family sentenced to the Grimfield. Their confidence was premature, and nothing Tarja said made an impression on them. They were not fighters at heart. They could not see that their optimism was misplaced. All most of them wanted was to be left in peace to worship their gods and reminisce about the old days, when the Harshini roamed the land with their demons and their sorcerer-bred horses. Brak sympathized with the rebels, but he could see Tarja’s point.

The meeting was still in progress in the vast cellars beneath the rundown farmhouse. Brak had excused himself, pleading the need for fresh air. In truth, he escaped to avoid listening to R’shiel speak. Tarja advised caution for sound tactical reasons, but R’shiel wanted this conflict to continue. Her anger still had a lot of fuel to burn, and she was not ready to quit the fight. The girl had a gift for saying exactly what the rebels wanted to hear, particularly the young, belligerent ones. Brak wondered if there would ever be an end to it. She seemed to have enough hostility to last a lifetime.

Brak walked away from the darkened farmhouse, between long lines of withered vines, pondering the problem. The note from Joyhinia was a trap, perhaps, but the real danger to these rebels came from within. Tarja was smart enough to see the problem; Brak did not worry about him. In fact, despite Tarja’s obvious distrust, he quite liked the man. R’shiel, however, could best help the rebels by getting herself killed in the next available skirmish.

“Why so miserable, Brakandaran?”

He started at the voice and looked around. The night was dark, the air still and cool. He felt the presence of the goddess but could not see her.

“Kalianah?”

“You do remember me!” The figure of a small child appeared between the wilted vines. She had a cloud of fair hair and wore a pale flimsy shift that rippled in the still air with every move she made. Her feet were bare and hovering just above the ground. “I told the others that just because you hadn’t spoken to us for so long, it didn’t mean you’d forgotten us.”

“How could I forget you, Kalianah?” he asked. As the Goddess of Love glided toward him, he could feel her power radiating from her like a cheery fire on a cold night. She was hard to resist in this form.

“That’s what I told Zegarnald,” she agreed, settling on the ground in front of him. She looked up with wide eyes and frowned. “You are too tall, Brakandaran. Come down here.”

“Why don’t you just make yourself taller?” he suggested. Kalianah could chose any form she liked, but she often appeared as a child. Everybody loved children.

“Because I’m a god and you’re a mortal,” she told him. “I get to make the rules.”

He squatted down to face her, resisting her efforts to overwhelm him with her essence. “What do you want, Kalianah?”

“I want to know what’s taking you so long,” she said. “Well, no, that’s not true. I just want you to love me. It’s Zegarnald who wants to know. You’ve found the demon child. It’s time you took her home.”

“Since when have you been Zegamald’s messenger?” he asked. Twice now, a goddess had appeared at the War God’s behest. Such cooperation among the immortals was unusual. Zegarnald might be able to order the weaker River Goddess around, but Kalianah did no one’s bidding.

“I am not his messenger,” she protested. “I just happen to agree with him. Besides, I wanted to see you. You’ve been gone from Sanctuary so long. And you never talk to me anymore.”

“I’ve been gone twenty years, Kalianah. You’ve probably only just noticed I was missing.”

“That’s not true! Pick me up!”

Brak did as she bade him, and she wrapped her thin arms around his neck, laying her head on his shoulder. “Do you love me, Brakandaran?”

“Everybody loves you, Kali. They can’t help it.”

“Does the demon child love me, too?”

“She worships you,” Brak assured her.

“I want to see her!” Kalianah announced. She wiggled out of his grasp and landed on the soft earth without making a mark. “Show her to me!”

“You want me to take you into a cellar full of mortals just so I can point her out? You’re a god Can’t you find her yourself?”

“Of course I can! But I want you to do it. And because I’m a goddess, you have to do as I say!”

Brak sighed. “Very well. But not until you change into something more grown up. I can’t take you in there looking like that.”

Instantly the child before him vanished, and a plain young woman, dressed in a simple homespun dress, took her place. “Is that better?”

“I suppose.” Somewhat reluctantly, he headed back toward the farmhouse with the goddess at his side. When he glanced down, he discovered her gliding over the ground. “Walk, dammit! Unless you want to cause a riot by announcing who you are!”

“There’s no need to be rude, Brakandaran. I forget sometimes, that’s all.”

As they neared the small stone wall that enclosed the yard, Brak held out his hand to halt her. A spill of yellow light appeared as the door opened and two figures appeared. It was Tarja leading R’shiel by the hand, none too gently. He pulled her around to the side of the house, turning on her as she pulled free of him.

“Just what in the Seven Hells do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

Brak’s eyes darkened as he drew on enough power to conceal his presence. He didn’t try to include Kalianah. No mortal ever saw her when she did not want them to.

“I’m helping them fight for their beliefs!” R’shiel retorted.

“You don’t give a damn about what these people believe in! You’re doing this to get revenge on Joyhinia!”

“Now there’s a mortal who needs my help,” Kalianah sighed. Brak put a finger to his lips, urging her to silence. He wanted to hear the rest of this.

“So what if I do?” R’shiel declared. “What do you care? You just want to pretend you’re still in the Defenders by turning this rabble into your own private little army. Next you’ll be asking them to swear an oath!”

Ouch! thought Brak. R’shiel knew better than anyone what breaking his oath to the Defenders had cost Tarja.

“That girl needs someone to love her,” Kalianah said. “Shall I make them fall in love, do you think?”

“Sshh!”

“At least they’d be swearing to something they believe in, R’shiel,”

Tarja replied, his voice so low, Brak could barely make it out. “You don’t believe in anything.”

“And you do?” she asked. “You don’t hold with these pagan gods anymore than I. Perhaps Mandah’s kisses have so addled your brain that you’re starting to believe in them?”

“She’s jealous, that’s a good sign.”

“Kali, shut up!”

“Leave Mandah out of this, R’shiel,” Tarja warned.

“Oh! Did I say something to offend your insipid little girlfriend? Founders, I am so sick of that girl! She only has to look in your direction and you go running! You accuse me of using these people to get revenge on Joyhinia. Well, Captain, if you want my opinion, you’re here because you enjoy being worshipped like one of her damned gods! Have you slept with her yet?”

“He’s going to have to kiss her,” Kalianah announced with a frown. “We can’t have her like this.” The goddess waved her hand and Tarja, who Brak had feared was on the brink of slapping R’shiel, suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders, pushed her against the wall and kissed her with bruising force. Although taken by surprise, R’shiel did not appear to mind in the least.

“Kalianah! Stop it! They’re brother and sister!”

“Don’t be silly, Brakandaran. How could they be brother and sister? Lorandranek only had one child.”

“But that’s not—”

“The demon child?” the goddess asked, with a puzzled look. “Of course, it is. Who did you think it was?”

Brak glanced at the couple, who appeared so lost in the power of Kalianah’s spell that they might see it through to it’s inevitable conclusion, right there in the yard. “Enough, Kalianah. Let them up for air, at least.”

She sighed and waved her arm. The gesture was an affectation. Her will was imposed by thought alone. They broke apart and stared at each other wordlessly for a moment, before R’shiel fled into the darkness. Tarja watched her leave then sagged against the wall, as if he could not understand what had come over him. Hardly surprising, under the circumstances, Brak thought.

“It’s done now, you know,” Kalianah warned. “He’ll only ever be able to love her. Do you think Zegarnald will be mad when I tell him what I did?”

Right then, Brak could not have cared less what the War God thought. He looked at the goddess in despair. “R’shiel is Lorandranek’s child?”

“I thought we’d settled that.”

“It can’t be. Not R’shiel. Anyone but her.”

chapter 21

It was just on dawn when Tarja finally admitted to himself that he would get no more sleep this night. He rose from his makeshift bed and made his way quietly through the sleeping bodies in the cellar, climbed the narrow stairs, and let himself outside. The sun was yet to show itself over the horizon, but it had sent out ribbons of scarlet light to herald its imminent arrival, making the scattered clouds appear as if they had been dipped in blood. He glanced around the silent farmyard, noting almost unconsciously the position of the sentries.

Despite the optimism among the rebels, Tarja was well aware that the rebellion was nothing more than an irritation to the Sisterhood. They had no serious chance of overthrowing the Sisters of the Blade. It angered Tarja when he heard the young, foolish men making plans about what they would do when they took the Citadel. They had no real concept of what they faced. They had skirmished with the Defenders and been lucky, more often than not. They had never been attacked in force, never faced a cavalry charge, never felt the paralyzing fear of a pitched battle. They skirmished and retreated and thought they were heroes.

The faint smell of burning incense reached him on the still air, and he turned curiously in the direction of the aroma. He followed it around the side of the ramshackle farmhouse to the stables. No doubt hoping his presence heralded breakfast, several of the dozen or so horses stabled there nickered softly as he looked inside. When he found nobody there, he walked back around the side of the building, stepping over the low stone wall that circled the yard. His footfalls made no sound on the soft earth as he followed the sweet smell to a small clearing amid the wilting vines some hundred paces from the house.

Mandah was kneeling on the damp ground, her back to him, as she tended a small stone altar. He watched silently as she placed a small bunch of wildflowers on the altar and sat back on her heels, her head bowed in prayer. Tarja studied her curiously for a moment, wondering which of the Primal Gods she was praying to, then deciding against disturbing her, he turned to leave. Without giving any indication that she was aware of his presence, she suddenly spoke to him.

“You’re up early this morning, Captain.”

“So are you,” he replied, as she stood up and dusted off her mud-stained skirt.

“I always get up this early. It’s said that the gods listen better in the mornings.”

“And do they?”

“I don’t really know. But it doesn’t hurt to try.”

“Which god were you praying to?”

“Patanan, the God of Good Fortune,” she said. “I was praying that he would be with you today.”

“Do you have a God of Damned Fools?” Tarja asked, a little bitterly. “He’s more likely to be with me than Good Fortune.”

Mandah smiled. “No, but I’m sure if you believe in one long enough he will come into being.”

Tarja frowned, her statement made no sense. “If I believe in him?”

Mandah fell into step beside him as they headed back toward the house.

“There are two sorts of gods, Captain,” she explained. “The Primal Gods, who exist because life exists. Love, Hate, War, Fertility, the Oceans, the Mountains – every one of them has a god. The Incidental Gods come into being when enough people believe in them.” She smiled at Tarja’s blank expression. “Let me explain it another way. You’ve heard of Kalianah, the Goddess of Love?”

Tarja nodded.

“Well, she is a Primal God,” Mandah continued. “Now Xaphista, whom I’m sure you’ve heard of, is an Incidental God. That’s what they call a demon who gathers enough power to become a god. Once they achieve the status of a god, the bulk of their power comes from their believers, so the more they have, the stronger they are. If their believers lose faith, they whither and die. Primal Gods will exist as long as life does.”

She laughed at his uncomprehending expression.

“You’ve heard of the Harshini, I suppose?”

“Of course, I have.”

“Well, the Harshini are sort of a bridge between humans and the gods. The Harshini and the demons are bonded.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “And you actually believe this?”

“That’s the nature of faith, Tarja,” she replied.

“So what do these demons do, besides running around all day trying to become... what did you call them... Incidental Gods?”

“I’ve no idea. You would have to ask the Harshini.”

“I see,” Tarja said. “So how did Xaphista get to be a god, if he was just a demon?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. Demons acquire learning by shape shifting and merging with other demons. I think that every time they merge, each demon acquires some of the knowledge of every other demon in the link. That’s how the Harshini could fly on dragons. Hundreds of demons would merge to create the dragon, and each one learned from the others while they were in that form. I suppose Xaphista eventually acquired enough knowledge and power to gather human worshipers. He left Sanctuary, taking his Harshini clan with him. It’s rumored the Karien priests are descended from those Harshini who broke away from Sanctuary.”

“And he moved north to Karien,” Tarja added. “So he needs all those Karien worshipers to maintain power?”

“That’s the nature of an Incidental God,” Mandah agreed, looking rather pleased with him. “Without people to believe in them, they are just harmless demons.”

Tarja looked down at Mandah. “Then wouldn’t you be better off praying to an Incidental God? He’d have more of a vested interest in answering your prayers than a god who doesn’t care whether you believe in him or not.”

Mandah shook her head. “You have the most infuriating way of twisting everything I say, Captain. Perhaps the gods have sent you here to test my patience.”

“They’ve definitely sent me here to test mine,” Tarja added, a smile taking the sting from his words.

She stopped walking and looked up at him. “You’re starting to feel sorry you joined us, aren’t you?” she asked intuitively.

He shrugged. “This rebellion can’t hope to win, Mandah. All we are is a burr in the Sisterhood’s saddle blanket. Sooner or later they’ll turn on us in full force, and this pitiful attempt at resistance will be annihilated.”

“You should have more faith, Captain. You have brought hope to our people. You have saved hundreds of lives, heathen and atheist.”

“Much good that will be if those lives I’m supposed to have saved are killed later in retaliation,” Tarja pointed out. “Can’t you see how useless this is? You have a handful of heathens and even fewer atheists on your side. The vast majority of Medalonians don’t want war. They want peace. They want to go about their lives and not be bothered by anything more serious than whether or not their crops will thrive.”

“That might have been the case a year ago, Captain,” Mandah replied. “But the Purge has changed that. I agree that most Medalonians could not have cared less about what the Sisterhood was doing, but things have changed. Innocent people are being hurt. People who never broke a law in their lives are being thrown off their land. Every time that happens they look at us and wonder if perhaps we’re not the threat the Sisterhood claims we are. And now, even the Sisterhood has been forced to recognize us.”

“You still can’t win. This is a futile fight, Mandah, doomed to failure.”

“Then why don’t you leave us?”

“I keep asking myself the same question.”

“I’ll tell you the answer, Captain. It’s because you know, deep down, that what you are doing is right,” she said with total confidence. “It might be foolish and futile, but it’s right. Today will prove that.”

They resumed walking, and Tarja wondered if it was that simple. He had a bad feeling his motives were just as ignoble as R’shiel’s. By fighting Joyhinia, he was making a stand. He was more than a deserter and an oath breaker; he was a champion of injustice. It would be a bitter irony if his efforts to ease his own conscience ended up costing even more lives.

By the time they reached the small stone wall that enclosed the packed-earth yard, the sky had lost its bloody tinge, and gray light bathed the old farmhouse. Tarja insisted they leave the outside as untouched as possible. Training was held amid the vines, where it was out of sight of the casual observer. The farmhouse itself looked as if nobody had been inside it for years. As much as was practicable, all business was conducted underground, in the vastly extended cellars. That was another advantage of using the old vineyard as headquarters. The cellars here were extensive, despite the relative meanness of the house.

As they drew nearer, a figure appeared in the doorway. It was the sailor from the Fardohnyan boat who had joined them, seemingly on the spur of the moment, nearly a year ago. He gave no reason for his decision. He simply offered his help. Mandah, being Mandah, accepted it gratefully. She had a bad habit of thinking everything was a sign from the gods, and Brak’s offer of help was no exception. Tarja didn’t trust him, although he could think of no reason why. He had never done anything to make Tarja doubt his loyalty. The man was vague about his past, but that was common among the rebels. Brak caught sight of Tarja and Mandah and crossed the yard toward them.

“I thought perhaps you’d left without me,” he said to Tarja as he approached. Brak was even taller than Tarja but of a much more slender build. He moved with an economy of gesture that made Tarja wonder if he had trained as a fighter. He had thick brown hair and weary, faded eyes and the manner of one who had seen just about everything there was to be seen in the world and found it wanting. “Good morning, Mandah.”

“Good morning, Brak,” she replied. “I’ve just made an offering to Patanan to aid you on your journey.”

“That was very thoughtful of you.” Tarja saw the expression that flickered over the older man’s face and wondered about him again. He professed to believe in the Primal Gods, but unlike the other heathens, Brak seemed almost skeptical about the value of the prayers and sacrifices of his brethren. “I hope it won’t be wasted.”

“You’re as bad as Tarja,” she scolded. “Have a little faith.”

“Faith I have in abundance, Mandah,” he said. “It’s hope I run short of, on occasion.” He turned his attention to Tarja and added, “Like hoping we’re not walking into a trap this morning.”

Tarja found himself once again forced to reassess his opinion of Brak. Nobody else had supported him when he warned that the meeting today in Testra was more likely to be a trap than a true chance at a resolution of the conflict – no one except R’shiel, who cared more about the rebellion continuing than finding a chance to end it. Even the Defenders who had deserted the Corps to join him seemed to think it was a genuine chance to end the conflict. Perhaps they were just beginning to regret their decision. Living with a price on your head was not easy, as Tarja could readily attest to.

“I wish others shared your opinion,” Tarja said, with a meaningful glance at Mandah. The young woman looked at them both and frowned.

“We have gone over this again and again,” she reminded them. “It might be a trap, but it might be a genuine offer of peace. We cannot ignore it. The Sisterhood recognizes the threat we pose and wants to talk. If we can negotiate an end to the Purge and religious freedom for our people, then the fighting can stop. I thought that’s what you wanted, Tarja?”

“Of course it’s what I want,” he said, exasperated by the argument that had been going on for over a week.

“The gods will be with you both,” she assured them with quiet confidence. “It will not be long now, before this is over.”

Tarja glanced at Brak, who seemed to share his skepticism. He stood back and let Mandah pass, then turned to Tarja.

“You know this is a trap, don’t you?”

Tarja nodded. “I’m almost certain of it.”

“Then why are you going?” Brak asked.

Tarja glanced at the retreating figure of the young woman and shrugged. “Because there is a remote chance that it’s not,” he said. “Joyhinia might genuinely want this to end without costing any more lives.”

Brak shook his head doubtfully. “I’ve been away from Medalon for quite a while, son, but I remember the last Purge. This is no rout of a few heathens. This is systematic extermination.”

“All the more reason to end it,” Tarja pointed out wearily.

“Well, you know Joyhinia better than anyone, I suppose,” he said. “But I suspect you may live to regret this.”

“Living through it at all will be a good start.”

Brak shook his head at Tarja’s flippant reply and turned away, walking back toward the farmhouse with long, graceful strides. He stopped after a few paces and looked back over his shoulder.

“By the way, have you seen R’shiel anywhere?”

“No.” He had not seen her for days, not since the night outside the farmhouse when their argument turned into something much too uncomfortable and confusing to dwell on. He assumed she was avoiding him, not a difficult thing to accomplish in the large network of cellars under the house. He wondered what Brak wanted with her. The sailor saw through R’shiel easily and normally paid her little attention. “Why?”

“I was just curious. I’ll ask Ghari. He might know where she is.”

“Ghari left last night for Testra,” Tarja reminded him. “You don’t think she went with them, do you?”

“The gods help us if she has,” Brak muttered. “Still, it’s not that important. No doubt she’ll turn up.”

“No doubt,” he agreed, a little concerned at Brak’s sudden interest in R’shiel, and more than a little concerned that R’shiel might be missing. As he followed him to the house, another uncomfortable thought occurred to Tarja.

Brak claimed to remember the last Purge.

The last Purge the Sisterhood had launched against the heathens was during the reign of First Sister Brettan almost one hundred and twenty years ago.

chapter 22

Tarja and Brak rode in silence toward Testra, timing their arrival for around two hours before noon. Tarja wanted to scout the area before meeting with Draco. He might be walking into a trap, but he wasn’t planning to walk in blindly. Brak rode beside him along the sunlight-dappled road with the ease of one raised in the saddle, a fact that merely added to Tarja’s concern about him. By all accounts the man was a sailor. Sailors didn’t ride so well. Most sailors didn’t ride at all, treating horses with a sort of awed animosity. It was another piece of the puzzle that was Brak.

“You ride well for a sailor,” he remarked. The wind had picked up, and a chill breeze tugged at Tarja’s cloak. The bright sunlight was deceptive, with little warmth in it.

Brak glanced at him and shrugged. “I’ve not always been a sailor.”

Tarja hardly expected anything more enlightening, but the man’s answer annoyed him, nonetheless.

“You came from Hythria recently, didn’t you?” he asked, deciding he was going to find out something about this man before they got to Testra. His life might depend on him before the day was out. He wanted to know what sort of man was watching his back.

“Yes,” was Brak’s unhelpful reply.

“What were you doing there?” He hoped he sounded as if he was just making conversation, but he suspected Brak knew what he was after, when the older man suddenly smiled.

“I was advising the Sorcerer’s Collective on matters of policy,” he said.

Tarja felt a little foolish for being so transparent. “I deserved, that, I suppose. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Yes, you did. You’re burning up with curiosity about me. I’ll tell you if you like. Which version do you want, the one that sounds plausible or the truth?”

Tarja glanced at the older man, wondering at his question. “Is there a difference?”

“A vast one,” Brak told him. “I doubt if you’d believe the truth, though. The plausible explanation is far easier to live with. Particularly for a man with your prejudices.”

Thoroughly bewildered now and rather sorry he had ever broached the subject, Tarja frowned. “If you’ve nothing to hide, what need for anything other than the truth?”

“What need, indeed?” Brak agreed.

Tarja could feel his patience wearing thin. “If you’ve no wish to tell me about yourself, then don’t,” he snapped. “I’m only concerned that you are who you claim you are.”

“Then I give you my word that I am,” Brak replied.

The silence was strained after that. Tarja kicked his horse forward a few paces, angry at himself for losing patience so easily as much as Brak’s reticence. He didn’t trust the man, and their conversation had done little to ease his mind. Brak had joined them so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that it was hard to credit he had any abiding belief in their cause. He professed to be a pagan, yet his attitude to the gods that the pagans held in such high esteem was almost contempt.

And now he was riding into an almost certain trap with Brak at his side. It was no wonder he was feeling uneasy, he told himself.

After letting Tarja brood for a few moments, Brak caught up with him. “I left Medalon a long time ago, Tarja,” he said, as if there had been no break in their conversation. “I did something that meant I couldn’t return to my family. Don’t ask what it was, because I won’t tell you. I’ve roamed the world ever since. I’ve spent time in Fardohnya working in the diamond mines, even in Karien as a wagon driver, although no one in his right mind spends long in that country without being seen to convert to the Overlord. For the past few years I’ve been working a fishing boat in the Dregian Ocean south of Hythria.”

“What made you come back?” Tarja asked.

“My family asked me to do something for them. I have to find someone very important to them who is lost,” Brak told him carefully.

“Yet you joined us,” Tarja pointed out. “Shouldn’t you be looking for this lost soul? Or do you expect to find him in our ranks?”

Brak was silent for so long, Tarja thought he was not going to answer the question.

“I... believe this person is someone close to you,” Brak said finally, as if it had been a major decision to admit such a thing.

Tarja was astonished. “How do you figure that?”

He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Call it the will of the gods. You are the demon child, after all.”

Tarja glared at Brak in annoyance. “Surely you don’t believe that nonsense?”

“That you are the demon child? Of course not. Although it was a clever tactic,” he added. “It must be driving the Sisterhood crazy.”

“Don’t credit me with any cleverness,” Tarja objected. “I’ve no idea who started that rumor, but I’d like to throttle whoever did.”

“Well, anyone who understands the nature of demons won’t believe it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Demons have a reputation that far outweighs the damage they can actually do,” Brak told him. “As a rule, demons only cause trouble when their insatiable curiosity traps them in something they can’t figure a way out of.”

“You sound quite the expert.”

“Hardly that,” Brak disagreed. “But I can tell you this much: young demons have limited intelligence and absolutely no sense of direction. If the demon child were truly part-demon, he or she would be a half-witted troublemaker with just enough power to snuff out a candle.”

“You believe there is a demon child, then?”

“I know there is,” Brak assured him. “And when the demon child is finally revealed, you’ll be there at the forefront of the action, I suspect.”

“I’m a little surprised to hear you speak so knowledgeably about demons,” Tarja remarked suspiciously. “I wonder sometimes that you even believe in the pagan gods.”

“Oh, never fear on that score,” Brak assured him. “Nobody knows better than I that the gods exist. Whether I believe them worthy of adoration is an entirely different matter.” He was silent for a time, then added, “I met someone who knows you in Hythria.”

The news startled Tarja. He had no friends in Hythria that he was aware of. “Who?”

“Damin Wolfblade,” Brak said. “He misses you, actually. Says life’s been pretty dull since you left the border.”

“What I wouldn’t give for a few Centuries of his Raiders now,” Tarja muttered. It suddenly occurred to him that with Hythrun allies he could truly threaten the Sisterhood. A few hundred Krakandar Raiders would tip the scales in their favor. He was nattered that the Warlord remembered him and that he held him in such high regard. It was a sign of how far he had fallen, he decided, that he could wish for aid from a nation that was so recently his enemy. Then another thought occurred to him, and he looked at Brak with narrowed eyes. “How is it that you were speaking with a Hythrun Warlord?”

“I was traveling north and so was his party,” he explained. “Nobody in his right mind travels Hythrun roads alone. It’s a long trip. We got talking. There’s no need to look at me like that. If I was a Hythrun spy, I’d hardly be boasting of having met a Warlord, would I?”

Tarja looked at his companion warily. “I don’t know, would you?”

“You know, if you treated this meeting with Lord Draco with half as much suspicion as you treat me, I would not be nearly so concerned about it. Save your doubts for those who deserve them, Tarja.”

With that, Brak kicked his horse into a canter and rode on ahead.

The River’s Rest Tavern appeared no different from any other dockside tavern along the Glass River. Its painted shutters were thrown wide open, to air out the previous evening’s aromas of stale beer. The faint sounds of furniture being dragged across the wooden floor indicated someone was probably laying out fresh rushes. The docks on the other side of the street were as raucous and chaotic as normal. Tarja and Brak watched the tavern for over an hour from the shelter of the wharves and saw nothing that would indicate a trap. There was no sign of Ghari or his companions either. That meant one of two things: either they had already been caught in the trap, or they had finally learned something from all the training and lectures Tarja had been forcing on them. Trying to curb youthful enthusiasm and replace it with discipline and common sense was not easy.

“There’s no sign of the lads,” Tarja remarked, a little concerned.

“That could just mean they picked the wrong tavern,” Brak replied without looking up. “Those boys aren’t the most reliable advance guard.”

Tarja nodded in agreement. Any number of things could have happened to them that had nothing to do with the present situation. He glanced at Brak who was whittling away at a piece of driftwood with a small knife, looking for all the world like the sailor he professed to be.

“It’s almost noon,” Tarja said, glancing up at the sun, which had warmed little as it journeyed across the sky.

“Do you want me to go in first?” Brak asked.

“Yes,” Tarja agreed, his eyes not leaving the tavern for a moment. “Take a seat near the door. Don’t try to be a hero. Just back me up if I need it. If worst comes to worst, just get clear and warn the others.”

“I’m not the heroic type,” Brak assured him as he stood up, brushing wood slivers from his trousers. “If anything happens to you, I’ll be on the next boat to Fardohnya.” Tarja glared at him. “I was joking, Tarja.”

“I’ll see you inside.” Tarja said, wondering when he had lost his sense of humor.

Brak crossed the street with a swaggering walk that marked him as a sailor as surely as his tan and his rough linen shirt. He wandered up to the tavern and disappeared inside. Tarja waited expectantly, but nothing happened. For a moment he wondered if he had gotten the day wrong, or if Draco’s ship was late and he had yet to arrive in Testra. Or perhaps Joyhinia had changed her mind. As the doubts began to pile up, he fought them back with an effort. He waited another few minutes, until the bell in the distant Town Square tolled midday. Swallowing down a lump of apprehension that had lodged in his throat, he crossed the street to the tavern.

chapter 23

Brak wandered casually across the street, carefully drawing on his power as he neared the tavern, his eyes darkening as the magic filled him. He did not draw much. He only wanted to be inconspicuous, not vanish completely midstride. He drew a simple defensive shield around himself that protected him against being noticed. It made people’s eyes slide past him, preventing them from finding purchase on his form.

By the time he reached the swinging tavern door, the only person in Testra who was aware of him was Tarja, who had watched him cross the street. His eyes blazed black as the power consumed him, its sweetness like an intoxicating tonic. Why had he denied himself, he wondered, even as the answer came to him. He pushed his past and the ever-present ache away to focus on the now.

Nobody looked up as he entered, nobody remarked on his presence or even noticed it. He took a seat near the door and sighed as he realized that the illusion would prevent the tavern keeper from seeing him. He was thirsty, too.

They were waiting for Tarja, as Brak had suspected they would be. Not obviously, of course. There were no red uniforms in sight, no conspicuous weapons. Two men sat at tables either side of the door, their stiff posture and nervous expressions giving away more than they imagined. Near the rear of the large, low-ceilinged taproom, two more men waited at a long scrubbed table. One was an older man with an unconscious air of authority. Brak wondered about him for a moment. He thought he might be Lord Draco, but there was something familiar about him that Brak could not quite put his finger on. No doubt the younger man with him was a captain. He wore his civilian clothes uncomfortably. How long had they been here, he wondered, waiting for Tarja to walk into their trap? The men kept looking at the door expectantly. Brak resisted the urge to follow their gaze. Tarja would get here in his own good time.

As he waited, Brak wondered again about the disgraced Defender. Tarja did not trust him, but that was understandable, Brak supposed. He had experienced a few uncomfortable moments when he listened to Tarja instructing the rebels to treat betrayal as a capital crime, the Defender’s eyes firmly fixed on the Harshini as he spoke. But, despite Tarja’s distrust, he had helped the rebels as much as he could, and that had actually been fun. Or it would have been, had not R’shiel kept urging the rebels to even more aggressive acts of defiance.

Brak tried not to think about the demon child too much. He had not come to terms with Kalianah’s distressing revelation and was rather relieved he had not had to confront her yet. There would be time for that later, once this day was past.

Although he would leave the rebels soon to take R’shiel back to Sanctuary, Brak had enjoyed these past few months. Frustrating the Sisterhood was a worthy pastime for any Harshini. His full-blooded cousins would not have agreed with him. Their willingness to sit back and take whatever was thrown at them was one reason he had never really fitted in.

The door to the tavern swung open and Tarja appeared, squinting blindly as he moved from the bright sunlight to the gloom of the tavern. A bubble of tension began to build in the room. Tarja stood on the threshold for a moment, until his eyes adjusted to the dimness, then he walked into the room. He spotted Draco and the captain immediately, but if he noticed the other ill-disguised Defenders around him, he gave no sign.

Brak watched him, as Tarja stepped toward Draco and the captain, seeing immediately what had bothered him about Draco earlier. The resemblance between the two men was unmistakable, and it concerned him that Tarja had made no mention of it. Was Draco an uncle perhaps? Or a cousin? The Spear of the First Sister swore an oath of celibacy, so it was unlikely he was Tarja’s father. On the other hand, if he was...

Brak pushed the thought away. He would ponder Tarja’s parentage some other time. For now, he had to concern himself with the safety of the rebellion and this ill-advised meeting with the First Sister’s closest ally in the Defenders.

The human part of Brak was telling him Tarja should have simply ignored the note from Joyhinia. The Harshini part of him was advising patience. Some things were meant to be.

Lord Draco did not rise from his seat as Tarja approached – a deliberate insult – although the captain with him did. Tarja stopped a few paces from the two men and looked at them expectantly. The silence in the tavern was heavy. The tavern keeper and his wenches had made themselves scarce. There was nobody left in the room who was not directly connected with this meeting.

“Tarja,” the captain said finally, breaking the thick silence.

“Nheal,” Tarja replied with a cautious nod. “Lord Draco.”

Draco glared at Tarja.

“Fetch them,” Draco ordered.

Nheal disappeared into the kitchen as Tarja and Draco continued to look at each other with open hostility. He returned in a few moments with several other Defenders, dressed in their distinctive red uniforms. Between them, they dragged Ghari, Rodric, Tarl, and Drenin, the four rebels who had ridden into Testra the night before to ensure that Tarja was not walking into a trap.

Brak shook his head. They were all too young, too enthusiastic, and too hotheaded for this sort of work. The young men were bound with heavy ropes, and all bore evidence of beatings. Ghari looked the worst, but he had probably resisted the most, so it was hardly surprising he had fared the poorest in custody.

As the rebels were hustled into the room, a sudden change came over Draco. He stood up and approached Tarja.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said, as if the younger man was his best friend, his most trusted ally. “You’ve been a great help. The First Sister will no doubt give you a hero’s welcome when you return to the Citadel. Did they never suspect you?”

Tarja’s expression was puzzled for a moment, until he realized what Draco was doing. Ghari, however, understood immediately what Draco was implying and lunged forward in his captor’s arms toward Tarja.

“You lying, traitorous, son of a bitch!” he cried. “You’re a spy!”

“Draco is lying,” Tarja warned Ghari, his tone admirably even under the circumstances. Brak thought he sounded shocked, as if he could not believe a Defender would be capable of such a blatant lie. In his own way, Brak thought, Tarja could be remarkably naive. “He’s trying to make you believe I betrayed you. Don’t listen to him.”

“Come now, Tarja,” Draco laughed. “There’s no need for pretense any longer. I’ll wager you’re looking forward to getting home, eh?”

Tarja glared at Draco. “This is your idea of negotiating peace?”

“What peace?” Draco shrugged. “The pagans must be destroyed. And you are sworn to the Defenders until death. Did these fools really believe you would betray your oath so readily?”

Draco turned to Nheal. “Let one of them go. When they hear the news about Tarja, the blow to their morale should be devastating. Take the rest to the boat. We’ll hang them when we get to the Citadel.”

Nheal saluted, then bustled the prisoners out of the room. As soon as they were gone, Draco stepped closer to Tarja and delivered a stinging blow across the former captain’s cheek. “You are a disgrace to the Corps. I would kill you myself, if the choice were mine.”

Tarja took a step backward, unsheathing his sword in one fluid movement. As soon as he touched his weapon, the disguised Defenders sitting by the door leaped to their feet, ready to take him from behind. Draco held up his hand, forestalling them. He looked at Tarja contemptuously. The rebel was poised on the balls of his feet, ready and anxious to fight his way clear. There would be no negotiations. Brak wondered if Tarja was regretting his decision to come or simply concentrating on getting out of the tavern in one piece.

“I’ll not give you the satisfaction of throwing yourself on a blade,” Draco told him. “If you resist, I will slit the throats of the prisoners now. Put down your sword or watch your heathen comrades die. The choice is yours.”

Tarja hesitated for a moment, his blue eyes blazing with anger and frustration. Brak felt for him, but made no move to intervene. Thanks to Kalianah’s ill-timed intervention, Tarja was linked to R’shiel more closely than he could imagine. Kalianah, having gone to the trouble of making him fall in love with her, would not allow anything as inconvenient as a death sentence ruin her plans. Tarja might suffer a little, but Kalianah would not permit him to die.

Tarja glanced around the taproom quickly, no doubt looking for Brak, but the illusion he had drawn around himself made his eyes pass over Brak without pause. Once Tarja had lost sight of him on entering the Tavern, he would not find him again until Brak willed it. He saw the look of disappointment and betrayal that flickered over Tarja’s face and knew that the next time they met, he would have a lot of explaining to do.

“You’re going to kill them anyway,” Tarja pointed out. “What difference does it make?”

Draco considered the matter for a moment then nodded. “A valid point. Sergeant, fetch the innkeeper.”

The man in question must have been listening at the door. Almost before Draco had finished speaking, he appeared, wiping his hands on his apron, anxious to be of service, his balding head sheened with sweat.

“My Lord?” he asked obsequiously.

“Come here,” Draco replied evenly. Without warning, he grabbed the innkeeper’s arm, and jerked the man off his feet. As the innkeeper hit the rush-covered floor with a startled cry, Draco snatched his own sword from its scabbard and placing a booted foot on the terrified man’s chest, held the point just above his throat. He glanced up at Tarja.

“Perhaps a few civilian corpses will change your mind,” he remarked callously. “The innkeeper first, then his daughters, perhaps? I’m in no hurry.”

Brak could imagine what was going through Tarja’s mind. He could almost see him calculating his chances of reaching Draco before he plunged his sword into the innkeeper’s throat, judging distances out of the corner of his eye, marking the position of the men behind him. The odds were hopeless. Brak said a silent prayer to Jondalup, the God of Chance, that Tarja would realize it.

Jondalup must have heard him. Tarja hesitated for a moment then threw his sword down. The two men behind him were on him in an instant. Brak winced as he watched Tarja overwhelmed with brutal enthusiasm by the soldiers. Draco stood back and let the innkeeper scramble to his feet and flee the room. He sheathed his sword with an expression of intense satisfaction and ordered Tarja taken out the back way. Brak debated following them, then decided against it. He would be better off helping Ghari and the others escape. It would ease his conscience a little, at any rate. For now, Tarja was on his way back to the Citadel, and that was exactly what Brak wanted.

All he had to do now was find R’shiel.

chapter 24

R’shiel had been raised to believe that tears were a sign of weakness. She had not cried as a child. Not when she was whipped for being defiant. She never shed a tear when Joyhinia had her pony put down after she caught R’shiel trying to run away rather than join the Novices when she was twelve. She did not cry over anything, not even when Georj was killed. But as she fled Tarja in the darkness, tears she had bottled up for years burst forth, determined to undo her.

She ran blindly through the vineyard for a time, until she reached the marshy ground on the edge of the river. Sinking to her knees on the damp ground, she sobbed like a child. The worst of it was that she didn’t even know why she was crying. It could not have been the argument – she and Tarja had so many these days. And it wasn’t because he kissed her. She had long ago stopped thinking of him as her brother and was envious enough of Mandah to recognize jealousy when she felt it. Perhaps it was because he didn’t want to kiss her, that he had done it against his better judgment. His expression when he finally let her go was enough to tell her that he regretted it. “Why are you crying?”

R’shiel had turned at the voice, startled to find a little girl watching her curiously. The child had bare feet and wore a flimsy shift, yet she appeared unperturbed by the cool night. R’shiel had not seen the girl before. No doubt she belonged to one of the many heathen families who sought refuge at the vineyard. R’shiel’s instinctive reaction to snap at the child and send her on her way suddenly dissipated as the child stepped closer.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, wiping her eyes.

“Is it because you fought with Tarja?” the child asked.

“How do you know I fought with Tarja?”

“You don’t have to worry about him,” the child assured her. “He loves you. He’ll only ever love you. Kalianah has made sure of that.”

“Your legendary Goddess of Love? I don’t think so. And anyway, how would you know?” R’shiel couldn’t understand why she was bothering with this child. She should just order her back to the house. It must be well past her bedtime.

“I am named for the goddess,” the child said. “She and I are very... close.”

“Well, next time you see her, tell her to mind her own damned business,” R’shiel said, climbing to her feet and wringing out her sodden skirts. She wiped away the last of her tears and sniffed inelegantly.

“I know why you’re crying.”

“Really?”

“It’s because Tarja’s mad at you.”

“Mad at me?” she scoffed. “He thinks I’m a monster.”

“Why?”

R’shiel looked at the child irritably. “Because he thinks I’m just in this to get back at Joyhinia!”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“I’m your friend,” the little girl told her. “And I think you need to get over Joyhinia. You’ve much more important things to do.”

“You don’t know anything about me, you impudent little brat! Go back to your family. You shouldn’t be out this late anyway!”

The child looked rather put out. “Nobody has ever called me a brat before!”

“Well, it won’t be the last time, I’ll wager. Now, go away and leave me alone!” R’shiel turned her back on the child and stared out over the black surface of the Glass River.

“You’re the spoilt brat,” the child retorted loftily. “You’ve spent your whole life as a privileged member of a ruling class, and now you want to punish them for making you suffer. If you want my opinion, you’ve got a chip on your shoulder the size of the Seeing Stone, and the sooner you deal with it the better. I thought if somebody loved you, you’d be much more amenable! I don’t know why I bothered!”

Startled by the child’s very unchildish outburst, R’shiel spun around, but she was alone. There was no sign of the girl. Not even footprints in the soft ground. There was nothing but a small acorn tied with white feathers where the child had been standing. R’shiel picked up the amulet and studied it for a moment before hurling it into the dark waters of the Glass River.

More than six weeks later, as the white spires of the Citadel loomed in the distance, R’shiel was still wondering what the child had meant.

She had been right about one thing, though, and so had Tarja. Her anger was directed at Joyhinia, and until she dealt with it, it would fester like a gangrenous wound, eating away at her until nothing was left but a hard bitter shell. So she had gone back to the cellars, gathered her few meager belongings, and set out on foot for Testra. She had told no one of her intentions. She did not want to explain herself to Tarja, and she doubted if anybody else really cared.

On reaching Testra, R’shiel traded her silver hand mirror for passage on the ferry to Vanahiem on the other side of the river and began heading on foot to the Citadel. During her second day on the road she was fortunate enough to hitch a lift with a stout couple from Vanahiem delivering furniture for their newly married son in Reddingdale. Their names were Holdarn and Preena Carpenter. She told them she was a Probate on her way back to the Citadel after her mother had died in the Mountains. It was barely even a lie. The couple had been so considerate, so solicitous of her comfort, that she almost regretted her deception. When they reached Reddingdale, Holdarn paid for passage on a freight barge to Brodenvale for her, claiming a Probate should not have to walk all that way. R’shiel tried to refuse their generosity, but they would hear nothing of it. So she had reached Brodenvale far sooner than she expected, and from there undertook the relatively short overland trek to the Citadel.

The road was busy, filled with oxen-drawn wagons, Defenders on horseback, farmers pulling handcarts laden with vegetables, and people either heading for, or away from, the Citadel on business R’shiel did not care about. She did worry that somebody might recognize her. Although it was unlikely she was known to any of the enlisted men, there were many officers in the Defenders who knew her by sight. Fortunately, the weather was cool, and her simple homespun cloak had a deep hood that shadowed her face. She stooped a little as she pushed through the gate, but the Defenders ignored her. A lone woman was hardly worthy of notice, amid the traffic heading into the Citadel.

That hurdle successfully negotiated, she breathed a sigh of relief, although she still had no clear idea of what she planned to do. Her impulsive decision to confront the source of her anger and pain had not really manifested itself in a plan of action. There were ten thousand things she wanted to say to Joyhinia, but she could hardly just walk up the steps of the Great Hall and announce herself. Nor was there anybody in the Citadel she really trusted not to betray her presence. Certainly none of her former roommates in the Dormitories. She was sure of only one thing: that she would be arrested on sight if she was recognized. That fact presented a dilemma she had still not resolved, even after six weeks of considering the problem.

R’shiel walked toward the center of the city, head bowed, looking neither right nor left for fear of meeting a familiar eye. Consequently, she did not at first notice the crowd gathering on the roadside. It was hearing Tarja’s name that finally alerted her. It rippled through the street like a whisper of excitement. She was caught up in the crowd as she neared the Great Hall and found herself well placed to watch the progress of the small army that escorted Tarja to justice.

And a small army it was. There must have been two hundred Defenders in their smart, silver-buttoned short red jackets, all mounted on sturdy, broad-chested horses. Tarja rode at the center of his escort, his mount on a lead rein, his hands tied behind his back.

Her mouth went dry as she watched him. R’shiel felt no pleasure in discovering that she had been right regarding the meeting with Draco. She had known it would be a trap. Tarja probably knew it, too. He sat tall in the saddle, but his dark hair was unkempt among his closely cropped guard. He had been beaten, that much was obvious, but that he was still alive at all was a feat in itself. He was dressed in leather breeches and a bloodstained white shirt. He was the stuff rebel heroes were made of, she thought with a despairing shake of her head, despite the black eyes and swollen lips. Handsome, strong, and defiant. It was not hard to see why he had so much sympathy among the heathens and a lot of atheists who should know better.

As they reached the Great Hall he looked around him at the thousands of Sisters, Novices, Probates, Defenders, servants, and visitors to the Citadel who were lining every balcony and roadway of the city to watch him brought in. R’shiel thought that Tarja did not look like a defeated man – angry perhaps but not defeated. He rode as if his escort was a guard of honor. He even wore the same slightly mocking, vaguely patronizing expression that he did when he was teasing her.

“The poor man,” someone in front of her whispered. “How humiliating for him.”

How hard was it to ride back into the heart of the Citadel, having deserted the Corps? she wondered. Is he dying a little inside?

“He’s so brave,” a female voice sighed wistfully.

“He’s a traitor,” someone else added.

“They said he was going to be the next Lord Defender.”

“He’s going to be a corpse, now,” another wit pointed out, which brought a chuckle from a few and a sorrowful sigh from the others.

The column came to an impressive, synchronized halt in the center of the street. The Lord Defender, with Garet Warner, came down from the shadowed steps of the Great Hall, or rather Francil’s Hall, as it was now known, to confront them. R’shiel thought it strange that the Sisterhood was allowing the Defenders to deal with Tarja and not taking a direct hand in his arrest. She half-expected to see the entire Quorum standing there, ready to condemn the traitor. But Tarja had been a Captain of the Defenders and was a deserter, in addition to his other crimes. Maybe Joyhinia thought the Defenders would exact a more fitting punishment. Draco wheeled his horse around to speak to the Lord Defender.

“I wish we could hear what they’re saying,” someone whispered. The crowd was strangely quiet, straining to catch a few words of the exchange. Anticipation charged the air like a summer storm. It seemed the entire Citadel was holding its breath. R’shiel watched and listened as the voices floated across the street on the preternaturally silent air.

“It is my pleasure to hand over the deserter Tarjanian Tenragan, my Lord,” Draco announced, obviously aware of the huge audience he was playing to. It was not often the Spear of the First Sister took a direct hand in any action, and Draco had achieved the impossible. He had done what Jenga had been unable to. He had captured Tarja.

“Has he been any trouble?” the Lord Defender asked, glancing at Tarja.

“Once he realized he was overwhelmed, he came quietly enough.”

“And the rest of his rebels?”

“He came alone,” Draco said. “Bearing in mind that the First Sister ordered him taken alive, I thought it better to leave his interrogation to you.”

“Just as well, I suppose,” the Lord Defender grunted. “He probably would have died before he told you anything. Bring him here.”

Tarja must have heard the exchange as he swung his leg over the saddle and jumped nimbly to the ground before anyone could reach him. He bounded up the steps and bowed to the Lord Defender, unhampered by the binding that held his hands behind his back.

“Good morning, my Lord, Commandant,” Tarja said pleasantly. “Lovely morning for a hanging, don’t you think?”

“Tarjanian, don’t you think you could act just a little repentant?” Lord Draco asked.

“And disappoint all these lovely ladies?” he asked, glancing up at the crowded balconies. “I think not. How is Mother, by the way? I thought she might be here to welcome her wanton son home.”

“The First Sister is probably signing the warrant for your hanging as we speak. Escort the criminal to the cells,” the Lord Defender ordered Garet. “And search him.”

“I have searched him already, my Lord,” Draco said.

“Do it again,” Jenga told Garet, making R’shiel wonder at the exchange. Jenga did not look pleased that it was Draco who had brought Tarja home.

“My Lord,” the commandant replied with a salute. A brisk wave of his hand brought more guards rushing forward, but Tarja shook them off and marched past the Lords toward the huge bronze doors of Francil’s Hall. Just before he disappeared into the shadows, he turned and bowed mockingly to the assembled crowd, then vanished inside.

As R’shiel watched him go, she decided it no longer mattered if she confronted Joyhinia or not. Six weeks of silently rehearsed conversations were suddenly unimportant. Her anger no longer seemed important. The energy it took to sustain it could be better directed elsewhere. That odd child by the river had been right. It was time to get over it. She had much more important things to do.

And the first thing was finding a way to rescue Tarja.

chapter 25

Pain was an interesting area of study, Tarja decided. He was close to becoming an expert in the field. He’d had plenty of opportunity to reflect on the matter over the past few days. To experiment on how much the human body could withstand, how much it could take before blessed unconsciousness pulled him down into the blackness where the pain no longer existed. The annoying part was that he kept waking up again and the pain was always there, waiting for him.

He’d stopped trying to count his injuries. His fingers were broken on both hands and burns scarred his forearms. He had several loose teeth and so many bruises he must look like a chimney sweep. His right shoulder felt as if it had been dislocated, and the soles of his feet were blistered and weeping. There was not a single pore on his skin that did not cry out when he moved, not a hair on his head that did not hurt. The cold cell made him shiver, and even that slight movement was agony.

But despite the pain, Tarja found himself in surprisingly good spirits. Perhaps it was the unimaginative torture of his interrogators that gave him something to focus on. Perhaps it was the fact that he had not uttered a word about the rebellion. He had betrayed nobody, said nothing. Mostly, Tarja suspected, it was because he knew that Joyhinia had ordered this punishment. It made everything he had done seem right, somehow.

He shifted gingerly on the low pallet that served as his bed and listened to the sounds of the night, wondering how long it would be before Joyhinia decided to hang him. There would be a trial of course, a farcical affair to satisfy the forms of law, with a gallows waiting at the end of it. The thought was oddly reassuring. It gave him comfort to know that when news of his hanging reached Mandah, Padric, Ghari, and the others, they would know that Draco had lied. Tarja knew they had escaped in Testra. He had heard it from Nheal during the voyage upriver.

Of course, he did have one regret. He was sorry he would not have the chance to find Brak. Words were insufficient to describe what Tarja would like to have done to the sailor for deserting him in the River’s Rest. He had watched him enter the tavern, certain of his support, but when he arrived only moments later, Brak was nowhere to be seen. What had the miserable bastard done? Simply walked out through another door? Tarja cursed himself for not trusting his instincts more. For not insisting on some sort of proof that Brak was truly on their side. That he could think of nothing that would have satisfied him did little to appease his anger. Tarja hoped the pagans were right about reincarnation. Maybe one’s spirit did get an opportunity to return to this world again and again. If that was the case, he very much wanted to come back as a flea so that he could find Brak and keep biting him until he went mad with the itching and killed himself.

His images of Brak writhing insanely in agony were disturbed by a noise in the guardroom outside his cell. Tarja wondered vaguely at the noise, but it did not concern him unduly. His world was defined by pain now, and the noises from the other room were not part of that world.

He passed out for a time, though he had no way of determining how long. It was night, he thought. He was unsure of what had woken him, or if it was merely the pain that had dragged him back. He turned his head fractionally and discovered a silhouetted shape moving toward him, small enough to be a child.

“Tarja?” the voice was hesitant, female, and very young.

“Who are you?” It took a moment for him to realize that the rasping voice was his.

“Oh my! What have they done to you?” she asked as she glided to his side. “You don’t look very well, at all. Does it hurt?”

“You could say that.” His mind was sluggish, but Tarja could not imagine who the child was or how she had found her way into his cell. She moved closer, and he tried to push her away, to warn her not to touch him, but the words would not come. Every movement sent black waves of agony through him.

“Shall I make you better?” the child asked.

“By all means,” he gasped.

The little girl studied him thoughtfully. “I’ll get in trouble if I do. Healing people is Cheltaran’s job. He gets really annoyed when anybody else does it. I suppose I could ask him, though. I mean, I can’t have you dying on me. Not now.”

Tarja realized that he must be dreaming. He didn’t know who the child was, but the name Cheltaran was familiar. He was the pagans’ God of Healing. Mandah had prayed to him often, so often that she placed more faith in his power than in more practical healing methods. Tarja thought it much more useful to actually do something to stop a wounded man bleeding to death than to pray over him and beg divine intervention. His mind wandered for a moment, the blackness beckoning him down with welcoming arms, but he fought to stay conscious, even though he knew he was asleep. Perhaps the pain had unhinged his mind. Why else would he try to remain awake inside a dream filled with pagan gods who were a figment of someone else’s imagination?

The child reached out gently and pushed the hair back from his forehead. He wondered how bad he looked. He knew one eye was swollen shut because he could not see out of it, and his lips felt twice their normal size. Every muscle he owned ached, every joint creaked with pain when he moved. The worst of it was that he knew none of his injuries was fatal. His interrogators wanted him alive for the gallows. They were too smart to hurt him seriously. But you could cause an amazing amount of pain without taking a life. Tarja knew that for a fact.

“Who are you?” he groaned as her cool fingers brushed his forehead.

“I’m your friend,” she said. “And you have to love me.”

“Whatever,” he said.

“Say it properly! Say ‘I love you, Kalianah,’ and you’d better mean it or I won’t help you!”

“I love you, Kalianah, and you’d better mean it or I won’t help you,” he repeated dutifully.

The child slapped him for his temerity, and he cried out with the pain. He could never remember a dream with such clarity, such detail. “You are the most impossible human! I should just leave you there to suffer! I should let you die!”

“The sooner the better. I’ll never hold a sword again. If I live, I’ll be unemployed.”

“You’re not taking this seriously!”

“I don’t have to take it seriously, I’m only dreaming,” he told her.

“Cheltaran!”

Tarja was not certain what happened next. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw another figure suddenly appear. A cool hand was laid on his forehead, and pain seared his whole body. A bolt of agony ripped through him, worse than anything he had suffered before. It was as if all his days of torture had been condensed into one moment of blinding torment. He cried out as he lost consciousness, falling into a blackness that seemed deeper and blacker than ever before.

He plunged into it helplessly, wondering if he had finally died.

chapter 26

The Blue Bull Tavern was located near the western side of the amphitheater, along with several other taverns and the licensed brothels where the Citadel’s prostitutes plied their trade for an amount set and strictly taxed by the Sisterhood. Although they frequented the Blue Bull often enough, R’shiel had little to do with the prostitutes or, as they preferred to be known, the court’esa. The word was a Fardohnyan one – in that country court’esa were men and women trained from early youth to provide pleasure for the Fardohnyan nobility. They were educated, elegant, highly sought-after professionals who, R’shiel had heard whispered among the Probates, knew six hundred and forty seven different ways to make love. The idea fascinated R’shiel. She had been raised to believe the Sisterhood’s view of prostitution. Men were carnal creatures who had no control over their lust. Better to regulate the industry and make them pay for something they would take by force if it were not readily available. But to choose a life as a court’esa, even a pampered, Fardohnyan one, struck R’shiel as being a desperate way to make a living. Particularly in Medalon, where court’esa were mostly illiterate young men and women for whom the trade was one of necessity rather than choice.

There was little love lost between the court’esa and the Probates. The prostitutes considered Probates annoying amateurs. They robbed them of their hard-earned income every time one had a dalliance with a Defender who, by rights, should be paying a court’esa for her services, not getting it free from some uppity tart in a gray tunic.

R’shiel pushed open the door to the tavern and was met by a hot wave of ale-flavored smoke. The tavern was doing a brisk trade, although this late at night the customers were only off-duty Defenders and the working court’esa. The Novices and Probates were well abed, or should have been. R’shiel received a curious glance from a number of the painted women as she stood at the door looking around. She spied Davydd Tailorson across the room, drinking with several other officers. A plump court’esa with big brown eyes was leaning forward suggestively toward Davydd, her ample bosom threatening to escape her low-cut gown at any moment. Whatever she was saying had all the officers at the table laughing uproariously. R’shiel took a deep breath and crossed the taproom, trying to ignore the curious stares of both the court’esa and the Defenders who thought a young female stranger in the tavern this late in the night was bound to be looking for trouble. She was halfway across the room when Davydd glanced up and caught sight of her. He frowned, made some comment to his companions and then left the table. His expression grim, he walked across the taproom, took her arm and steered her back out onto the verandah into the bitter cold.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, surprising her with his annoyance. “Don’t you know how much trouble you could get into?”

“Of course I know,” she said, shaking her arm free of his grasp. “But I need your help.”

“Can’t it wait until morning?” he asked impatiently, glancing back toward the taproom. The court’esa who had been thrusting her bosom at him was watching them curiously through the open door. She wiggled her fingers in a small wave and blew Davydd an inviting kiss.

“Well, I’m sorry. Don’t let me keep you from your whore,” she snapped, annoyed by the court’esa and more than a little hurt by his attitude. “You obviously have plans this evening. Your little friend in there seems very accommodating.” She turned and ran down the steps into the street.

“R’shiel! Wait!” He ran after her, caught her in a few steps, grabbed her by the arm, and turned her to face him. He glanced around, and, realizing they were standing in the middle of the street, he steered her over to the awning in front of the shuttered bakery. The street was still deserted, and the only noise came from the Blue Bull and the other taverns farther up the cobbled street, the only illumination the spill of yellow light from the taverns’ windows.

“Don’t you know there’s a price on your head? If you’re recognized—”

“I don’t care,” she snapped, regretting her decision to seek him out.

“That’s plain enough. What do you want?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” he disagreed, “or you wouldn’t have come looking for me. What is it?”

R’shiel took a deep breath of the cold air. “I want to free Tarja.”

Davydd swore under his breath. “Are you crazy?”

“Yes, I am,” she said stiffly, “so forget I asked.”

“R’shiel, if word got back to Lord Jenga that I’d helped Tarja escape, I’d be in the cell he vacated before morning.”

“I said forget it,” she assured him, disappointed. This was the young man who had helped her climb the outside of the Great Hall to spy on the Gathering. She had thought him more daring than the average Defender. She had thought him Tarja’s friend.

He sighed and shook his head. “Don’t you know how dangerous this is?”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to just stand around and watch Joyhinia hang him!” she declared.

Davydd glanced up the deserted street for a moment before looking at her closely. “R’shiel, don’t you think you should stay out of this? Your mother would kill you if you’re caught. She’d kill me too.”

“She’s not my mother.”

“Maybe not,” Davydd said, lowering his voice, “but she’s bound to react like one.”

“I have to free him, Davydd,” she pleaded. “I need your help.”

“R’shiel, Tarja has more friends in the Citadel than you realize,” he told her cautiously. “Take my advice and leave well enough alone.”

“Please, Davydd?”

Davydd studied her in the darkness for a moment, weighing his decision. Then he sighed again. “I just know I’m going to regret this.”

R’shiel leaned forward, meaning to kiss his cheek to thank him, but he moved at the last minute and she found herself meeting his lips. He pulled her closer and let the kiss linger far longer then she ever intended it to. With some reluctance, he let her go and shook his head.

“Now she gets romantic,” he joked as he let her go. “Come on, then. I know someone who might agree to this insanity. I never did plan to live long at any rate.”

The stables that housed the Defenders cavalry mounts were vast, stretching from the eastern side of the amphitheater to the outer wall of the Citadel. They were warm and pungent with so many animals stabled in such close confines, but their soft snores comforted R’shiel. Davydd had left her here and told her to wait. He had been gone more than an hour, plenty of time for R’shiel to imagine any number of unfortunate fates had befallen him. It was also more than sufficient time for R’shiel to wonder if she had misjudged him. He could be reporting her presence at this very moment; gathering a squad to arrest her while she waited here like a trusting fool...

“R’shiel!”

She spun toward the whispered call. “Davydd?”

A uniformed figure appeared in the gloom.

“R’shiel.” Nheal Alcarnen moved toward her, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the stable. She did not know him well, but he was an old friend of Tarja’s. He was also the captain who had been hunting them in Reddingdale. She glanced over his shoulder, but he was alone. “Davydd says you need my help.”

“I... I want to free Tarja.”

Nheal looked at her for a long moment. “Why?”

“Why? Why do you think! They’re torturing him, and in a few days they’re going to hang him! Founders, Nheal! What a stupid question!”

He nodded, as if her answer had satisfied some other, unvoiced doubt. “Aye, it was a stupid question. I don’t agree with what he’s done, mind you, and I don’t hold with any of that pagan nonsense, but this has gone beyond the simple punishment of an oathbreaker.” Nheal took a deep breath before he continued. “I was there when Draco arrested him. The Spear of the First Sister held a blade to an innocent man’s throat and threatened to kill him and his entire family. If Lord Draco can betray his Defender’s oath so readily and be honored for it, I see no reason why Tarja should be hanged for the same offense.”

The news did not surprise R’shiel. She had suspected something of the kind. Tarja would never have surrendered willingly.

“You’ll help me then?”

He nodded. “The guard changes at dawn. If I call a snap inspection I can delay them for a time. We don’t waste good men on cell duty. The night watch will be half asleep, or drunk if they’ve managed to smuggle in a jug when their officer wasn’t looking.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, Nheal.”

“Don’t kill anyone,” he told her. “And if you’re caught, keep my name out of it. I’m doing this because Tarja was my friend. But he’s not so good a friend that I want to be hanged alongside him.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“I doubt it,” he said, then he turned on his heel and walked away. Within a few steps the darkness had swallowed him completely and she was alone.

chapter 27

Tarja woke at first light. Gray tentacles of light felt their way into his cell from the small barred window as he swam toward consciousness. He opened his eyes and lay there for a while, trying to work out what was wrong, what was different. The smell of his own body disgusted him. It stank of sweat and blood and stale urine.

It took him a while, but eventually he worked out that both his eyes were open. It took him even longer to realize he could move. He sat up gingerly, waiting for the pain to return, but it was gone. Completely gone.

Tarja flexed his fingers, his unbroken, unmarked fingers, with increasing wonder. He pushed his tongue against teeth that were firm in their sockets, ran it over lips that were smooth and supple. Pulling back the torn sleeve of his filthy, bloodstained shirt, he picked at a scab on his arm. The crust lifted with a flick to reveal pink, healed, and unscarred flesh beneath. He rotated his shoulder, and it moved freely and smoothly. Swinging his feet onto the floor, he discovered the soles of his feet were whole and undamaged, only the stains of blood and loose flakes of skin giving any indication of their condition the night before.

Tarja wondered if he was still dreaming. The last thing he remembered was the little girl who had featured so prominently in his dream, and another shadowy, undefined figure. The details were hazy. He’d lost consciousness; he remembered falling into the blackness but nothing after that. For a moment he wondered if perhaps his pagan friends had petitioned the gods on his behalf. There seemed no other explanation for his sudden recovery. It was an uncomfortable thought for someone who did not actually believe that the gods existed.

A noise in the guardroom outside diverted him from taking an inventory of his vanished injuries. They had come for him already. Oddly, pain heaped upon pain was easier to bear than pain inflicted where there was none. Tarja wondered what the reaction would be to his miraculous recovery. Joyhinia would probably have him drowned as a sorcerer.

The door flew open, and the guard stumbled drunkenly into the cell. Close on his heels was Davydd Tailorson. Tarja stared at the guard uncomprehendingly as he fell to the floor.

“He’s drugged,” Davydd explained. “Don’t worry, all he’ll have is a hangover.”

Tarja looked at the young man blankly.

“Hey! Snap out of it, Captain! This is a gaol break, in case you haven’t noticed. Get a move on!”

Tarja jumped to his feet, leaped over the body of the guard, and ran down the hallway after Davydd. “Do you have horses?” he asked, as he skidded to a halt near the door. It seemed such a banal question. What he really wanted to ask was: How can I be running? Last night I couldn‘t walk! What has happened to me?

“Out the front,” Davydd assured him.

Another man was waiting for them, this one a man who had still been a Cadet before Tarja had left for the southern border. He could not even recall the man’s name.

“You’d best get changed,” the young man advised urgently, handing him a clean uniform. “We’re going out the main gate as soon as it’s opened. You’ll never pass as a Defender looking like that.”

Tarja took the uniform and changed into it, delighted to be rid of his soiled clothes. As he was pulling on the boots, he glanced up at the men.

“You’ll hang if they catch us,” he warned.

The lieutenant shrugged. “Can’t be any worse than being a Defender these days.”

Both saddened and heartened by the man’s reply, Tarja stood up and accepted the sword Davydd handed him.

“Thanks.” How can I hold a sword? They broke my fingers! I must be dreaming.

“All clear,” the lieutenant announced, looking out into the yard.

Tarja followed him into the yard and stopped dead as he realized who was holding the waiting horses. R’shiel turned as she heard them. She studied him for a moment, surprised perhaps that he could even stand, then did no more than acknowledge him with a nod.

“They’ll be opening the gate soon,” she said. “We’d better hurry.”

“R’shiel—”

“You take the bay,” she said, handing him the reins. Her expression was unreadable. “I heard they were torturing you. I’m glad to see you’ve not suffered too much.”

Tarja stared at her in astonishment. She was angry with him because he was whole! How could he explain to her what had happened, when he couldn’t even explain it to himself?

“Come on!” Davydd urged.

Tarja took the reins and leaped into the saddle, following the others out of the yard and into the streets of the Citadel. He rode with R’shiel on his left and the other two close behind. She did not look at him. He could not understand her anger or how she had come to be involved in his escape. I don’t understand how I could go to sleep a broken man and wake whole, either, he thought.

As they neared the main gate, Tarja pushed aside the question of his astounding recovery. He had to live through the next few hours before he could indulge in trying to solve such an inexplicable riddle. The buildings closest to the main gate were clustered close together, built by human hands, not Harshini. Three stories tall and roofed with gray slate tiles, many were boarding houses, offering accommodation to officers who preferred not to live in the Officers’ Quarters near the center of the city. They were popular because they were away from the watchful eye of the Lord Defender. There were no snap inspections here. Tarja rode past them with his head down and shoulders hunched. Chances were good that if they got to the gate, they would be allowed to leave unchallenged. The guards held the gate against incoming traffic. They would not bother with officers heading out.

They rode at a walk past the last house before the open plaza in front of the gate. A door opened on Tarja’s left and a captain stepped out into the street. The movement caught his eye. The shock of seeing such a livid scar momentarily distracted him, and he stared openly at the man. The young captain gasped as he recognized Tarja.

“Guards!” Loclon yelled toward the gate.

“Damn!” R’shiel muttered, kicking her horse into a canter. They followed her lead without hesitation. Loclon ran after them, calling to the guards on the gate who were embroiled in an argument with a burly wagon driver. A large oxen-drawn wagon was blocking the way, as the driver disputed his right to enter. Tarja glanced over his shoulder at Loclon, who had almost caught up to them, even though he was on foot.

The distance between the boarding house and the blocked gate allowed little room for speed. Loclon’s cries finally caught the attention of the officer in charge, who glanced at Tarja, shock replacing confusion as he recognized him. Davydd drew alongside him, unsheathing his sword.

“There’s only one way out of this now!”

Tarja nodded and drew his own weapon. He looked for R’shiel who had ridden ahead and seemed determined to ride down anyone foolish enough to stand in her way. He didn’t know if she was armed, but she could not hope to fight off the Defenders, even on horseback. The wagon driver was ignored as red coats streamed toward them, and he lost sight of her as his attention was drawn to his own survival. He swung his sword in a wide arc as he pushed forward, and the Defenders drew back from the deadly blade. He heard a cry and looked up as Davydd toppled from his horse, a red-fletched arrow protruding from his chest. Tarja looked up with despair at the archers lining the wall walk, their arrows aimed directly at him and his companions. He looked for R’shiel and was relieved to discover she had also seen the archers. She held up her hands in surrender as she was pulled from her mount. The young lieutenant was slumped in his saddle, arrow-pierced through the neck.

“Drop your weapon!” a voice called from the wall walk. Tarja looked up at the bows aimed squarely at his heart and knew refusal would result in death. For a fleeting moment, the idea seemed attractive. But they would kill R’shiel, too. He hurled the blade to the ground and did not resist as the Defenders overwhelmed him.

chapter 28

Joyhinia was waiting in the First Sister’s office, along with Jacomina, Lord Draco, Louhina Farcron, the Mistress of the Interior who had replaced Joyhinia, Francil, Lord Jenga, and two Defenders she did not know, flanking a young woman. R’shiel was surprised to discover it was the court’esa from the Blue Bull who had been flirting with Davydd. Harith escorted her into the office, ordering the two Defenders to remain outside.

The First Sister barely glanced at her as R’shiel stopped in front of the heavily carved desk. Joyhinia’s hands were laid flat on the desk before her, her expression bleak as she turned to the court’esa.

“Is this the girl you saw in the Blue Bull last night?”

On closer inspection, R’shiel was a little surprised to discover the court’esa was not much older than herself. The young woman nodded, sparing R’shiel an apologetic look. “Yes, your Grace.”

Joyhinia showed no obvious reaction to the news. “Have the court’esa taken to the cells, Jenga,” she ordered. It was a sign of her fury that she did not bother with his title. “I trust you can root out the rest of your traitors without my assistance?”

The insult was clear. Joyhinia was blaming the Defenders, and therefore Jenga, for the escape attempt. R’shiel waited in silence as Jenga, Lord Draco, the court’esa, and the Defenders left the office.

As the door closed behind the men, Joyhinia rose from behind her desk and walked around to face R’shiel. She studied her for a moment, then turned to face the Sisters of the Quorum.

“I have a confession to make, Sisters,” she began, with a sigh that was filled with remorse. “I have made a dreadful mistake. I fear I did something that seemed right at the time but that I now regret.”

“Surely if your actions seemed right at the time,” the ever faithful Jacomina said comfortingly, “you cannot blame yourself.”

Harith was less than sympathetic. “Just exactly what have you done, Joyhinia?”

“I gave birth to a child,” she said, taking a seat beside Jacomina, who placed a comforting hand over Joyhinia’s clasped fingers, “who should have been an icon. His upbringing was exemplary, his pedigree faultless, yet I suspected the bad blood in him. I had him placed in the Defenders at the youngest age they would take him, in the hope that the discipline of the Corps would somehow triumph over his character. We all know now how idle that hope was.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself, Joyhinia,” Louhina added, right on cue. The Mistress of the Interior was her mother’s creature to the core, just like Jacomina.

“And the mistake?” Harith asked. “Get to the point, Sister.”

“My mistake was wanting a child of whom I could be proud. When I left for Testra nearly twenty-one years ago, I volunteered to visit the outlying settlements in the mountains. I wintered in a village called Haven,” Joyhinia said, her eyes downcast. “It was a small, backward hamlet. While I was there, a young woman gave birth to a child, but refused to name the father. The poor girl died within hours of giving birth, leaving a child that nobody would claim. I took pity on the babe and offered to take it, to raise it as my own, to give it every chance to have a decent life. The villagers were glad to be rid of it. They must have known something about the mother that I did not.”

Joyhinia glanced at her Quorum, judging their reactions. Joyhinia’s story fascinated R’shiel. This was finally the truth – finally she would have the answers she had come here to seek.

“I took the child back to Testra with me and claimed the child as my own. I was wrong to let people think that, I know. But once again, I must plead youth and pride as my excuses. My mistake was thinking that my love and guidance could overcome her bad blood. This young woman you see before you now, is the result of my foolishness, my weakness.” Joyhinia looked up at R’shiel. She actually had tears in her eyes. “This girl who has betrayed us all so badly is the result of my folly. Perhaps I loved her too much. Perhaps I was too lenient with her. My son had been such a disappointment to me that I put all my hopes in a foundling. And now she repays my kindness by turning on us in our most desperate hour.”

Harith frowned as she looked at R’shiel. “I always wondered what Tarja was talking about when he faced you down at the Gathering. How did you get Jenga to play along with you all these years?”

“Jenga and I had – an understanding. He owed me a favor.”

“Some favor! Whatever you have on him, Joyhinia, it must be something dreadful. I never thought Jenga capable of a deliberate lie. You have actually managed to surprise me.”

Which was exactly what Joyhinia had intended, R’shiel realized. This confession was nothing to do with her. This was Joyhinia in damage control. Joyhinia was distancing herself from R’shiel as fast as she could.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Jacomina snarled at R’shiel as she put a comforting arm around Joyhinia’s shoulders. “After all Joyhinia has done for you. To betray her so foully.”

R’shiel could hold her tongue no longer. “Betray her! What did she ever do for me? I didn’t ask her to be my mother!”

“I tried to protect her,” Joyhinia told them, ignoring her outburst. “All I got for my trouble was a thief and a traitor. Where did I go wrong?”

Francil had listened to the entire discussion without uttering a word, and when she spoke, her question caught R’shiel completely off guard. “You’ve just heard the most startling news about your parentage, R’shiel, yet you don’t seem surprised. Did Joyhinia tell you of this before today?”

“Tarja learned the truth months ago. It was the happiest day of my life when he told me!”

“One wonders how he learned of it,” Francil said. “I recall him making that wild statement at the Gathering when he refused to take the oath. I hope you can keep the rest of the Sisterhood’s secrets better than you’ve kept this one, Joyhinia.”

The First Sister nodded meekly at the rebuke. “All I can promise is that I will do my utmost to see that this evil is cut out of both the Sisterhood and the Defenders.” She squared her shoulders determinedly. “I will begin by facing up to the fantasy I held dear for twenty years. This child is not mine – now or in the future. I will leave you to deal with her, Harith, and the other traitors who have defied us this day. Never let it be said that I tried to use my influence to secure leniency.”

R’shiel’s head pounded, the blood that rushed through her ears almost drowning out Joyhinia’s voice. It was as if a great weight had suddenly been lifted from her.

“Take her away,” Joyhinia ordered, with a touching and entirely false catch in her voice. “I cannot bear to look at her any longer.”

R’shiel was not certain what would happen now. A trial, perhaps? Maybe they would hang her alongside Tarja. At that moment, she didn’t care.

She cared only that she was finally free of Joyhinia.

chapter 29

R’shiel was marched, none too gently, through the corridors of the Administration Building. The walls were brightening rapidly and people stared as she was marched out into the streets toward the Defenders’ Headquarters. Eventually they reached the narrow hall that led into the cells where only last night, she had come to rescue Tarja. The corridor was lit with smoky torches. The Citadel had been built by the Harshini, and they had no need for prisons. The cell block was an addition erected later by the Sisterhood. R’shiel tripped on uneven flagstones in the seemingly endless corridor, until finally, in a spill of yellow lamplight, she found herself in a large open area filled with scattered tables and shadows.

“What’s this?”

“This is the Probate who helped them last night,” one of her escort explained. “The First Sister wants her locked up.”

“Bring her here,” the Defender said. R’shiel could detect the sneer in the man’s voice. She looked up, focusing her eyes on the captain and was rewarded with a startled laugh. “Well, well, well! If it isn’t Lady High ‘n’ Mighty herself!”

The sergeant who held her frowned as he looked at the young captain. “Don’t get too excited, Loclon. She’s still a Probate.”

“Go to hell, Oron,” Loclon snapped.

“Not at your invitation, thanks,” he retorted. The sergeant thrust R’shiel at Loclon and marched off.

Loclon stood back and let her fall. “Get up,” he ordered.

R’shiel stood slowly, aware that she was in some kind of danger. She grimaced at the ugly scar marring his once-handsome face. Loclon took exception to her gaze. He backhanded her soundly across the face. Without thinking, she lashed out with her foot in retaliation. Loclon dropped like a sack of wheat, screaming in pain, clutching his groin with both hands.

“You bitch!”

“What’s the matter?” R’shiel shot back. “Haven’t felt the touch of a woman there for a while?”

She regretted it almost as soon as she said it. Loclon was livid, and she had little chance to enjoy her victory. She was overwhelmed by the other guards who held her tightly as Loclon pulled himself up, using the corner of the table for support. This time he punched her solidly in the abdomen, making her retch as she doubled over in agony. He drew back his fist for another blow but was stopped by his corporal.

“Don’t be a fool, sir,” he urged. “She’s a Probate.”

Loclon heeded the man’s advice reluctantly. “Get her out of my sight.”

R’shiel was dragged across the hall into a waiting cell. The door clanged shut with a depressing thud. Holding her bruised abdomen, she felt her way along the wall, using it for support. Barking her shin on the uneven wood of the pallet, she collapsed onto it. Shaking with pain, R’shiel curled into a tight ball on the narrow pallet and wondered what they had done with Tarja.

Time lost all meaning for R’shiel in the days that followed her arrest. Only sparse daylight found its way into the cells. Only the begrudging delivery of meals and the changing of the guard regulated her days.

R’shiel soon learned there were two shifts guarding the cells. Following the abortive escape attempt, the guard had been trebled. The prisoners were no longer in the care of an easily distracted corporal. The first detail left her to herself, ignoring her and the other prisoners in favor of their gaming. The second shift was a different matter. It took R’shiel very little time to discover Loclon was nursing a grudge against the world in general and the Tenragan family in particular.

She knew Tarja was incarcerated in the next cell but never saw him, although she heard him sometimes, talking with the guards on the first shift. When Loclon was on duty though, he remained silent. R’shiel very quickly followed suit. A wrong word, a misdirected glance, would earn a slap at the very least, and on at least one occasion she heard Loclon deliver a savage beating to her unseen cellmate. R’shiel turned her face to the wall and tried to ignore the sounds coming from the next cell, hoping she would escape Loclon’s notice.

It was a futile hope. Loclon searched for excuses to punish her. After one meal, when she had refused to eat the slops she was served, he belted her across the cheek with his open hand which sent her flying, her head cracking painfully on the stone wall. She lay where she fell, forcing down the blackness, and made no move to fight back. If she did, he would call the other guards and use it as an excuse to beat her senseless while they held her down.

“Get up.”

R’shiel obeyed him slowly. His face was flushed with excitement rather than anger, his scar a fervid, pulsing gauge of his mood. She noticed the bulge in the front of his tight leather trousers and realized with disgust that her pain was arousing him. She backed away from him, inching her way along the wall.

“The only job you’ll be allowed is a court’esa, once they’ve finished with you,” he sneered in a low voice that wouldn’t carry to the guards outside. “I bet you’ll enjoy it, too.”

“You’d have to pay me, before I’d touch anything as pathetic as you,” she retorted. It was dangerous in the extreme to bait him like this.

“You smart-mouthed little bitch,” he snarled. “You’ll get what’s coming—”

“Captain!”

“What?”

“The clerk is here with the court list. He says you have to sign for it.”

Loclon looked at her and rubbed his groin. “Later, my Lady.”

R’shiel sank down on the pallet and let out her breath in a rush. She crossed her arms and laid her head on them. That way she couldn’t feel them shaking.

The fifth day of her confinement was Judgment Day. All the cases to be tried and judged were brought before the Sisters of the Blade. Rumor had it that Tarja was to be tried before the full court. Her own case would receive the attention of Sister Harith.

She was awakened at first light and marched from her cell to a tub of cold water on the table in the center of the guardroom. One of the guards handed her a rough towel and ordered her to clean up. Glancing around at the men, she began to wash her face as the other prisoners were assembled with the same instructions. Seven other prisoners were brought out. All men but for a small, chubby woman with a painted face which was tear-streaked and dirty. R’shiel glanced at her, recognizing the court’esa from the Blue Bull Tavern. For a moment, R’shiel thought she saw an aura flickering around her, an odd combination of light and shadows. She blinked the sight away impatiently.

“Sorry I dobbed you in,” the court’esa whispered as she leaned forward to splash her face. “They didn’t leave me any choice.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” R’shiel shrugged. She of all people knew how overwhelming Joyhinia could be.

“No talking,” Loclon ordered, grabbing the court’esa by her hair and pulling her head back painfully.

Suddenly another voice intruded. “Leave her alone.”

R’shiel glanced up and discovered Tarja standing behind Loclon, loosely flanked by two guards. He was unshaven and bruised, with one eye so puffy and purple it was almost shut.

“Friend of yours, is she, Tarja?” he asked, then plunged the court’esa face first into the tub of water. Tarja lunged forward but the guards held him back. The court’esa thrashed wildly in the water. Tarja leaned back into his captors and using them as support brought both legs up and kicked Loclon squarely in the lower back. The captain grunted with pain and released his victim, who fell coughing and choking to the floor. R’shiel grabbed her blouse and dragged her clear as Loclon turned on Tarja. Loclon clenched his hands together and drove them solidly into Tarja’s solar plexus. With a grunt, he collapsed in the arms of the guards who held him, as Loclon drew his fist back for another blow.

“That will be enough I think, Captain.”

Loclon stayed his hand at the sound of the new voice and turned to discover Garet Warner watching him with barely concealed contempt.

“The prisoner was attempting to escape, sir.”

“I’m sure he was,” Garet agreed unconvincingly.

R’shiel helped the court’esa to her feet, the movement catching the eye of the commandant. He turned to one of the Defenders who had accompanied him into the cells. “Take the women to the bathhouse and let them clean up, then escort them to the court.”

The Defender beckoned the women, neither of whom needed to be asked twice. As they followed him up the long, narrow corridor R’shiel glanced back at Tarja. His gaze met hers for an instant, and she saw the despair in his eyes, then she was out of sight of him.

The court to which R’shiel was arrayed was crowded with a long list of pagan cases in addition to the two women and four men brought up from the cells behind the Defenders’ Headquarters. The court’esa, whose unlikely name turned out to be Sunflower Hopechild, was called up first. She was accused of aiding the Defenders who had helped Tarja escape. Apparently, merely being in the Blue Bull with Davydd Tailorson the night before the escape was enough to convict her. Sister Harith gave the woman barely a glance before sentencing her to three years at the Grimfield. The court’esa seemed unconcerned as she was led back to her place next to R’shiel.

“The Grimfield. That’s supposed to be pretty bad isn’t it?” whispered one of the prisoners, a red-haired bondsman.

Sunny looked annoyed rather than distressed. “I’ll still be doing the same thing at the Grimfield as I’m doing here, friend. Just irks me to think they’d reckon I’d help any damned heathen escape.”

“R’shiel of Haven.”

As her name was called a Defender stepped up and beckoned her forward. She shrugged off his arm as she walked to the dock. R’shiel of Haven, Harith had called her. She no longer had the right to use the name Tenragan. I am truly free of Joyhinia.

“R’shiel of Haven is charged with theft of a silver mirror and two hundred rivets from the First Sister’s apartments and aiding the escape attempt by the deserter Tarjanian Tenragan,” the orderly announced. R’shiel was surprised, and a little relieved, that the charges had not included the Defender in Reddingdale she had killed.

“Do you stand ready for judgment?” Harith asked, not looking up from the sheaf of parchment in which she was engrossed.

Would it make a difference? R’shiel was tempted to ask. But she held her tongue. Harith was never a friend to Joyhinia. She might be lenient, simply to annoy the First Sister.

“Do you stand ready for judgment or do you call for trial?” Harith asked again.

“I stand ready,” R’shiel replied. Calling for trial would just mean weeks, maybe even months in the cells, waiting for her case to come up. Better to plead guilty. It was the faster road to an end to this nightmare.

“Then the court finds you, by your own admission, ready to stand judgment for your crimes. You stole from the First Sister. You aided a known traitor in an attempt to flee justice, and by doing so broke the laws of the Sisterhood. Your actions prove you unworthy. You were offered a place in the Sisterhood as a Probate, which is now withdrawn. You were offered sanctuary in the Citadel, which is now withdrawn. You were offered the comfort and fellowship of the Sisterhood, which is now withdrawn...”

R’shiel listened to the ritual words of banishment, with growing relief. She was being expelled. Thrown out completely.

“You defied the laws of the Sisterhood, and therefore the only fit punishment is the Grimfield. I sentence you to ten years.” Harith finally met her gaze. The Sister was savagely pleased at the effect of her decision.

“Next!” Sister Harith ordered.

Ten years in the Grimfield. Hanging would have been kinder.

The holding pens for the prisoners were outside the Citadel proper, located near the stockyards and smelling just as bad. Sunny latched onto R’shiel as they were herded like cattle, guiding the stunned girl through the pens to a place in what little patch of warmth there was in the cold afternoon sun. She made R’shiel sit down on the dusty ground and patted her hand comfortingly.

“You’ll be fine,” the court’esa promised her. “With that clear skin and nice long hair, you’ll be grabbed by one of the officers, first thing. Ten years will seem like nothing.”

R’shiel didn’t answer her. Ten years at the Grimfield. Ten years as a court’esa. R’shiel had no illusions about what the Grimfield was like. She had heard of the women there. She had seen the look in the eyes of the Defenders who had been posted to the Grimfield. Not the proud, disciplined soldiers of the Citadel, the Defenders of the Grimfield were the dregs of the Corps. Even one year would be intolerable.

She was shaken out of her misery by a commotion at the entrance to the holding pen. The gate flew open and a body was hurled through, landing face down in the dusty compound. The man struggled groggily to his feet as the guards stood back to allow their officer through. With a sick certainty, R’shiel knew who he was.

Loclon surveyed the twenty or so prisoners. “Listen and listen well! The wagons will be loaded in an orderly fashion. Women in the first wagon. Men in the second. Anyone who even thinks about giving me trouble will walk behind the wagons, barefoot.” He swept his gaze over them in the silence that followed. No prisoner was foolish enough to do anything to be singled out – with the possible exception of the man who had been thrown in prior to Loclon’s arrival. As he finally gained his feet unsteadily, Loclon laughed harshly. “At least we’ll be entertained along the way, lads,” he told his men. “I hear the great rebel has a great deal to say when his neck is on the line.” With that the captain turned on his heel and the rough, barred wagons rolled up to the gate.

A circle opened around the staggering figure, and R’shiel realized it was Tarja. He wore a dazed expression and a nasty bruise on his jaw that was new since this morning. Much as she wanted to run to him and find out how he had escaped the noose, she had her own concerns. Loclon stood near the gate, arms crossed. He had a sour expression on his disfigured face and a savagely, black-streaked aura. R’shiel lowered her eyes, as the black lights around him flickered on the edge of her vision, wondering what they meant, not wishing to attract his attention. But he saw her. At a wave a guard grabbed her arm and pulled her across to face him.

“So you’ll be joining us, will you, Probate?” he asked curiously in a low voice. R’shiel realized he had been drinking. Was he being sent to the Grimfield as a punishment as well? Garet Warner didn’t seem particularly pleased with him this morning. “I could make this trip a lot easier for you.”

R’shiel raised her eyes to meet his, full of contempt, but he was drunk enough for her scorn to have no effect. “How?” she asked, knowing the answer, but wondering if he was foolish enough to spell it out, here in the Citadel. With a bit of luck, Lord Jenga might happen by. But even if he did, she thought, would he care? I’m not his daughter, either.

Loclon reached for her and pulled her close, feeling her body roughly through the folds of her linen shift. She glanced around her, thinking someone would object, but the prisoners didn’t care, and the guards simply looked the other way. “You look after me, and I might forgive you,” he said huskily.

“I’d rather rut a snake.”

Loclon raised his hand to strike her, but the arrival of the court clerk checking forestalled him. “All present and accounted for, Captain. Except this one, of course.” He placed the parchment in Loclon’s raised hand. “You can leave anytime you’re ready.” The man walked off, leaving Loclon standing there, glaring at R’shiel.

“Get her on the wagon.”

R’shiel was hustled forward and thrown up on the dirty straw bed. The barred gate was slammed and locked behind her, and the wagon lurched forward. Sunny scrambled back and helped R’shiel to her feet. “You’ve got it made,” the court’esa assured her. “That one likes you.”

R’shiel didn’t bother to reply. Instead she looked up as they trundled out of the Citadel. Loclon and his men rode in front, followed by a full company of Defenders in the rear, leading the packhorses. The Sisterhood was taking no chances with Tarja.

The Citadel’s bulk loomed behind them as they moved off. She felt no sorrow at leaving, only an emptiness where once there had been a feeling of belonging. She remembered the strange feeling of belonging in another place that had almost overwhelmed her the year her menses arrived. Perhaps her body had known then what her mind had only just begun to accept. The idea no longer bothered her; the senseless anger that had burned within her for so long had begun to wane.

She looked along the line of wagons, considering her future. Loclon was going to be a problem, although R’shiel felt reasonably safe until they reached Brodenvale. With over sixty Defenders in tow, he was unlikely to try to make good his threats. But after the Defenders left the prison party at Brodenvale, anything could happen. She glanced at the following wagon. There were twelve men crowded into it, but they managed to leave a clear space around Tarja. He looked back at the retreating bulk of the Citadel with an incomprehensible expression. As if feeling her gaze on him, he turned and met her eyes. For the first time in his life, she thought, he looked defeated.