Medalon

chapter 30

A full squad of Defenders had escorted Tarja down to the holding pens. Scorn, and even a little disappointment, replaced the easygoing manner of his guards. For many Defenders, even the loyal ones, Tarja’s refusal to betray his rebel comrades, even under torture, had earned him a degree of grudging respect. But then word had spread like a brush fire of his supposed capitulation, and he had lost even that small measure of esteem. Even those who didn’t think him capable of such a heinous act wondered at his sentence. By every law the Sisterhood held dear, Tarja should have been hanged for his crimes. Tarja wondered if people would think his mother had spared him out of maternal feeling. The idea was ridiculous. Anyone who knew his mother even moderately well would find it easier to believe that he had turned betrayer.

As the wagons trundled forward, he glanced up at the Citadel. He should have died there. He should have demanded the sentence he deserved. He would have been honored for generations as a martyr. Now he would be scorned and reviled. He would carry the taint of the coward who had betrayed his friends to save his own skin. As the Citadel slowly grew smaller in the distance, his thoughts returned to the events of the morning. He cursed himself for a fool, even as he relived his trial and the farce his mother had made of it.

“We have decided that in the interests of security your trial shall be a closed court,” Joyhinia had declared. She sat with the full court in attendance at the bench, the Lord Defender, Lord Draco, the four sisters of the Quorum and the First Sister. The ranks of spectators’ seats were empty. Even the guards had been dismissed. Tarja was chained to the dock in the center of the court. On the wall behind them hung a huge tapestry depicting a woman with a child in one arm and sword in the other. It hung there as a reminder to the court of the nobility of the Sisterhood. Its other purpose was less obvious. Etched into the wall behind the tapestry was a Harshini mural that no amount of scrubbing or painting had been able to remove. Tarja had seen it once as a child, on an exploratory mission through the Citadel with Georj.

“You didn’t really think we’d let you have your say in an open court, did you?” Harith asked. She had already sat in judgment in the Lesser Court this morning. She was having a busy day.

“Then you really do fear me. I can die content.”

“You won’t be dying at all, I’m afraid,” Joyhinia announced, taking malicious pleasure from his shocked expression. “A martyr is just what your pitiful cause is looking for. Well, they will have to look further afield than you. Hanging you will do nothing but cause trouble. We have decided to accept your apology, along with a list of your heathen compatriots, and in return you will be sentenced to five years in the Grimfield. After which, we shall consider your application to rejoin the Defenders, if we decide you have repented sufficiently.”

Tarja was dumbfounded. “There is no list. I do not repent.”

“But that is the delightful thing about all this, Tarja,” Jacomina pointed out. “There doesn’t have to be. As long as there is a suspicion that you have turned against them, the rebels will go to ground. Everyone knows you should be hanged for what you’ve done. By not hanging you, we have destroyed your credibility. I think it’s rather clever, actually. Don’t you?”

“Draco promised me a hero’s welcome to undermine my standing in the rebellion,” Tarja pointed out. “A prison sentence is hardly a reward for outstanding service.”

“You’ve killed in the name of the heathens, Tarja,” Harith shrugged. “You must pay for that. Even the rebels would understand our position.”

“It won’t work,” he argued. “No one will believe that I turned.”

“No one believed that a captain of the Defenders could break his oath and turn against the Sisterhood, either,” the Lord Defender said.

Tarja met the eyes of his former commander without flinching. “It is the Sisterhood who has turned against her people.”

“Oh, leave off with all that heathen nonsense,” Harith snapped. “No one here cares, Tarjanian. You defied us, and now you will pay the price. I personally think we should hang you, but your mother has managed to convince us that humiliating you would be more effective.”

“How thoughtful of you, Mother.”

“Have your men escort him to my office, my Lord,” Joyhinia said, turning to the Lord Defender. “I would like a word in private with the prisoner before he leaves. The wagons should be able to get away by mid-afternoon.”

“As you wish, your Grace.”

“Ever the obedient servant,” Tarja muttered.

The Lord Defender stopped mid-stride and turned back to Joyhinia. “Your permission, your Grace, to correct this miscreant?”

“By all means,” Joyhinia agreed, her expression stony. “I’d be interested to see what you call ‘correction.’ He seems in remarkably good shape for someone allegedly tortured for a week or more.”

Jenga faced Tarja with an unreadable expression. Did he wonder why Tarja was not more battered and broken? Taking advantage of the fact that he was unable to retaliate, Loclon had beaten Tarja savagely several times. He plainly bore the evidence of those beatings, but of the torture he had suffered, there was no trace. Did Jenga suspect something was amiss? He had not visited Tarja during his incarceration. Perhaps he had not wanted to see the results of his orders. Tarja was glad he had not.

“I am disappointed in you, Tarjanian,” he said. “You had such promise.”

“At least I won’t end up like you. Licking the boots of the Sisterhood.”

Jenga hit him squarely on the jaw with his gauntleted fist. Tarja slumped, semiconscious, to the floor of the dock. The Lord Defender stared at the inert body and flexed his fist absently.

“That is because you are not fit to lick their boots.” He turned to Joyhinia, his expression doubtful. “Your Grace, I do hope you know what you’re doing. This is a very dangerous course you have embarked upon.”

“When I want your opinion, Lord Jenga,” the First Sister said frostily, “I’ll ask for it.”

Tarja was still rubbing his jaw gingerly as he slumped into one of the chairs normally occupied by the Sisters of the Quorum in the First Sister’s office. They were alone. This was the first time he had been alone with his mother in years. He was still chained, however. Joyhinia wasn’t that sure of herself.

“That was quite a performance in court this morning,” he remarked as Joyhinia went to stand by the window, her back turned to him.

“That was no performance, Tarja. I have the names here of two hundred and twenty-eight known pagan rebels. It has taken us a year to compile the list, and while far from complete, it will do.”

Tarja felt his palms beginning to sweat. “Do for what?”

She turned to look at him. “According to the court records, your life was spared because you betrayed the rebellion. As soon as I am certain the last of your cohorts are rooted out of the Defenders, I will begin executing the men on this list. You are already under suspicion. The assumption will be that you really did betray the heathens. I won’t even have to kill you. Your friends in the rebellion will do that for me, I imagine.”

Tarja stared at his mother, not sure what frightened him most: her ruthlessness or the fact that he could almost admire the web she had woven around him.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

“Because I want you to understand how completely I have defeated you,” she hissed. “I want you to die at the hands of your treasonous friends knowing it was me who brought you down! How dare you defy me! How dare you humiliate me!”

“And R’shiel?” he asked, suddenly seeing Joyhinia as nothing more than a bitter old woman, terrified of losing her authority. It somehow lessened her power over him. “What has she done to incur your wrath? All she ever wanted was to be loved by you.”

“That ungrateful little cow! Like you, she is paying the price for betraying me!”

“You ruthless, unfeeling bitch.” Tarja stood up, towering over his mother, his chains rattling metallically as he trembled with rage. “I’ll destroy you. If it’s the last thing I do.”

“You’ll not have the chance, Tarja,” she replied. “Your death sentence has already been passed. It merely amuses me to let your friends be the ones who carry it out.”

The jolting of the wagon dragged his attention back to the present. Unable to bear the sight of the fortress any longer, he turned around. R’shiel was watching him from the wagon in front. He met her gaze for a moment then looked away.

chapter 31

They passed through Kordale an hour or so later, then began to descend out of the highlands toward the river valley and Brodenvale. At dusk Loclon called a halt, and they made camp in a copse of native poplars. The prisoners were allowed out of the wagons to eat and then loaded back in for the night. As there wasn’t room to stretch out, R’shiel made herself as comfortable as possible in the corner of the wagon with the other women. The Defenders were posted around the camp and nervously alert. A rescue attempt was almost a certainty. Even the rumor that Tarja had finally betrayed the rebellion wasn’t expected to reduce the risk. On the contrary, the rebels would probably want him even more.

Despite the Defenders’ fears, the night passed uneventfully, if uncomfortably, for the prisoners. The expected attack never eventuated. R’shiel thought that some of the Defenders looked a little disappointed. By first light they were back on the road, jolting miserably in the bitter chill. The day passed in a blur of misery as the countryside began to alter subtly. Brown began to turn to green, and herds of red spotted cows grazed in the cold fields, their breath hanging in the still air like milky clouds as they watched apathetically as the human caravan passed by.

Brodenvale came into view near dusk. They were driven straight to the Town Garrison, where the prisoners were given a cold meal and the relative luxury of a straw-covered cell. The Defenders were quartered in the Garrison and on full alert, but there was no sign of the expected rebel attack. The general feeling among the prisoners was that either the heathens knew the route they were taking and would attack later, or they had finally given up on Tarja. R’shiel suspected the former was the case. She knew the rebels.

The next morning, the prisoners were marched through the town to the river docks. Crowds lined the street to catch a glimpse of the famed rebel, but the Defenders kept them pressed close between the horses, so most of the townsfolk were disappointed. The mood of the crowd was strangely subdued. Every one of the prisoners heaved a sigh of relief when they reached the docks.

The Defenders halted the prisoners and arrayed themselves across the entrance to the dock. The boat was a freight barge, its name Melissa in faded whitewash on the prow. They were herded forward by the soldiers and pushed up the narrow gangplank. As R’shiel stepped onto the deck a hand reached for her and she was pushed into a group with the other prisoners. The horses belonging to the ten Defenders who were to accompany them to the Grimfield were brought on board, although it took some time. Finally Loclon strode up the gangway, and the captain gave the order to cast off.

Had it been left to Loclon, the prisoners would not have emerged at all from the hold. Loclon was all for locking the door and forgetting about his charges until they docked. The boat’s captain exploded when he heard the suggestion, his voice carrying easily to the prisoners locked in the freezing hold.

“Leave them there?” his deep voice boomed. “Be damned if you will!”

The prisoners gathered near the flimsy wooden door to listen to the exchange. Loclon’s reply was inaudible, but the riverboat captain could probably be heard back in the Citadel.

“I don’t care if they’re a bunch of bloodthirsty mass murders! Do you know what that hold will smell like after a few days? I want them out! Every day! And not just for an hour or so! I have to carry other cargo, you know! It’s bad enough your horses are stinking up my deck without making the rest of my boat uninhabitable as well!”

A few moments of silence ensued, as Loclon presumably pleaded his case, but the captain was adamant. “I want them out, do you hear? If you don’t like it, I will put into the bank, offload the whole troublesome lot of you, and you can wave down the next passing boat!”

A door slammed angrily, followed by silence. Guessing that the entertainment was over, the prisoners wandered back to their hammocks.

The convicts had unconsciously sorted themselves into three distinct groups. The men had gathered themselves nearest the entrance. The women had taken possession of the opposite side of the hold in a cluster of hammocks. Stuck somewhere in the middle was Tarja – a group of one that nobody wanted to associate with, either through fear of him or disgust that he had betrayed his compatriots.

Sunny had taken R’shiel under her wing and had introduced her around to the other women. The tall, dark-haired one was called Marielle. She was on her way to the Grimfield for assaulting a Sister. Marielle’s husband was serving time in the Grimfield for theft. She had walked from Brodenvale over the Cliffwall to the Grimfield, only to be turned back when she reached the prison town. Furious, she had walked all the way back to Caldow, where she had hurled a fresh cowpat at the first Sister she saw. She was now quite contentedly on her way to where she wanted to be in the first place.

Danka was only a year or so older than R’shiel. A slender blonde with a lazy eye that had a disconcerting habit of looking in a different direction from the other, her crime was selling her favors in an unlicensed brothel.

Telia and Warril were sisters; both convicted of murdering a man they had been arguing over. The sisters were sentenced to five years, although Harith had informed them sternly that it was more for their irresponsible behavior than the fact they had actually killed the poor man. The sisters were now the best of friends, having decided that no man would ever drive them apart again.

The sixth female prisoner was an older woman named Bek, sour-faced and wrinkled, who offered no information regarding herself or her crime. Sunny had whispered to R’shiel that she was an arsonist who had set so many fires in the Citadel, it was a wonder it wasn’t black with soot, instead of the pristine white it usually was. R’shiel wasn’t sure if she believed Sunny, but she noticed the old woman staring at the shielded lantern-flame for hours at a time, as if it held some secret fascination for her.

As for Sunny, she was, she explained soberly to R’shiel, a businesswoman. Her unfortunate involvement in Tarja’s escape attempt was purely accidental. She was a patriotic citizen of Medalon. This whole thing was simply a mistake, which would be cleared up as soon as she reached the Grimfield and found an officer who would listen to her.

Not long after the argument between the riverboat captain and Loclon, a rattle at the lock in the door had all the prisoners jumping to their feet with anticipation. A sailor pushed the door open and stood back to let two red-coated Defenders step through. They were carrying a number of leg irons in each hand.

“Cap’n says you’re to go up on deck where we can keep an eye on you,” the corporal announced. “I want you lined up, one at a time.”

The sailor remained in the doorway. “And just how do you suppose they’re going to get up top with those things on?”

The corporal frowned. “The Cap’n ordered it.”

“And I’m sure the Cap’n is quite a wonderful chap, but they’ll never get up those companionways wearing leg irons.”

“But what if they try to escape?”

“Then you can club them into submission with the chains.” The sailor was teasing him, but the soldier did not seem to realize it.

The corporal considered his advice for a moment, before nodding. “All right. But they go on as soon as we get on deck.”

“A wise move, Corporal. You’ll go far in the Corps, I’m sure.”

The corporal stood back and ordered the prisoners out of the hold. They shuffled into a line, and R’shiel found herself standing next to Tarja. She glanced at him for a moment, but they had no chance to speak. He looked a little better today. The bruise over his eye was fading although the one on his jaw looked the color of rotting fruit. As she bent to walk through the doorway, the sailor winked at her, and she silently thanked him and his captain for sparing them from both the confines of the hold and the leg irons.

The sunlight stung R’shiel’s eyes as she emerged onto the deck. Although cold, the wind was a refreshing change. Once they were assembled, the corporal didn’t seem to know what to do with them, and Loclon was nowhere to be found. With a shrug, he dumped the leg irons at the top of the steps and turned to face his charges.

“A bit of exercise will tire them out,” the sailor suggested helpfully as he followed the Defenders up onto the main deck. “Make them much easier to handle.”

The corporal nodded. “All right you lot! Move about! You’re up here for exercise!”

The prisoners dutifully began moving about. Expecting to be called back, R’shiel headed forward. In the bow, heading swiftly south with the current, a chill breeze swept over her. She sank down behind the temporary corral where the horses were tethered and began to run her fingers through her hair in a futile attempt to tidy it. She had not had a proper bath since the day she had been arrested. She tugged at the tangles as best she could and slowly rebraided her long hair, wondering if she smelled as bad as everyone else did.

“What are you doing?” Sunny asked, lowering her voluptuous frame down beside R’shiel.

R’shiel shrugged. “Nothing.”

“That sailor surely has Hurly’s mark,” she chuckled. For a moment, R’shiel wasn’t sure what the court’esa meant, then realized she must be speaking of the easily outwitted corporal. She agreed with a noncommittal shrug. Sunny waited for her to contribute something more substantial to the conversation. When R’shiel showed no inclination to add anything further, she took up the challenge herself. “So, where d’you think we’ll dock?”

“I don’t know.”

“You reckon the rebels will try to free Tarja?”

“I don’t know.”

The court’esa seemed to mistake her reticence for interest. “I reckon they will. I reckon they’re just waiting for a chance at a clear run. Bet they hang him soon as look at him, too.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because he squealed on them.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“ ‘Course he did,” Sunny assured her confidently. “The Sisterhood would’ve have hung him, otherwise. Anyway, the rebels won’t try anything while we’re on the river.”

“Hurly!” Loclon’s angry yell cut through the still morning like a scythe. “What the hell are these prisoners doing roaming around the deck like this? It’s not a bloody pleasure cruise!”

Sunny sighed loudly. “Well, there goes our few moments of glorious freedom. Ol’ Wick-‘em-an’-Whack-‘em Loclon is on the warpath again.”

R’shiel glanced at Sunny as the Defenders began rounding everyone up to clamp on the leg irons. Hidden in the bow, she figured they had a moment or two yet before they were discovered.

“Why do you call him that?” she asked.

“Our Loclon likes a bit of fisticuffs,” Sunny told her knowingly. “You ask any of the girls in the Houses back at the Citadel. He pays good, but he likes to feel like a big man. Know what I mean?”

“He likes to hit people?” R’shiel suggested, not entirely sure she understood Sunny’s odd turn of phrase.

“He likes to hit women,” Sunny corrected. “Give’s him a real hard-on. I bet he isn’t near as brave fighting men.”

Hurly found them before R’shiel could answer.

It was late that night before R’shiel finally got a chance to speak to Tarja. After a meal of thin gruel she lay awake in the darkness, listening to the creaking of the boat, the soft rasping of swinging hammocks, and the nasal snores of her fellow prisoners. She waited for a long time, until she was certain they were all asleep, before slipping out of her hammock. Feeling her way in the absolute darkness, she relied only on her memory of where she thought Tarja might be sleeping to find him, trying not to bump into the others as she felt her way through the hold. The boat had anchored for the night, and the sound of the river gently slapping against the wooden hull seemed unnaturally loud.

“Tarja?” she whispered, reaching out to touch his face. A vicelike grip snatched at her wrist, and she had to force herself not to cry out with the sudden pain. “It’s me!” she hissed.

The pain eased as he released her. “What’s wrong?” he said, so softly she had to lean forward until she could feel his breath on her face.

“Can we talk?”

She felt rather than saw him nod in the darkness and stood back as he swung out of the hammock. He took her hand and led her toward the aft end of the hold. A glimmer of light trickled in from a loose board high on the bulkhead. Tarja sank down onto the hard deck and pulled R’shiel, shivering in her thin shift, down beside him. He put his arm around her, and she leaned into the solid warmth of his chest.

“What happened? Why didn’t they hang you?” she whispered. Although the sleeping prisoners were on the other side of the hold, it was not a large boat and even normal voices would probably wake them. “Everyone says you betrayed the rebels.”

“This is Joyhinia’s idea of revenge. She’s hoping the rebels will kill me for her.”

“But if you explained to them—”

She could feel him shaking his head in the darkness. “You know them as well as I, R’shiel. I doubt I’ll be given the chance. But we’re still alive, that’s something. Maybe I can find a way out of this yet.”

“You can rescue me any time you want, Tarja. Anywhere between here and the Grimfield will do just nicely. I’ll die if I have to spend an hour as a court’esa, let alone ten years.”

“Is that what Harith sentenced you to?”

She nodded. A part of her wanted him to explode with fury and kick a hole in the bulkhead so that they could swim to freedom. Another part of her knew that he was as helpless as she was.

“Well,” she sighed. “Whatever happens, I’m glad Joyhinia didn’t hang you.”

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

“For what?”

“You tell me.”

“Oh! At the Citadel, you mean? I was just surprised, that’s all. Everyone was saying you’d been tortured.” He did not confirm or deny the rumor. He just held her close. She could hear the steady beat of his heart against her ear. “You should have listened to me, you know. I warned you the meeting in Testra was a trap.”

“You also suggested we ambush Draco and kill every Defender in the town,” he reminded her.

“We wouldn’t be here now, if we had,” she retorted, but her rhetoric had lost the passion that once consumed her.

“We’ll survive.”

“Is that your idea of encouragement? I wish I could die!”

Tarja reached down and lifted her chin with his finger. His eyes glittered in the thin light from the cracked board.

“Don’t say that!” he hissed. “Don’t even think it! Founders! I think I preferred you when you wanted to take on the whole world! If you want to get even with Joyhinia, then survive this. No. Not just survive. Damned well flourish. Don’t let them defeat you, R’shiel. Don’t let anybody, ever, defeat you!”

R’shiel was startled by his vehemence. “But I’m scared, Tarja.”

“You’re not afraid of anything, R’shiel.”

She looked up at him. He might think her fearless, but there was one thing she was afraid of. She was terrified he would look at her again, the way he had the night she left the vineyard.

chapter 32

They reached the Cliffwall four days later. Over the eons, the wide, meandering Glass River had worn a deep ravine through the rift between the high and central plateaus, and it was here that the Defenders were ordered on full alert. Loclon was convinced that the cliffs hemming in the river were an ideal place for an ambush. The riverboat captain obviously considered that a very optimistic opinion. Even at its narrowest, the river was still half a league wide, but he obediently kept to the center. They were traveling with the current, and their progress was swift. The day had begun cloudy, but the unseasonal warmth had burned off the last remaining clouds by midmorning, which not even the vast expanse of the river seemed to affect. It was odd, this sudden warm spell, but then R’shiel was further south now than she had been since arriving at the Citadel as a babe in arms.

“How long before we reach Juliern?”

Loclon was standing behind the captain, his tunic unbuttoned and rumpled. His scar was pale against his windburned face. The sun was beginning to set, and the cool of the evening was settling with alarming speed. Cooling sweat turned chill in seconds. The prisoners were just below them on the main deck. The riverboat captain insisted that they clean up after the horses, and the men were on their hands and knees, swabbing the boards. The women were spared the task and for the most part were laying about, too lethargic to do anything else, particularly wearing leg irons. R’shiel cautiously moved a little closer, to better concentrate on the discussion.

“Tomorrow morning sometime, I suppose,” the riverboat captain replied. “Is that where you want to land?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Are you planning to dock the boat yourself?”

“Of course not! But I don’t want your men to know. Or the prisoners.”

“As you wish.”

“And once we’ve offloaded, you’re to head straight back to Brodenvale.”

The captain frowned. “That wasn’t part of the deal. I’m heading downriver.”

“That’s too bad, because if you don’t dock in Brodenvale two weeks from tomorrow, the Brodenvale Garrison Commander has orders to declare you and your whole damned crew outlaws.”

R’shiel heard the sailor curse softly as Loclon walked away.

Juliern was a small village slumped between the Glass River and the barren central plateau. It had little to offer in trade and was not a regular port of call. It consisted of little more than a rickety wooden dock, a tavern, a blacksmith, and a few mean houses.

The village appeared almost deserted when the Melissa bumped gently against the dock. A boat with her rails lined by Defenders was enough to send most of the residents scurrying behind closed doors. Two sailors jumped onto the dock, secured the boat, then climbed back on board and pushed the gangplank out. It landed with an alarming thump which shook the whole dangerous-looking structure.

Loclon watched as the horses were led off the boat. Then the prisoners were marched off, stumbling awkwardly in their leg irons. Loclon mounted his horse and cantered to the head of their small column, yelling an order for them to move out.

They were on the road for three days before Loclon sent for R’shiel. Three miserable, foot-sore days that saw the Glass River fade from sight behind the rift of the Cliffwall. As they stumbled along, the countryside slowly changed from the lush pastures of the river plains to the semiarid grasslands of the Central Plateau. The road tasted dusty to the weary prisoners, and the sparse shelter from the blue-oaks lining the road became almost nonexistent. The wind scraped across the plains, scouring the land. Despite the cold, all but a few were windburned. R’shiel escaped the worst of it, her skin somehow not reacting to the relentless wind. A couple of the men who had spent their life outdoors merely tanned a darker shade, and Tarja, who had a naturally olive skin, fared better than most. The others were red, blistered, and miserable. If Loclon noticed or cared about their suffering, he gave no indication.

They spent their nights in the open. After being allowed a short time to relieve themselves and stretch out, they were again fed a thin gruel, while the Defenders ate at another fire dining on the results of the day’s hunt. Once they were well into the plains, even that fizzled out, and the Defenders were forced to partake of the same slops as their prisoners. They were shackled at night, although Loclon had ordered the chains removed while they traveled. They hampered movement, and he grew impatient with their shuffling pace.

Of the six women in the party R’shiel was both the youngest and the only one not resigned to being a court’esa once they reached the Grimfield. She would have been content to spend the whole journey in solitude, trying to figure out how to escape, had it not been for Sunny’s persistent attempts to include her. The men seemed to sort themselves out in a similar fashion. She glanced at them now and then, noticing they gave Tarja a wide berth.

But the third night out things changed. They were well out of sight of Juliern now and still a good week or more from the Grimfield. They ate their meager meal in silence and were being herded into the shackles when R’shiel was singled out by a guard and told to stay put while he locked in the other women. She glanced around hopefully, but there were too many alert guards to try to make a break for it, and nowhere to go if she did. Sunny sneaked up behind her as the guard ordered the women into line and tapped her shoulder urgently.

“Now you listen to me and listen good,” Sunny said. “Don’t you go doing anything stupid. You give him what he wants, you hear. If you don’t, the only one who’ll get hurt is you, and it’s not that big a prize. Do you understand?”

R’shiel looked at her blankly. Sunny dug her plump fingers painfully into the younger girl’s shoulder.

“You be smart, hear?” she insisted. “It’s about power. It’s the only power he’s got over you, see? The harder you fight, the more he has to prove himself.”

“I ordered you to get into line,” the guard said.

“Just giving the girl a few pointers,” she told him, as he led her away.

“I’ll bet,” the guard said as he locked Sunny into her leg irons.

Taking R’shiel by the arm he led her toward Loclon’s tent. R’shiel glanced back at the women, hoping for – what? Rescue? Help? But the women simply watched her go. Telia and Warril looked unconcerned. Danka even looked a little envious that R’shiel had been singled out and not her. The men simply stared at her, or ignored her completely. No one was planning to get involved. All but Tarja. As he saw the direction she was being led, he suddenly lunged toward the guard who was shackling him. The guard cried out, and Tarja was clubbed down by two other Defenders. R’shiel turned away, not able to bear the sight of him being beaten. Don’t let anybody, ever, defeat you, he had told her. She tried to keep that thought in her mind as the guard thrust her inside Loclon’s tent with a shove, then disappeared into the night.

He was waiting for her, sitting on a fold-down campstool with a mug of ale in his hand.

“Enjoying the trip?”

She lifted her chin defiantly and refused to meet his gaze.

“You know, I’ve been trying to figure out what makes you such an uppity little bitch. Is it because you’re the First Sister’s daughter? Is that why you’re so high and bloody mighty? Except it turns out you’re just a common bastard.” He rose to his feet in a surprisingly fluid movement and began circling her like a predatory bird.

With a conscious effort she focused her gaze on him. “Class only matters to those who don’t have any.”

Loclon slapped her for her impudence, making her eyes water. “You arrogant little bitch!” R’shiel glared at him and tried not to imagine what was coming next. Imagination could be a worse tormentor than actual abuse. She had heard someone say that once. “I’ll bet you’re just like the rest of those Probate sluts, aren’t you? I’ve seen them at the Citadel. How many lovers have you had, I wonder, you and your uppity friends?”

R’shiel refused to dignify his question with a reply.

“ANSWER ME!”

She jumped at the sudden shout. She could feel his anger, his lust for pain – her pain – radiating from him like a heat shimmer off the horizon in summer. Rebellion warred with fear inside her, but Sunny’s advice was fresh in her mind. This was a power game, and by defying him she was just asking for trouble. Loclon needed to be in control.

“I don’t think I’m better than you,” she said, as meekly as she could manage.

Loclon grabbed a handful of her long hair and jerked her head back viciously. “Don’t patronize me, you conceited little whore.”

She stayed silent, sorry now that she had only kicked him in the balls. Had she known the consequences, she would have made an effort to really hurt him. He twisted her head around to face him. “What would it take to make you beg for mercy, I wonder?”

Held in his painful grip, there was little R’shiel could do but stare him in the face. The puckered flesh of his scar both repulsed and comforted her. Tarja had given him that scar.

“I would rather turn heathen and be burned alive on a Karien altar as a witch, than beg you for anything.”

Her answer enraged him, as she knew it would. He raised his arm to strike her again, but she hit out first, raking her nails down his face, leaving a trail of bloody scratches on his right cheek. He yelped and grabbed her wrist, twisting it savagely behind her back. R’shiel struggled wildly, but he forced her arm so far up her back she feared he would break it. He threw her down onto the sleeping pallet, breathing hard, rage boiling over in him. She kicked at him but her aim was wild and she merely connected with his thigh. He slapped her leg away and was on her, his lithe frame hiding surprising strength, pinning her to the pallet. He suddenly laughed at her, coldly, viciously.

“Go on, scream! Scream as loud as you can. I want your bastard brother to hear. I want him to know what I’m doing to you. I want him to go to sleep every night hearing you scream, just as I have to wake up every morning and look at what he did to me!”

R’shiel bit her lip and refused to cry out, her eyes wide and staring. She stopped struggling, lay still and unmoving, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her pain or her fear as he pushed up the rough linen shift. His desire to make her scream only strengthened her will. Don’t let anybody, ever, defeat you. Her composure infuriated him. He punched her face, making her head swim.

R’shiel closed her eyes. She swallowed the screams he so desperately wanted to tear from her and for a fleeting, glorious moment an intoxicating sweetness swept over her, reaching for her, calling for her. She clung to it, trying to touch the source, but Loclon hit her again and the feeling vanished, leaving behind nothing but cruel reality.

Morning was a long time coming.

Sunny was waiting for R’shiel when she was returned to the women at first light, taking in her bruised face without comment. She pushed the others away and for once did not attempt to fill the silence with chatter. R’shiel sat unmoving as they were served a thin porridge for breakfast.

They got underway a short time later with Loclon bawling orders at his men, obviously in a foul mood. If the Defenders cast her surreptitious glances as they rode by, wondering at the scratches on the captain’s face, they said nothing. But they watched and wondered just the same. Tarja was kept well away from her, but she could tell his mood was murderous. If Loclon was fool enough to get within reach of him, Tarja would kill him.

The scene was repeated each night for the next three nights, and each morning when R’shiel was returned to the other prisoners, Loclon emerged from his tent in an increasingly vile temper.

On the fourth night he sent for Sunny, who trotted off happily to ply her trade. Sunny knew the reality of life outside the Citadel. She knew that pleasing Loclon now would ease her lot once they arrived at the Grimfield. R’shiel watched her go and turned back to huddle on the ground. She had won. He had given up in the end. Not a cry, not a whimper, no reaction at all, had Loclon been able to force from her. She bit her lip as hysterical laughter bubbled up inside her, threatening to escape and betray her silent, private victory.

The Grimfield came into sight on the tenth day after they left the river-boat. The town squatted like a mangy dog at the foot of the Hallowdean Mountains. R’shiel watched it grow larger in the distance, half-fearful and half-relieved that her journey was coming to an end. The buildings were dirty and squat, built from the local gray stone with little or no thought for style. Most were single story, thatched affairs with wide verandahs to keep out the intense summer heat. Only the inn, the Defenders’ Headquarters and a few other buildings had more than one story. Even the low wall that surrounded the town, glittering in the sunlight with its wicked capping of broken glass, looked as if it was trying to crouch.

The women had assured her that the court’esa of the Grimfield were only lightly guarded and the higher the ranked officer one managed to latch onto, the less onerous one’s incarceration was. A part of R’shiel rebelled at the idea of deliberately seeking out an officer. She liked the idea of being a barracks court’esa even less, so she made an attempt, along with the other women, to make herself presentable. Loclon had done that for her. He had driven home the reality of her situation. Being assigned to the laundry or the kitchen would not save her, and her one ambition now was to avoid any further contact with him until she could take her revenge. If that meant attracting the eye of another officer for protection, then she was willing to do whatever she had to. Don’t let anybody, ever, defeat you, she reminded herself. It was becoming the rule by which she lived. The men cheered them on good-naturedly, offering hints as to what might attract the eye of this officer or that, until Loclon bellowed at them to shut up. R’shiel caught Tarja’s speculative look as she combed her hair with her fingers and turned away from him.

The prisoners were met in the town square by the Commandant. R’shiel had forgotten that Mahina’s son was now Commandant of the Grimfield, and she prayed he would not notice her. He watched impassively as the prisoners were lined up, and a small crowd gathered to examine the new arrivals. At his side stood a bearded man who appeared to be his adjutant. Wilem examined the list that Loclon handed him and read through it carelessly until he came to a name that caught his eye. Looking up, he searched the line of prisoners until he spied Tarja.

He ordered Tarja forward. “You are a disgrace to the Defenders and a traitor even to your heathen friends.”

Tarja offered no reply.

“It is my duty to see you remain alive,” he continued, as if the very thought disgusted him. “That is not likely to happen if I let you loose among the other prisoners. They take a dim view of traitors, and you have managed to betray both sides. But I’ve no wish to see you enjoy your time here, either. I will be assigning you to the nightcart. Maybe a few years of hauling shit will teach you some humility, at least.” He turned away and beckoned his aide forward. “Mysekis, see that the others are taken to the mine. Have Tarja sent to Sergeant Lycren and make sure he’s guarded. I don’t want any accidents.”

“Sir,” Mysekis said with a salute and hurried off. The Commandant then turned his attention to the women. He looked them over disinterestedly. “Loclon, take them to Sister Prozlan in the Women’s Hall, then report to my office.”

Loclon saluted smartly and turned to carry out his orders. As the Commandant turned away, a youth of about fifteen with sandy hair and cast-off clothes slipped out of the crowd and approached him. He said something that made the Commandant look back at the line of women.

“Oh, Loclon,” the Commandant called as he strode back toward his barracks, “take the redhead to my wife. She said something about wanting a maid.”

Loclon’s scar darkened with annoyance as he herded them away. R’shiel kept her relief well hidden. The welcome news that she had escaped life as a court’esa was only slightly overshadowed by the awful prospect of being placed in the custody of the notoriously difficult Crisabelle.

chapter 33

The Commandant’s wife was a short, obese blonde with ambitions far outstripping her station as the wife of the prison commandant. She examined R’shiel critically with a frown, plumping her hair nervously. “Don’t I know you?”

“You might have seen me at the Citadel, my Lady.”

“What were you sent here for?”

“I was... in a tavern. After curfew,” she answered, deciding that it was enough of the truth that she could not be accused of lying. “I... got involved with the wrong people. They committed a crime, and I got caught up in it... accidentally.”

Crisabelle nodded, not familiar enough with the prisoners in her husband’s charge to realize that they all considered themselves innocent. She thought on it for a moment, then her brown eyes narrowed. “What did you do at the Citadel? Were you a servant?”

“I was a Probate.” Then she added another “my Lady” for good measure. R’shiel was determined to make Crisabelle like her. Her safety in this dreadful place depended on it.

“A Probate! How marvelous! Finally! Wilem has found me someone decent! The last two maids he sent me were thieving whores. But a Probate!” Crisabelle frowned at the brown linen shift that R’shiel had been given at the Women’s Hall after her own travel-stained clothes had been taken from her. “Well, we shall have to see about more suitable clothing! I will not have my personal maid dressing like those other women. Pity you’re so tall... never mind, I’m sure we can manage. Go and report to Cook and tell him I said to feed you. You look thin enough to faint. Then you can draw my bath and help me dress for dinner.”

R’shiel dropped into a small curtsy, which had Crisabelle beaming with delight, before hurrying off to do as she was ordered.

Crisabelle’s cook proved to be a small man named Teggert, with bulging brown eyes, thin gray hair, and a passion for gossip. The large kitchen was warm and inviting, with softly glowing copper pots and a long, scrubbed wooden table. It was Teggert’s personal kingdom. He eyed R’shiel up and down when she informed him of Crisabelle’s instructions, then ordered her to sit as he fetched her a meal of yesterday’s stew, fresh bread, and watered ale. He began to talk to her as he bustled around his tiny realm, and she nodded as she listened to him rattle on. Mistaking her politeness for interest, he launched into a detailed explanation of the household politics. Before she had finished her dinner – the best meal she had eaten in weeks – he was telling her about Wilem and Crisabelle and Mahina and anybody else he thought worthy of notice in the small town.

“Of course, I don’t doubt that the Commandant loved her once,” he added, after he finished his long-winded explanation, “but what is delightful in a girl is just embarrassing in a woman over forty.”

“I see what you mean,” R’shiel agreed, not wishing to offend the man who would be responsible for seeing her fed in the months to come.

“The poor Commandant knows she expected more,” Teggert continued. “I mean, for a woman not of the Sisterhood or with independent holdings of her own, marriage to an officer of the Defenders is an eminently acceptable course to follow. The trouble is that Crisabelle only ever saw the shiny buttons, the parades, and the pennons. Spending years in a place like the Grimfield is not what she had in mind, let me tell you! Even L’rin, the local tavern owner, has more social standing in the general scheme of things.”

Teggert took the evening’s roast out of the oven as he talked, the smell making R’shiel’s mouth water. As he basted the roast he kept up his tale, delighted to have a new audience. “Sister Mahina only makes things worse,” he lamented. “Retirement doesn’t suit her at all, and the fact that she simply loathes her daughter-in-law is apparent to everyone. Poor Wilem. Just between you and me, I think he resents her mightily. Had it not been for her disgrace, he would have been able to fulfil all of Crisabelle’s fantasies. But he can hardly turn his own mother out now, can he? I mean everyone knows he’ll be here forever. The trouble is, Crisabelle knows it, too.” Teggert returned the roast to the oven and sat down opposite R’shiel, pouring himself a cup of tea as he continued his litany.

“Status is everything to Crisabelle,” Teggert explained. “When she married Wilem, his mother was the Mistress of Enlightenment, a member of the Quorum, and a candidate for First Sister. Being kin to the First Sister was something.” R’shiel nodded. Teggert had no idea how well R’shiel could attest to that fact. “It’s no help, either, that more than one of the officers stationed here at the Grimfield have married their court’esa when they were released from their sentence. And Mahina seems to find their company delightful. She even invites them for tea! Some days, I think Wilem actually envies the prisoners.”

“It sounds very... awkward,” R’shiel agreed, not sure if her opinion was even called for or if Teggert merely liked the sound of his own voice.

“Aye, it is, lassie. But you just keep your nose clean and stay out of trouble, and you’ll be fine. How long did you get?”

“Ten years.”

“Ooh! You must have been a bad girl. You’re going to be here a good long while then.”

Not if I have any say in the matter, R’shiel added silently.

Wilem called for R’shiel later that evening. She had not seen Mahina, but Teggert had taken her a tray before he served Wilem and Crisabelle their dinner, so she knew the old woman was here. She entered Wilem’s study with her head lowered, hoping he would not remember her. After all, she had been a mere Probate and he was a high-ranking Defender. Their paths had rarely crossed in the Citadel.

She was wearing an old red skirt, which had once belonged to Crisabelle, although even with the waist pulled in and the hem obviously let down it still barely reached her ankles. Her blouse was also one of Crisabelle’s castoffs, and it sat far more loosely on her slender frame than it had on Crisabelle’s ample bosom. Her long auburn hair was braided down her back, and her slender arms bore several quite nasty, days-old bruises.

Wilem stood before the crackling fireplace, hands clasped behind him, unconsciously “at ease.”

“What is your name, girl?”

“R’shiel of Haven, sir,” she said with a small curtsy. Not R’shiel Tenragan. R’shiel of Haven.

“R’shiel!” he gasped. It was obvious he recognized her. In his shock, he barely even noticed that her face bore the fading remnants of even more bruises. “Why have you been sent here?”

“I ran away from the Citadel. And I was involved with Tarja’s escape, sir,” R’shiel answered honestly. There was no point in trying to lie to Wilem.

“But your mother...”

“Joyhinia is not my mother. I’m a foundling.”

The Commandant studied her curiously. “So you’re not Jenga’s child, either?”

“I’m nobody’s child, apparently.”

“I didn’t realize who you were this morning when I singled you out. When young Dace reminded me that Crisabelle was looking for a servant, I picked you because you were the youngest. You were the least likely to be a hardened criminal. I hope you appreciate your good fortune.”

Good fortune was definitely a relative term, R’shiel thought. “I’ll try not to let you down, sir.”

“You were always reputed to be a bright girl. Prove it and stay clear of Tarja. Perhaps, if you conduct yourself well here, you may be able to return to the Citadel one day.”

“Not while Joyhinia is First Sister, Commandant.”

“You are not the only one who shares that fate, child,” he said, then shook his head as if pushing away his own disappointment. The subject obviously closed, he studied her for a moment, then frowned. “Where did you get those bruises? On the trip here? Or at the Citadel?”

Wilem waited for her answer. Had he guessed what had happened to her? R’shiel did not take the chance he offered her. She would settle her score with Loclon in her own way.

“I tripped over, sir,” she said.

Wilem sighed. “Then you will need to be more careful in the future, won’t you?” He appeared uncomfortable for being too craven to force the issue and find out what had really happened. “If you continue to please my wife, then I will see that your sentence here is as comfortable as I can make it.”

“Thank you, sir. May I go now?”

“You may, but let me offer you some advice. As my wife’s servant you will have more freedom than most, but stay clear of the Women’s Hall and the Barracks. I will do my best to see that you remain unmolested, but I would prefer not to do it after the fact. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“As I’m sure you know, my mother lives with us,” he added. “She is now simply a retired Sister and you will treat her with the respect you would treat any Sister, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You may go.”

R’shiel returned to the kitchen to ask Teggert where she would be sleeping. Although unsophisticated, the residence was large, and she was foolish enough to hope that her accommodation would be a bedroom, not a cell. As she opened the door that led from the hall into the kitchen, she heard voices. Teggert was gossiping again, this time about L’rin and from the little R’shiel overheard, her tragic but well-publicized love life.

As she stepped into the warmth of the kitchen, Teggert’s companion leaped to his feet.

“There! You see! Aren’t I clever?” he announced with a beaming smile. He looked to be about fourteen or fifteen, with a shock of sandy hair, clear blue eyes, and a wardrobe that could only be described as motley. “I told them I could help.”

Teggert nodded patiently. “Yes, you’re very clever. R’shiel, this is Dace. He is the one you have to blame for your appointment here. You may want to wait a few days before you decide whether to thank him or throttle him, though.”

“Hello, Dace,” she said and then added curiously, “Who did you tell you could help me?”

The boy’s eyes reflected a fleeting moment of panic before he recovered himself and shrugged. “Oh, nobody. Just some friends. You know...”

“Pay no attention to him, R’shiel,” Teggert warned. “Dace is an inveterate liar and an accomplished thief. He’s probably committed more crimes than half the prisoners in the Grimfield put together.”

The boy seemed to swell with pride. “Teggert, you say the nicest things.”

She smiled at Dace before turning to Teggert. “Do you know where I’ll be sleeping?”

“In there,” Teggert said, pointing to a door leading off the kitchen. “It’s not much, but it’s warm in winter. Come summer, it’s unbearable, I’m afraid.”

Come summer, I’ll be long gone, R’shiel promised herself.

chapter 34

“Mistress Khira?”

Brak glanced up at the bearded man who had called Khira’s name, noticing with relief that he was a captain. They were waiting among the other petitioners – free and prisoner alike – in the cold anteroom of the Commandant’s office for the fifth morning in a row to see Wilem for permission to practice as a physic in the prison town. Brak was dressed as a servant, his eyes suitably downcast. His companion wore an expression of annoyance. A middle-aged woman with a sensible head on her shoulders, she had been a surprising choice to accompany him to the Grimfield. Padric’s good sense triumphing over Ghari’s hot-blooded need for vengeance, he had decided.

“Yes?”

“I’m Captain Mysekis,” the Defender told her. “I must apologize for the delay, my Lady. It has only just come to our attention that you are a physic.”

“I have been trying to see the Commandant for almost a week. If I don’t see him soon, I shall take my services elsewhere!”

“That really won’t be necessary, Mistress,” Mysekis said. “I shall take you to see him immediately.”

Khira nodded and rose to her feet. “I should think so!”

She beckoned Brak to follow as she walked with Mysekis down a narrow polished corridor until the captain knocked on a closed door and opened it without waiting for an answer. Khira swept into the room with a commanding stride and glared at Wilem.

“You are the Commandant of this place?” she asked.

“I am, Mistress,” Wilem replied, rising to his feet. “And you are?”

“Mistress Khira Castel,” she replied, taking a seat uninvited and indicating with an imperious wave of her hand that Wilem and Mysekis could sit. “This is my manservant, Brak. I am a physic and an herbalist, and I wish to establish a practice in this town. I have been informed by the tavern owner that I need your permission to do so. Is that correct?”

“It is, my Lady,” Wilem told her, a bit puzzled. He obviously didn’t have too many petitioners actually wanting to stay in the Grimfield.

“Isn’t there a woman in charge?” Khira asked. “A Sister I could speak with?”

Brak cringed a little at the question. Khira was pushing her luck.

“In the Grimfield, I am responsible,” Wilem explained. “By order of the First Sister and the Quorum of the Sisterhood.”

“I see. Then may I assume I have your... permission...” the physic almost choked on the word, “to open a practice in this town?”

“May I inquire why you would choose such a place, my Lady?”

“The people here need me. A simple walk down the main street could tell you that. And—”

“And?” Wilem prompted, casting a glance at Mysekis who had remained standing at the back of the room. He responded with a confused shrug.

“Can I rely upon your discretion, Commandant?”

“Of course, my Lady. Nothing said in this office will go any further.”

Khira took a deep breath. “I had a small problem. In Testra. I chose to help a number of young women dispose of unwanted pregnancies. Unfortunately, the Physics’ Guild in that city is sadly lacking in compassion or common sense.” Khira waited for her announcement to have its full impact before she continued. “As you can imagine, such a situation makes it difficult for one of my profession.”

“I can see that.”

“Obviously, I am unable to establish myself in any town of note. Here, in the Grimfield, I thought that such a... history might not present a problem.” She lifted her chin proudly. “I am a skilled physic, Commandant, and I do not see that my past actions should affect my ability to minister to those in need.”

“I agree, my Lady.” The Commandant couldn’t believe his luck. No physic wanted to come to the Grimfield. To have one actually volunteer was an unheard-of gift. “In fact, I welcome you. We have been sorely in need of someone of your skills for some time.”

“Then I assume I may set up my practice as soon as I find suitable premises?”

“Of course! If you want for anything, please ask the captain here. He will ensure that you have everything you need.”

“Thank you, Commandant,” Khira said, rising from her chair. Then she cocked her head curiously. “What is that racket?”

They all stopped and listened for a moment as the sound of raised voices grew louder. Brak thought Wilem must know the rhythm of the town like his own heartbeat. The commotion seemed to be coming from the rear of the building. With a concerned glance at each other, the Commandant and Mysekis excused themselves and rushed from the office.

Khira looked at Brak. “What’s going on?”

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

They followed the Defenders to the rear of the building and out into the chilly winter sunlight. Thirty or more men, Defenders and prisoners together, stood in a circle, shouting encouragement to a pair of brawlers who were rolling in the dusty yard, bloodied and bruised. Brak had no idea who the smaller man was, but he appeared to have gotten the worst of the fight. The other combatant was Tarja. Brak stepped back into the shadows gently drawing a glamor around himself to avoid recognition and watched as Wilem and Mysekis pushed through the crowd.

Brak winced as Tarja leaped to his feet and delivered a massive, two-handed blow to the side of the other man’s head as he struggled to rise, sending the man flying unconscious into the arms of several spectators. From the mood of the crowd, it was obvious they had been on the loser’s side. Tarja stood warily in the middle of the circle, his eyes blazing, waiting for someone else to take him on. He had a cut over one eye and his chest was heaving, but he looked fit enough to defeat anyone foolish enough to get within reach.

“Enough!” Wilem bawled, as much to the spectators as to Tarja. “Get him out of here,” he ordered Mysekis, pointing at the unconscious man. “See what our new physic can do for him. As for the rest of you, get back to work this instant, or you’ll all be facing punishment.”

The crowd disbanded with remarkable speed, leaving only Tarja, a sergeant, and another prisoner. Khira hurried to the unconscious prisoner and began checking his wounds. The sergeant had the decency to look contrite.

“What happened here, Lycren?”

“We was havin‘ a break when Grafe’s work detail came back from the stables, sir. He started mouthin’ off ‘bout Tarja bein’ a traitor. Tarja just flew at him! I couldn’t stop him!”

Brak was quite sure Lycren was telling the truth. Tarja was a big man and a better-trained fighter than most other men he knew. Had he taken it into his head to defend his honor, the sergeant would have had little hope of holding him back. Wilem turned to the rebel, and Brak was relieved to see the bloodlust fading from his eyes.

“Defending their honor is a privilege reserved for men who have some.”

Tarja’s eyes narrowed at the insult, but he made no move toward the Commandant. Brak could see the defiance there, lurking just below the surface. Tarja was likely to be a major problem for Wilem if that raw spirit wasn’t broken soon, something of an inconvenience for Brak if it was.

“I will not tolerate brawling among the prisoners. The standard punishment is five lashes. See to it, Lycren.”

“You think five lashes is going to keep me happily hauling shit?” Tarja’s fists were clenched at his sides, his knuckles white.

“Ten lashes,” Wilem replied. “Care to try for twenty?”

Tarja stared at the Commandant for a few moments, before he consciously relaxed his stance. “Ten lashes will be fine,” he said.

Brak had no doubt that Tarja had chosen not to force the issue. There was no fear in his eyes. He had not backed down because he was afraid of the lash. Brak strengthened the glamor as Tarja moved away, not wanting to provoke another outburst. Tarja would not be pleased to see him, he knew, and the time was not yet right for him to make his presence known.

News that Tarja had been spared the noose reached the rebels in Testra while the disgraced Defender was still in transit for the prison town. The seeds of doubt planted by Lord Draco had done their work on the rebels. Even worse, the Defenders began rounding up rebels whose sympathy for the cause was a well-kept secret. Only one man could have known the identity of so many of their number. By the time news reached them that Tarja still lived and had been sentenced to a mere five years at the Grimfield, the rebels were certain he had betrayed them. The sentence was a joke. Tarja had committed high treason. He should have been tortured and then publicly hanged, his head left to rot over the gates of the Citadel as a warning to others who thought to follow the same course. The rebels were too familiar with the Defenders’ methods to believe that he had suffered at their hands. It was further proof of his treachery.

The rebels called a meeting and passed their own sentence. Tarja would die, they declared. The more slowly and painfully the better, Ghari amended. Brak heard the news with mixed feelings. He did not want the man to die, but he suspected the first thing Tarja would do the next time they met was try to kill him.

It was with some relief that Brak learned R’shiel had also been sentenced to the Grimfield. She was long gone from the vineyard by the time he realized she had run away and even the gods had ignored his pleas for help in locating her. Kalianah did not visit him again, and Maera was too vague to be of any use. He cursed Kalianah’s interference and his own ineptitude. He had been so certain Mandah was the one he sought, he refused to see the truth about R’shiel. Even if her unusual height or her dark red, té Ortyn hair had not alerted him, her anger should have. He knew what it was to burn with a rage that sought any outlet it could find. If he had not been so blind, he could have picked it a league away. He had made the mistake of thinking the demon child would be Harshini, when in fact, the one she resembled most was himself – a half-breed hungering for a balance between two irreconcilable natures.

The only way to find R’shiel and ensure Tarja’s sentence wasn’t carried out was to volunteer for the job of assassin himself, hence his arrival in the Grimfield with Khira. Padric did not entirely trust him, although rescuing Ghari and his friends from the Defenders in Testra had gone a long way to easing the old man’s mind. He had argued that he couldn’t just ride into the Grimfield and run a sword through Tarja, who would be guarded for fear of that very thing. Mandah had agreed that the only way to be certain was to send someone to the Grimfield to investigate. Besides, she thought Tarja should be given a chance to explain, but then Mandah was like that. She tended to think the best of everyone.

The physic Khira had volunteered her services, and their mission had been set. Khira had not lied to Wilem about the reason she left Testra. She really had been expelled from the Physics’ Guild for performing illegal abortions. Unfortunately for Khira, her customers had mostly been poor young women from provincial towns. The Sisterhood professed an extreme abhorrence to the practice, but any Probate or Novice who found herself in the same situation was dealt with quietly and efficiently by the physics at the Citadel.

Grafe had regained consciousness by the time Lycren led Tarja and his fellow prisoner away. Khira fished out a small packet of herbs for the man’s concussion and ordered bed rest and a poultice for his bruises. Mysekis had the man taken away and smiled at Khira before returning inside. Brak recognized the look he gave her and rolled his eyes. Khira was a handsome woman, with thick, dark hair and a comely figure. Brak released the glamor and walked over to Khira wondering if she reciprocated the captain’s obvious admiration. One look at her expression and he doubted it. Khira hated the Defenders. If Mysekis made a move on her he was likely to get much more than he bargained for.

“So that was Tarja,” Khira remarked as she closed her bag and dusted off her skirt.

“In the flesh,” Brak agreed.

“He’s in pretty good shape for a man supposedly tortured in the Citadel,” Khira noted sourly. “I’ve treated men the Defenders have questioned, and I can promise you, he shows no sign of it.”

“Well, never fear, Mistress Physic. Ten lashes should take the fight out of him.”

“He’ll probably be sent to me afterward. You could... you know, do it then.” For a woman sworn to protect life, she was pretty anxious to see Tarja’s snuffed out.

“Let’s not be hasty,” Brak advised. “I would rather see him taken back to the others for a trial, wouldn’t you? That way everyone would see what happens to traitors.”

“I suppose you’re right,” she agreed.

“Of course I am.”

Khira nodded, albeit reluctantly. She was as bent on seeing Tarja brought to justice as Ghari, in her own way. Brak sighed with relief as they left the yard and headed back to the inn, reflecting on the irony of Tarja’s assassin going to so much trouble to keep him alive. But he wasn’t ready for Tarja to die.

Somewhere in this godforsaken place was R’shiel, and he had not found her yet.

chapter 35

News that Tarja was to receive the lash spread through the Grimfield faster than a summer squall. By the following morning, any number of the Grimfield citizens had found a reason to be in the Town Square, where such punishments were normally carried out. Tarja had been in the Grimfield for less than a month, but there was not a man or woman who did not know about him. The news about Tarja reached Crisabelle just after lunch on the day of the brawl. She spent the rest of the day deciding what to wear to a public lashing. Mahina made a few caustic comments about her daughter-in-law’s predilection for enjoying men in pain and announced that she did not intend to watch anybody being lashed. R’shiel thought the old woman sounded upset at the idea.

Mahina had changed since her impeachment, R’shiel decided. Although she still looked like a cuddly grandmother, these days there was a bitter edge to her voice more often than not. Her temper was short and her mood swings pronounced. The entire household tiptoed around her, except Crisabelle, who seemed oblivious to anything but herself.

Mahina’s reaction to R’shiel’s sentence had been shock, sympathy, and perhaps a little irony. Mahina had known of her true parentage, she told R’shiel. Jenga had given her the information the very day that Joyhinia had moved against her at the Gathering. But she had said nothing. Mahina had decided against using it to spare R’shiel the pain such a revelation would cause.

Whatever the reason for Mahina’s reticence in seeing Tarja punished, Crisabelle was delighted by the prospect of seeing the famous rebel publicly whipped. R’shiel was ordered to attend her, carrying a basket of smelling salts and other useful items, such as a perfumed handkerchief in case the smell of the prisoners overwhelmed her. Several pieces of fruit and a slice of jam roll were also included, in case watching a man screaming in agony stimulated one’s appetite. The vial of smelling salts was insurance against the sight of all that torn flesh making her feel faint. R’shiel was quite sure that anybody who packed a snack for a public whipping was highly unlikely to swoon at the sight of blood. Crisabelle hurried her out of the house the next morning dressed in a buttercup-yellow dress with a wide skirt and a large frill forming a V down the front of the bodice, R’shiel thought the dress was ghastly, but Crisabelle had decided it was just the thing for this sort of occasion.

The square was almost half-full when they arrived, but the crowd parted to allow Crisabelle through. She strutted up to the verandah of the Headquarters Building, where Wilem was going over a list with Mysekis. He glanced up at their approach, and his expression grew thunderous, before he composed his features into a neutral mien.

“What are you doing here?”

R’shiel hung back. She had no wish to see Tarja whipped and hoped that Wilem would send them home. But Crisabelle was determined to get full value from the morning’s entertainment. She ignored her husband and found herself a vantage point near the verandah railing. Wilem shook his head and turned his attention back to Mysekis.

It was not long before the four men who were to receive a lashing were brought out from the cells behind the Headquarters Building. All were bare-chested and shivering in the chill morning. With little ceremony, the first man was dragged to the whipping post, which was a tall log buried deep in the ground and braced at the base. A solid iron ring was set near the top of the post and the man’s hands were lashed to it with a stout hemp rope. Once his hands were tied, the guards kicked the prisoner’s feet apart and lashed each ankle to the bracing struts. As soon as the criminal was secure, Mysekis unrolled the parchment and read from it.

“Jiven Wainwright. Five Lashes. Stealing from the kitchens.”

Once the charge was read, the officer who was to deliver the lashing stepped forward. R’shiel was not surprised to find it was Loclon. He was clutching the vicious-looking short-handled whip with numerous plaited strands of leather, finished with small barbed knots. The infamous Tail of the Tiger, it was called. The whip was supposed to deliver an excruciatingly painful blow in the hands of an expert. Simply by the way he was standing, R’shiel could tell that Loclon not only knew how to handle the whip, but would probably enjoy it.

The man at the post screamed even before the first blow fell and howled afresh with every crack of the whip. By the last blow he was sobbing uncontrollably. As the guards untied him he collapsed, then screamed as a bucket of saltwater was thrown over his bloody back. Two guards dragged him away, and the next victim was brought forward. Again, Mysekis consulted his list.

“Virnin Chandler. Five lashes. Brewing illegal spirits.”

The scene was repeated again, making R’shiel sick to her stomach. The crowd watched silently, an audible hiss accompanying every cracking blow. This one didn’t scream until the second blow, but he was almost as broken as the first man by the time the guards had untied him. They administered the same rough first aid to the second man, who bellowed as the saltwater hit his torn flesh, but he walked away without any assistance from the guards.

By the time the third man had been similarly dealt with, R’shiel was certain she was going to be sick. She had seen men whipped before. It was a common enough practice in the Citadel for minor crimes. But in the Citadel men were whipped with a single plaited lash and care was taken to cause pain rather than lasting damage. Loclon’s purpose seemed to be to inflict as much damage as possible.

As they brought Tarja forward, R’shiel glanced at Loclon and shuddered. His eyes were alight with pleasure, as he watched Tarja walk calmly toward the post. Rather than waiting to have his hands tied, Tarja reached up, gripped the ring with both hands, and braced his feet wide apart. Unused to such cooperation from their charges, the guards hesitated a moment before securing him with the hemp ropes.

“Tarjanian Tenragan. Ten lashes. Public brawling.”

A murmur ran through the crowd at the number of lashes to be administered. Ten was a rare punishment. Wilem was known as a fair man who doled out punishment for discipline, not entertainment. R’shiel glanced at Wilem and suddenly understood why Tarja was last. Loclon had already delivered fifteen blows with the deadly Tiger’s Tail. Wilem had put Tarja last to spare him a little, but while she appreciated Wilem’s gesture, she doubted it would do much good. For a moment, she let her eyes lose focus on the scene and she studied the auras around both men. Her strange and inexplicable gift was becoming increasingly easy to control. Tarja’s was clear but tinged with red, the only sign of the fear that he refused to display publicly. Loclon’s was fractured with black lines and dark swirling colors. The sight evoked unwanted memories in R’shiel as she recognized the pattern from her own torment at his hands. She wondered why nobody else could see this man for what he truly was. To her, it was so obvious, it was almost like a warning beacon shining over his head.

Silence descended on the crowd as Loclon stepped up and swung his arm back, expertly flicking the tails of the whip. The lash landed with an audible crack across Tarja’s back, and he flinched with the pain but gave no other sign of the agony he must be feeling. The next blow landed with similar force, raising a bloody welt across the first cut. Tarja remained silent, flinching with the pain but refusing to utter a sound. The silence continued as Loclon laid blow after blow across the rebel’s back, which soon became a bloody canvas of torn flesh and raw muscle. The crowd shared Tarja’s silence; it was as if they were collectively holding their breath, waiting for him to break. Loclon grew increasingly agitated. R’shiel recognized Loclon’s frustration. He had worn the same look when she had refused to scream for him.

The only noise that echoed through the Square was the sound of Loclon grunting with the effort of laying open Tarja’s back and the monotone voice of the sergeant who was counting off the blows. When he reached ten, Loclon raised his arm for another strike, but the sudden cheer from the crowd distracted him. They might despise him for a traitor, but they were willing to acknowledge Tarja’s courage. Loclon looked disappointed as the guards hurried forward to untie him and douse his bleeding back with the saltwater. Tarja finally allowed himself a loud yelp when the water hit him.

R’shiel was thoroughly sickened by the whole affair, but Crisabelle seemed quite exhilarated by it. She turned to the woman standing on the other side of her, a blue-robed Sister from one of the workhouses. She chattered on about what a lovely day it was for this sort of thing, although the wind was a bit nippy, and shouldn’t they put in some sort of seating for the spectators? R’shiel watched them lead Tarja away and wondered just how much willpower it was taking for him to stay on his feet.

“Get the physic to take a look at him,” Wilem told Mysekis as they led the rebel away.

“If your intention was to break him, then I doubt you succeeded.”

“We’ll not have any further trouble,” Wilem predicted. “Tarja has proved his point. He won back a measure of respect today.”

“Traitor or not, he certainly has mine,” Mysekis agreed. “I’ve never seen anyone take ten lashes without a whimper.”

“That’s the tragedy. He could have been a great man. Now he’s nothing more than a common criminal.”

R’shiel listened to the private conversation thoughtfully as she waited for Crisabelle to finish her discussion with the Sister, watching the crowd disperse. They were hugely impressed by Tarja’s courage, and, as Wilem had predicted, much less ambivalent toward him. She glanced across the square and spied Dace with L’rin, the tall blonde tavern owner, watching the proceedings. The man standing with them gave R’shiel pause.

It was Brak. He was the last person she expected to find in the Grimfield. He refused to meet her eye, but R’shiel was suddenly certain that he had not been watching the lashing. He had been watching her.

chapter 36

The first few weeks of R’shiel’s sentence passed so quickly she could barely credit it. Life settled down in a surprisingly short time, disturbed only by Crisabelle’s idiotic demands and occasional but disturbing brushes with Loclon. Each incident served only to strengthen her resolve to escape, preferably leaving Loclon dead in her wake.

She would sometimes watch the work gangs being marched out to the mines, which were located in the foothills about a league from the town. The men appeared universally miserable. They worked long shifts, breaking down the rock face with heavy sledge hammers, while others, bent almost double with the weight of the load, carried the ore back to the huge, bullock-drawn wagons for the journey to the foundry at Vanahiem. The female convicts of the Grimfield fared marginally better. They were split into three basic groups: the laundry, the kitchens, and the court’esa. The laundry was back-breaking work; the kitchen, although cozy enough now, was unbearably hot in the long central plateau summers. And the court’esa – well, that didn’t even bear thinking about. R’shiel could still hardly believe her escape from such a fate. Dace’s timely reminder to Wilem that Crisabelle wanted another maid had, quite possibly, saved her life.

R’shiel quickly made herself indispensable to Crisabelle. She had taken to constantly reminding people that her maid was the First Sister’s daughter, ignoring the fact that R’shiel was not even permitted to use the name Tenragan anymore or claim any familial links with Joyhinia. R’shiel found the constant reminders irritating, but they reinforced Crisabelle’s belief that she had some link with the life she felt she should be leading rather than the one she was. Crisabelle blamed Mahina, not Joyhinia, for her current circumstances and rather than take her frustration out on R’shiel, she heaped all of her woes at her mother-in-law’s door.

Mahina was a different story, entirely. She was brusque on a good day, unbearable on others, but R’shiel liked the old woman almost as much as she secretly despised Crisabelle. They had developed a private bond, brought about by the shared burden of Crisabelle’s constant and frequently idiotic demands.

Mahina treated Crisabelle’s pretensions of grandeur with utter contempt and made a point of deflating her daughter-in-law at every opportunity. Nobody else in the Grimfield dared to challenge Crisabelle; most simply went out of their way to avoid her. Mahina had a wicked sense of humor and a keen eye for the absurdities of life. She even joked about her own fall from grace once in a while. R’shiel wished she had found a way to warn Mahina of Joyhinia’s plans to bring her down. Had Mahina never been impeached, her life would have taken a very different course.

With a sigh, R’shiel crossed the small village square and shifted the basket of laundry on her hip to a more comfortable position. Crisabelle invited selected officers and their wives to monthly formal dinner parties, which she loved, but everyone else, from the Commandant down, abhorred. No one in the Grimfield dared refuse an invitation. Wilem tolerated them for the sake of peace. Sitting down in his uncomfortable dress uniform once a month was vastly preferable to Crisabelle whining at him daily, and if he had to suffer it, so did his men.

Crisabelle was agonizing over the guest list, wondering who warranted a second invitation, who warranted a first, and who she could leave off without causing offense in the tight-knit community. Mahina helpfully offered her caustic advice for no other reason than to annoy her daughter-in-law. Crisabelle’s attire for the party was almost as big a decision as the guest list, hence her hurried order to R’shiel this morning to have all her good dresses cleaned so that she could choose at the last moment.

“One never knows how one is going to feel on the night, and one must be prepared for all eventualities,” Crisabelle had instructed her gravely this morning.

“Knowing implies a certain need for a brain,” Mahina had muttered, a comment which Crisabelle had loftily ignored.

R’shiel had orders to wait for the garments and to not let them out of her sight. Crisabelle didn’t trust those “thieving whores” in the laundry. She was then required to pick up a packet of herbs from the physic so that Crisabelle’s evening would not be ruined by one of her “heads.” Mahina had suggested loudly that with a head like that, it was no wonder it ached, at which point R’shiel had managed to escape the house. Mahina was in rare form today.

“Move along!”

R’shiel turned at the voice, stepped back against the wall of the tannery, and watched as another wagon load of prisoners trundled into the town square, as it had every week since she had been in the Grimfield. The wind was chill this morning, with winter almost over and spring doggedly trying to gain a foothold on the barren plains. They all looked desperate, she thought. Desperate and hopeless. She stopped and watched as Wilem emerged from the verandah of his office and the prisoners were lined up before him. As he had when she arrived, he glanced down the manifest, glanced at the prisoners, and gave the same orders. Send the men to the mine. Send the women to the Women’s Hall. Sometimes, when he had requests from various workhouses for personnel, he selected one or other of the convicts to be assigned elsewhere. The ritual varied little.

As the prisoners were dispatched, the small crowd of onlookers wandered away, and Wilem caught sight of her. He beckoned her to him. She crossed the square and bobbed a small curtsy.

“What are you doing out and about, young lady?” he asked.

“My Lady’s washing, sir. She wasn’t sure what to wear for the dinner party on Fourthday.”

Wilem rolled his eyes. “Well, you’d best be on your way then girl, not hanging about the square.”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed and hurried off in the direction of the Women’s Hall.

The Women’s Hall was actually a complex of low, gray, single-story buildings that housed the female convicts and their industries, including the laundry. R’shiel hurried through the main gate unchallenged by the guards, who knew her by sight at least, and wisely left Crisabelle’s maid strictly alone. R’shiel passed between the sleeping blocks, shivering as the shadows cut off the struggling winter sunshine. The distinct odor of lye soap hung in the still air as she crossed the small cobbled yard to the laundry to report to Sister Belda.

“My Lady wants these washed and pressed today and told me to wait for them,” R’shiel explained. The Sister was stick-thin and old. Belda was so unlike the elegant Sisters at the Citadel, it was hard to credit she was one of them at all. She glared with pale, worn-out eyes at R’shiel before ordering a girl in prison gray forward to take the basket from her.

“Well, you’re not waiting in here,” Belda snapped. “Come back after the noon break.”

R’shiel backed away from the old Sister and glanced around. Despite Crisabelle’s order not to let her dresses out of her sight, R’shiel knew whose orders carried the most weight in the laundry. Belda ruled the laundry like a Defender battalion. As there was no one else about – everyone had their assigned work to do – R’shiel slipped between the buildings to the court’esa quarters to see if she could find Sunny.

The court’esa normally slept during the day, but they frequently lazed around in the mornings and took their rest in the afternoons. Sunny could usually be found soaking up the meager sunlight after her evening’s labors, comparing notes with her cohorts. As she entered the small enclosure at the front of the sleeping quarters she found no sign of the plump little whore.

“Well if it ain’t the Probate,” Marielle called out, as R’shiel came into sight. “You here to invite us to the Ball, no doubt?”

Marielle, like most of the court’esa, envied R’shiel not at all. They considered a position under the constant scrutiny of the Commandant and his monstrous wife to be a dubious honor. Few of them would have traded places with her, even if offered the chance.

“I was looking for Sunny.”

Marielle jerked her head in the direction of the sleeping dorms. “She’s in there,” she said, her expression suddenly grim. “She’ll be glad to see you.”

The sleeping quarters were long, narrow buildings, with bunks three tiers high running down each side, leaving a narrow corridor in the center. Each bunk had a straw-filled mattress rolled up on the end, with the few possessions of their absent occupants stuffed inside. Light filtered in from an occasional barred window and a number of cracks in the walls where the weathered wood had split and never been repaired. R’shiel gagged momentarily on the smell as she hurried inside. Marielle’s tone only partly prepared her for what she found. Sunny was lying on her narrow wooden bunk, her face turned to the wall. R’shiel gently laid her hand on the court’esa’s shoulder and gasped as Sunny rolled over to face her. Her face was a battered mess and she flinched as R’shiel touched her, indicating many more bruises under her thin shift.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Unsatisfied customer.”

“Did you report him?”

Sunny struggled up onto her elbow and shook her head. “Girl, how long have you been here?”

“Sunny, the Commandant would see that he was punished. He would.”

“Now, you listen to me. You might be living the high life, but down here in the real world it doesn’t work like that.”

“Sunny, this is the third time this has happened to you. Why?” R’shiel had a bad feeling she already knew the answer.

The plump court’esa grinned, making her battered face even more distorted. “Maybe I’m losing my touch.”

“I could get you out of here. I could talk to Crisabelle or Mahina.”

Sunny flopped back onto the bed with a groan. “Forget it, R’shiel. I’m not working for those silly old cows. Drive me loony in a week.”

“Better loony than beaten up.”

“Maybe.” Sunny closed her eyes. “Look, I know you mean well, but I’m not like you. You got yourself fixed up real good here, so don’t go spoiling it on my account.”

“Do you want me to fetch Sister Prozlan?”

“Founders, no!” Sunny groaned. “Her cures are worse than the beatings. Besides, she’d probably throw me into the box just for being trouble.”

“Khira might come if I asked her. You need a physic.”

“Khira’d have to report it. You know the rules.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No. You just get along and stay out of trouble.”

R’shiel left her alone in the long cold building. When she emerged into the sunlight she sought out Marielle.

“Who did it?” she asked.

Marielle grimaced. “Who do you think?”

R’shiel nodded and walked slowly back toward the laundry. She knew who Marielle was talking about. Three times now, in as many weeks, Loclon had beaten Sunny. Three times, had Sunny reported him, Wilem could have had him charged, maybe even whipped. Each time Sunny bore the brunt of Loclon’s temper, it was on a day when R’shiel had thwarted his attempts to intimidate her.

The first time had been only days after her arrival in the Grimfield.

Loclon had been called to the house to meet with Wilem on some matter, and he had caught her coming down the stairs to the kitchen as he waited in the hall. The second time had been last week while on an errand for Crisabelle. Only the fortuitous appearance of Dace in the alley behind the physic’s shop had saved her then. R’shiel was certain that Sunny’s injuries this time were a direct result of her accidental meeting with Loclon yesterday. Crisabelle had sent her to the inn to collect a bottle of mead from L’rin that the tavern keeper had ordered for her from Port Sha’rin. Loclon had been in the taproom, drinking with several other officers when she arrived. He had called her over to his table, and she had ignored him. No, she hadn’t ignored him. She had deliberately snubbed him, which had brought howls of laughter from the other officers at his table. She did not know what Loclon had said to his companions before he hailed her, but her disdain had made him look a fool.

The guilt ate away at her like Malik’s Curse, the wasting disease that slowly consumed its victims by eating away at their internal organs. But just as there was no cure for the Curse, there was no easy way of sparing Sunny, or any other woman on whom Loclon chose to vent his frustration. Not if the alternative was to give in to him.

R’shiel collected Crisabelle’s laundry from Sister Belda just after noon and headed for the physic’s shop that was several streets away, still brooding over Sunny. Khira was a frequent visitor to the Commandant’s house. Crisabelle had been delighted to discover a physic in town and quickly added hypochondria to her list of annoying hobbies.

“Why so glum?”

The voice startled her. “Brak!”

“Ah, you remember me then. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten all about us.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I am Khira’s loyal manservant.” He fell in beside her and took the other handle of the wicker basket, sharing the weight between them.

R’shiel cast a wary eye over her companion. “You change occupations fairly often, don’t you? A sailor, a rebel, and now a manservant, all in the space of a year.”

“I get bored easily.”

“Don’t treat me like a fool, Brak.”

“I would never dream of it,” he promised. “So, how are you adjusting to life as a convict?”

“I don’t plan to be here long enough to adjust.”

He looked at her. “Just say the word, R’shiel. We can be gone from here anytime you want.”

“Gone?” she scoffed. “To where, Brak? Back to the vineyard so the rebels can put my eyes out for helping Tarja? Or was your next suggestion going to be that we help him escape, too?”

Brak did not answer. Instead, he helped her carry the basket to the verandah and called out for Khira. The physic emerged from the dim depths of the small shop, wiping her hands on her snowy apron and smiled when she saw R’shiel.

“Hello, R’shiel. What brings you here? Not sickening for something, are you?”

“Mistress Crisabelle wants some of that stuff you gave her last time for her headache.”

Khira exchanged a glance with Brak before she answered. “Time for the dinner party, is it? Well, you come inside and have a warm drink while I make it up.”

R’shiel followed Khira inside and sat down on a small stool near the cluttered counter while Khira fussed with jars and powders and a small set of scales, carefully measuring out the ingredients for the potion that cured her mistress’ “heads.” Brak disappeared into the back room and emerged a few moments later with a steaming cup of tea. R’shiel sipped it, looking about the small shop with interest. It was full of jars and dried plants and reminded her of Gwenell’s apothecary at the Citadel. She loved visiting Khira, just to sit in the shop and take in the smell. She wondered if the woman was a pagan, like Brak.

Brak placed another steaming cup near Khira. “I hear Loclon beat up a court'esa again,” he told the physic as she worked.

Khira looked up and frowned. “Someone should do something about that man.”

“It was Sunny, but she won’t report him,” R’shiel explained as she sipped her tea. “She’s afraid if she gets him into trouble, he’ll just get worse.” Footsteps sounded on the verandah outside, and she tensed at the sound. Strictly speaking, she was not allowed to stop and chat while on her errands. A figure appeared in the doorway, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thought I saw you heading this way. Hiding from the dragon lady?” Dace asked. R’shiel wasn’t even sure where Dace lived, but he was always around, tolerated by everyone with the same kind of affection one might show to a lovable stray puppy. R’shiel was well aware of the debt she owed the boy. If not for him her sentence would have been intolerable. However, Dace’s greatest talent was not his easygoing nature or his natural charm; it was the fact that he seemed to know everyone in the Grimfield and everything that happened, frequently before it actually did.

“Heard the news?”

“What news?” Brak asked.

“There’s gonna be trouble.”

“How do you know?” Khira asked, looking up from her scales.

Dace tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “I have my ways.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Same sort of trouble you always get when you lock people up,” Dace assured Brak. “We’re about due for another one.”

“What do you mean?” R’shiel asked.

“A riot, of course. The miners are getting restless again. They never actually achieve anything useful, but it’s sort of a moral imperative to try it at least once during your sentence. I guess some men think the chance at freedom is worth the risk of a whipping.”

“Doesn’t that make it harder on everybody else?” Khira asked as she tapped the herbal mixture carefully onto the scales.

“It does for a while,” Dace shrugged, leaning over the counter to see what Khira was doing. She slapped at his hand in annoyance, but he snatched it out of reach. “But life settles down again pretty quickly. You humans are funny like that.” The boy had the oddest turn of phrase sometimes.

“It’s none of our concern,” Brak said, giving Dace the strangest look.

“Well, you never know,” he said. “Maybe this time the wrong Defender will get in the way, and they’ll do some good before they’re caught.”

“Exactly who did you have in mind?” Brak asked. R’shiel was puzzled by his tone. What could Dace do, she wondered, that would worry the older man so?

“Loclon would be a good start,” R’shiel muttered darkly.

“Has he been bothering you, too?”

R’shiel laughed bitterly. “I suppose you could call it that.”

“Then why don’t you report him?” Khira asked with a frown.

“Yeah, why don’t you?” Dace asked.

“R’shiel, Loclon is an animal,” Khira said seriously. “I saw the way he wielded that lash. He was enjoying himself. If you’ve got something on him, then do everyone a favor and tell the Commandant.”

“No.”

“What about Sunny?” Dace persisted. “Don’t you want him to pay for what he’s done to her? And what about what he did to you?”

R’shiel looked at Dace sharply. “I never said he did anything to me.”

“You don’t have to. I can tell just by the way you stiffen every time someone mentions his name.”

“I do not!” she protested.

“You do, too, but that’s beside the point. Why don’t you turn him in?”

R’shiel sighed. “You know what happens to prisoners who betray anyone, even a bent Defender like Loclon. My life wouldn’t be worth living. Look at Tarja. He’s guarded night and day just to keep him alive, and they only think he betrayed the rebellion.”

“You mean he didn’t?” Brak asked. Khira looked suddenly alert, too.

“Don’t be absurd, Brak,” she snapped. “He never said a word, even when they tortured him in the Citadel. He would never betray his friends.”

Annoyed, R’shiel tried to stand up, but Dace pushed her down. “Look, no one in this place is going to lose any sleep if Loclon swings.”

“That’s the problem, Dace,” R’shiel said. “Hanging is far too quick for Loclon. He needs to suffer. Suffer a lot.”

Khira seemed a little taken aback by the savagery of R’shiel’s reply.

“Fine, let Wilem make him suffer.”

“Wilem wouldn’t know how to. Look, I have to get back. Crisabelle will be having a fit by now.” Dace stood back and let her go. Khira handed her the packet of herbs with an odd expression. Tucking the packet in her shirt, she turned back as she reached the entrance to the shop. “Thanks anyway, Dace, but I’ll deal with Loclon. In my own way.”

chapter 37

Dismal gray clouds were building up over the back of the Hallowdeans in the distance as Brak made his way to the Inn of the Hopeless after R’shiel’s visit to the shop. Going the long way around the square to avoid passing the Defenders’ Headquarters, he glanced skyward and decided it would probably rain again tonight.

Mysekis had been after him for several days now. Mysekis wanted to know if there was anything between Brak and Khira. The captain often found a reason to drop into the shop, but Brak had neither the time nor the inclination to play matchmaker. Besides, Khira had an abiding dislike for the Defenders. Her facade would crumble in a moment if Mysekis started making serious eyes at her. It was a complication he did not need. Only the ambiguity of his relationship with the physic had kept the captain at bay thus far. The simple solution would have been to admit that there was a relationship, but Brak had his own reasons for not wishing to confirm or deny the rumor, not the least of which was the buxom innkeeper L’rin. He was, after all, half-human.

Brak suspected Mysekis would be at home for lunch, but he didn’t want to run the risk of bumping into someone who would make him wait at the Headquarters Building for the captain’s return. He skirted the square and slipped down a narrow alley into a muddy lane where the garbage wagon stood forlornly as two prisoners emptied the rotting garbage from the rear yards of the shops into the wagon. A miserable-looking mule was hitched to the wagon, held by Sergeant Lycren, in the unlikely event that the mule had either the energy or inclination to bolt. “Ho, friend!” Lycren called with a lazy wave. “And just what are you up to? Sneakin‘ around the back alleys like a convict.”

Lycren scratched idly at his unshaven chin as he watched his prisoners working further up the alley. Both men were stripped to the waist and sweating, even in the feeble sunshine that straggled into the lane. The larger of the two men was a double-murderer named Zac, and the other was Tarja. Brak took a step backward into the shadows. To his knowledge, Tarja was not aware he was in the Grimfield, and he planned to keep it that way as long as possible.

He made an excuse for his haste to Lycren before hurrying down the lane in the opposite direction and slipping through the wooden gate at the back of the inn. He let himself in through the kitchen, snatching a freshly baked bun as he strolled through, waving to the angry cook who yelled at him. Tossing the hot bread from hand to hand he entered the dim taproom. Several Defenders, their uniforms crumpled and unbuttoned, sat near the window in the weak sunlight, hunched over their ale, waiting for lunch to settle. Brak ignored them and walked up the stairs, biting into the bun and burning his tongue in the process.

At the end of the long hall Brak stopped and knocked on the solid wooden door. The hall was gloomy and quiet at this time of day. Most of the inn’s guests would be out and about their business. The lunch crowd had departed, so this was about as quiet a time as any there was in the Inn of the Hopeless.

The door opened a crack. “It’s me,” he said softly. L’rin opened the door with an inviting smile, stepped backed as he slipped in, locking the door behind him.

L’rin’s room was the largest in the Tavern besides the taproom. Huge, multipaned windows let in filtered sunlight through the layer of dust and grime that coated everything in the Grimfield. The room was both L’rin’s office and bedroom. A large cluttered desk stood under one window, and beside it stood a huge locked chest where she kept the takings from the inn. The bed was a heavy four-poster with rich blue velvet drapes and snowy white rumpled sheets over a thick down mattress. Brak reclined on the bed, the sheets pulled up to his waist, his naked chest as sculpted as a marble statue.

A knock at the door sent L’rin scurrying around the room to get dressed. Although Brak was certain she had locked it, the door opened a fraction, and a blonde head appeared in the crack. Dace glanced at L’rin, who looked rumpled and more than a little guilty, her thick honeycolored hair in total disarray and her gown slipping down over one broad shoulder.

“Did I interrupt something?”

“You’re late,” Brak snapped, although he was neither surprised nor entirely displeased by the fact.

“Good thing, by the look of you two,” Dace remarked with a grin. “You are looking particularly lovely today, L’rin.”

“Thank you, Dace,” L’rin said, actually blushing from the compliment, as she turned to her dresser and began to straighten her hair. It took her only a moment to arrange it to her satisfaction, and she turned to Brak. “I have to be getting back downstairs. Don’t come down straight away. People might talk.”

Brak nodded and waited until she had left the room before turning on Dace, who was smiling angelically.

“You have been blessed by Kalianah, the Goddess of Love,” Dace remarked.

“And cursed by Dacendaran, the God of Thieves,” Brak added sourly. “What are you doing here?”

The God of Thieves shrugged. “Helping.”

“How exactly are you helping?”

Dace sat himself down on the stool in front of L’rin’s dressing table. “You know, you really should be a bit more respectful, Brakandaran. I am a god, after all.”

“You’re a Primal God. You don’t need respect. A bit of common sense, maybe, but not respect.”

Brak had received quite a start when he realized Dacendaran had taken up residence in the Grimfield. It made sense, when he thought about it. The Grimfield probably had the highest concentration of thieves anywhere on the continent, and Dacendaran needed no temples or priests to worship him. He just needed thieves. The Sisterhood would have been mortified to think that a god resided among them.

True to his nature, Dacendaran was a slippery character, and this meeting had taken some time to arrange. This was Brak’s first chance to speak with him alone since Dace had appeared on the verandah of the tavern to watch Tarja being whipped, and Brak was a little surprised he had shown up at all.

“According to R’shiel, Tarja didn’t betray the rebellion at all,” Dace said, swinging his legs under the stool and looking for all the world like an innocent child. “Are you still going to kill him?”

Brak folded his arms above his head against the headboard. “Who said I was going to kill him?”

“I’m a god, Brak, not an idiot. Why else would you be here with another rebel? To save him? You forget that I’m something of an expert on the baser side of human nature. And you are rather unique, you know.”

Brak frowned. He didn’t need to be reminded of what set him apart from the rest of the Harshini.

“Of course, you should be thinking about the demon child,” Dace continued, ignoring the look Brak gave him. “Not dillydallying about pretending to be a rebel assassin. Why do you suppose they call her the demon child? It’s not as if the demons actually had anything to do—”

“Don’t get sidetracked,” Brak cut in. “You know who it is, don’t you?”

Dace looked a little annoyed. “Well, of course I do! You don’t think I couldn’t tell a té Ortyn Harshini from a human, do you? And there’s only one outside of Sanctuary. I’m not supposed to get involved though. Zeggie would be really mad at me.”

“Zegarnald?” Brak asked with a frown. “Why does the God of War care so much about the demon child?”

Dace bit at his bottom lip. He looked more like a child accused of mischief than a god. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s a god thing.”

“A god thing?” Brak repeated incredulously.

“You know what I mean.”

“I have no idea,” Brak replied. “Enlighten me, Oh Divine One.”

Dace sighed. “Xaphista has to be destroyed. The demon child is the only one who can do that.”

“You could just dispose of him yourselves, you know.”

“Of course we couldn’t! What would happen if the gods started killing each other? Honestly, Brak, you are so human sometimes!”

“Honestly? Now there’s a word I don’t often associate with you.”

Dace pouted. “You’re really not making this easy for us.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Well, you are,” Dace explained. “Sort of. Well... maybe not you personally, but it’s what you represent.”

“You are not making any sense, Dacendaran,” Brak said impatiently.

“Well, you know that when we created the Harshini we gave the té Ortyn line the ability to channel our combined power, just in case we ever needed it? Then we made the Harshini afraid of killing so that they couldn’t turn on us. But where we really mucked up was by giving them a conscience. Not you, of course, but the rest of them. It’s really proving to be rather awkward.”

“How is that awkward?” Brak asked, ignoring the god’s assertion that he was not burdened with a conscience. This was the God of Thieves. He probably meant it as a compliment.

“It makes them worry, don’t you see? Korandellen is going gray worrying if the demon child is a force for good or evil. We don’t care. We just want Xaphista gone. Zeggie thinks that Korandellen sent you to find her, hoping that if you don’t like what you find, you’ll destroy her.”

Brak didn’t answer immediately, aware that there was more than a grain of truth in Dacendaran’s concern.

“So you decided to help?”

Dace nodded, brightening a little. “I’m looking out for her. I don’t think she’s evil. Actually, she’s kind of sweet. She’s not a thief, of course, but no human is perfect.”

“I’m not going to kill her, Dace. Korandellen asked me to take her to Sanctuary, that’s all.”

“But you can’t!” Dace pleaded. “Suppose he doesn’t like her?”

“Korandellen is Harshini. He likes everyone. He can’t help it. That’s why they hired me, remember? And I don’t have a conscience, according to you.”

The God of Thieves thought that over for a moment before nodding brightly. “Well, that’s all right then. When do we leave?”

Brak was not entirely pleased with the idea that Dace had invited himself along. “Were you serious about the trouble brewing among the miners?”

“I’m the God of Thieves, not Liars. Of course it’s true.”

“Then we’ll use that for our cover. When they make their move, we’ll make ours.”

“What about Tarja?”

“What about him? I’m only concerned about R’shiel. Right now, she’s the most important person in the whole world.”

“Kalianah will be mad at you if you don’t bring him along.”

“I can deal with Kalianah.”

Dace looked skeptical. “Well, I still wouldn’t risk it, if I were you.”

“Your concern is touching, Divine One.”

The god scowled at him. “You know, Brak, sometimes I think you don’t hold the gods in very high esteem.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” he asked.

chapter 38

Tarja dumped the load of vegetable scraps and other unidentifiable matter into the back of the mule-drawn wagon, forcing himself not to gag. They collected the garbage from the Inn of the Hopeless and the other stores in Grimfield whenever the mood took Lycren rather than on any set schedule. Since it was nearly a month since the last time Lycren had felt in the mood, the leavings had had plenty of time to ferment into an odoriferous, cockroach-infested sludge. Tarja swung the heavy barrel down to the ground and glanced up, feeling himself being watched. A young, fair-haired lad stood near the cellar doors watching him with interest. Tarja wondered about the boy. He seemed to turn up in the most unusual places.

“Get a move on, Tarja!” Lycren called.

Tarja glared at the boy as he straightened up. He hated being stared at. Anger, buried deep inside for survival, threatened to surface again. Only once had he made the mistake of letting it show. The lashing he had received as a consequence had done little to humble him, but it had taught him to control his temper. The pain had not bothered him nearly so much as the knowledge that he had let a fool provoke him.

As they moved out of the tavern yard and headed for the smithy farther down the lane, Tarja wondered about the boy. It was not inconceivable that he had contacts in the rebellion. The Grimfield was full of convicted heathens, both real and imagined. Had they sent the boy to spy on him? To confirm that he was still alive? He wondered sometimes how well his fellow rebels had listened to what he had tried to teach them, the foremost of which was never, ever, let a traitor go unpunished. Tarja had spent the winter half-expecting a knife in the back, every time he found himself in a crowd of prisoners. Lycren saw to it that he was segregated for the most part, but at meal times in particular he knew how much danger he was in. It was with mild surprise that Tarja realized how long he had survived in this place. He had not expected to live through the journey here.

Tarja’s thoughts turned to the rebels he had left behind. Old Padric, worn out and weary from years of fighting against impossible odds. Mandah, with her ardent faith in the gods. Ghari, so young and passionate. Where was he now? Still fighting? Killed in a skirmish with the Defenders? Or maybe he had given up and returned to his mother’s farm in the Lowlands. Was he one of the names on Joyhinia’s infamous list? Tarja seethed with frustration as he thought of the rebels. He was doing nothing here. He was not likely to either, collecting the garbage and emptying the privies of the garrison town. Each day he spent here in the Grimfield ate a little more out of his store of hope. Tarja knew he would have to do something before it was all gone.

One of the few advantages – possibly the only one – of being assigned to the garbage patrol was that Tarja was allowed to bathe daily, unlike the miners, who were only allowed the privilege once a week. Being allowed to wash away the stink of rotting food and other despicable decaying matter was the only thing that made his work detail tolerable. Many a time he had wished Wilem had sent him to the mines, where he could have taken out his anger with a sledgehammer on the rock face. He shivered in the chill of the dusk, his skin covered in goose pimples from the icy water, as he rubbed himself briskly with the scrap of rough cloth he used as a towel and glanced up at the sky. Angry gray clouds stained red and bloody flocked around the sun as it cowered behind the foothills until it could finally escape into the night. As he dressed in his rough prison uniform, Tarja glanced at Zac, who was attempting to dry his shaggy head with a saturated towel.

“It’ll rain again tonight,” he remarked.

“S’pose,” Zac agreed.

In almost two months, he could not recall Zac putting more than two words together at a time. The big, taciturn murderer was a good companion for a man who wished to answer no questions. Together they walked to the gate where Fohli, Lycren’s corporal, waited for them. He locked the gate behind them and escorted the prisoners across the compound to the kitchens. The garbage detail was always fed last, and out of habit, Tarja and Zac sank down onto the ground to wait their turn at a meal. The compound was busy in the dusk as the prisoners from the mines and the various workhouses were fed in shuffling lines. Tarja watched them idly, not paying attention to anyone in particular, until he spied R’shiel walking purposefully across the compound toward the kitchens, her gray shawl clutched tight around her shoulders against the cold.

The sight of R’shiel reminded Tarja even more painfully of the mess they had made of their lives. She did not belong here in the Grimfield among the dregs of Medalon, spared a life as a barracks court’esa only by sheer good fortune. He had spoken to her only a handful of times since they had arrived and always in the company of Zac or a guard. Unless she happened to be in the yard when they came round to collect the garbage, he never even saw her from one week to the next. He wanted to know how she was doing. He needed to assure himself that the journey here had not destroyed her. His frustration was almost a palpable thing, bitter enough to taste.

He watched R’shiel as she walked toward him, wondering if she knew how beautiful she was. She carried herself in the manner of one unaware of her effect on others. Tarja had expected himself to be immune to her allure, but every time he caught sight of R’shiel, even from a distance, he was startled by the effect she had on him. It was an odd feeling he could not define. It wasn’t desire, or even simple lust. It was just the strangest feeling that to be near her, to be noticed by her, would be a very pleasant thing indeed. It had been creeping up on him ever since that night in the vineyard. Despite everything that had happened since, she was always somewhere in his thoughts.

R’shiel was looking around as she approached them. Not finding the object of her search, she turned to Fohli.

“Have you seen Sunny Hopechild?” she asked.

“Lost her, have you?” Fohli replied, with vast disinterest.

“She was supposed to report to the Commandant’s house an hour ago. She’s been reassigned.”

“She’ll turn up. Them court’esa are too smart to duck an order like that. You’ll be in trouble yourself if you don’t get back before dark.”

“Will you send her along if you see her?” she asked, looking around in the rapidly fading light. “She’s about this tall, with blonde hair.”

“Sure,” Fohli promised. The corporal would promise anything provided he didn’t actually have to put himself out to keep his word.

In a slash of yellow light, Sister Unwin, her round face flushed from the heat of the stoves, emerged from the kitchen to survey the lines of prisoners waiting for their dinner. She glared at R’shiel and marched across the compound, planting herself in front of the girl with her hands on her wide hips. Her blue skirt was dusted with a faint sheen of flour, and there was a smudge of something on her chin.

“And just what do you think you’re doing here, girl? Does Mistress Crisabelle know you’re gallivanting about town at this hour of the day, flirting with the guards?”

“Mistress Crisabelle sent me to look for her new seamstress.”

“Well, she’s not here. You get along back where you belong and don’t let me catch you hanging around my kitchen.” Unwin turned her wrath on Fohli. “You take her back to the Commandant and see that he knows what she’s been up to.” With that, she stormed off back to her kitchen.

Fohli was left in something of a quandary. He could not leave his two charges unattended, nor could he ignore a direct order from a Sister. With a shrug, he glanced at Zac and Tarja.

“C’mon lads, looks like we’ve a bit of a walk before dinner.”

They climbed wearily to their feet and followed Fohli to the gate. The guards let them pass, and the four of them headed across the Square toward the Commandant’s residence on the other side of town. Fohli was not the least bit interested in the additional duty Unwin had thrust upon him and dawdled along with Zac at his side. R’shiel was angry, and her step carried her ahead of the others. Trying not to look too obvious about it, Tarja caught up with her. By the time they had crossed the Square, it was almost completely dark.

The threatening clouds rumbled ominously as they turned down the main road, which led to the married quarters. R’shiel glanced at Tarja as he drew level with her but said nothing.

“What does Crisabelle want Sunny for?” he asked. Zac and Fohli had fallen back far enough so that their conversation was unlikely to be overheard.

“Crisabelle wants a new wardrobe before she visits the Citadel in the spring. Sunny is supposed to help with the sewing.”

“Can she sew?” Tarja asked curiously. From what he had observed of Sunny, she appeared to excel in only one thing, and it certainly wasn’t sewing.

“I truly don’t know. But Loclon beat her up again, and I thought she could do with a break. It’s sort of my fault she got hurt. I’m sure he only does it because of me,” she added with a heavy sigh.

So he’s found another outlet for his anger, Tarja thought sourly. The thought relieved him a little. R’shiel was safe from him, for the moment. Tarja had made a silent vow to himself to kill Loclon. All he lacked was the opportunity. He didn’t need a weapon. Killing him with his bare hands would be half the pleasure.

“She’ll turn up. Fohli’s right, you know. Sunny isn’t stupid. She won’t defy a direct order from the Commandant.”

“I suppose so.”

“Anyway, what do you mean, it’s your fault?”

“He... well, he’s still mad at me. And you. I guess I’m just the easiest target.”

R’shiel was silent for a moment before she continued, as if weighing up whether or not to confide in him. “It seems that every time I turn around he’s standing there, just watching me. The way he looks at me makes my skin crawl. A couple of times he... well, it doesn’t matter. He never gets an opportunity to do anything about it. But each time he misses a chance to get at me, someone else seems to get hurt.”

Tarja shook his head, appalled that she would blame herself for Loclon’s insanity. “It’s not your fault, R’shiel. Anymore than it’s my fault—”

“That we’re here?” R’shiel finished for him. They walked on in silence. Within a few minutes, they had reached the low stone fence surrounding the Commandant’s residence so they stopped at the small gate to wait for Fohli and Zac to catch up. In the lamplight blazing from the windows, Tarja could make out the Commandant and Loclon discussing something in silhouette. R’shiel tensed as she saw them.

“He’s here.”

Tarja looked at her, not truly surprised by the vehemence in her tone. She still had not forgiven or forgotten the journey to the Grimfield.

“Maybe he’s in trouble.”

“I wish! More likely here to get tomorrow’s orders.”

She turned from him, but he caught her arm and turned her back to face him, studying her intently in the gloom. “Are you all right, R’shiel? Really?”

“I’m fine, Tarja,” she told him, a little bitterly. “I’m in prison for the next ten years. I’ve been beaten and raped, and now I’m serving a woman who takes a picnic basket to a public lashing. What more could I ask?”

Tarja had to resist the urge to take her in his arms. To hold her as he had when she was a little girl, following him and Georj around, skinning her knees as she ran to catch up with two boys who thought their red Cadet jackets made them too important to associate with obnoxious little girls.

“I’m sorry, R’shiel,” he said, helpless to offer her anything more. “I’ll find a way out of this. Soon.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Before he could add anything further, Fohli and Zac caught up to them. R’shiel shook her arm free of Tarja and faced Fohli defiantly.

“Well, are you going to report me to the Commandant?” she asked.

“Not bloody likely,” Fohli muttered. “Less the Commandant notices me, the better. You get along and stay outta Unwin’s way.” Without bothering to thank him, R’shiel lifted her skirts and stepped over the low gate. She ran around the house and disappeared into the darkness. “She’s odd, that one.”

“Harshini,” Zac said sagely. Both Tarja and Fohli stared at him in astonishment. “She’s got the look,” he added knowingly. The big man hitched his trousers into a more comfortable position and headed back down the road toward the prisoners’ kitchen.

Fohli caught at Tarja’s sleeve and pulled him along in Zac’s wake. “Here, you was a rebel, Tarja, mixin‘ with all them heathens. Is it true what they say about the Harshini? Are they really gods?”

“I doubt it,” Tarja said, as he watched Zac’s retreating back. “How do you suppose Zac knows about them?”

“Zac’s from near the border. That’s what they sent him here for. He’s a pagan. Killed a couple of Defenders they sent to arrest him. I heard the Hythrun reckon the Harshini are still out there somewhere. In hiding. Not that I ever seen no sign of it. You think that girl is one of them?”

“Are you kidding me?” Actually, he thought it was the most absurd idea he had ever heard.

“Aye, you’re right at that,” Fohli agreed. “Here! Isn’t she your sister or something?”

“No, she’s not my sister.”

“Well, she’s foreign, that’s for certain,” Fohli said.

chapter 39

News of the riot at the mines reached the Commandant’s house early on the morning of Fourthday. R’shiel was woken by the sound of raised voices and the pounding of hooves in the street. Teggert pushed open the door to their tiny room off the kitchen and ordered R’shiel and Sunny to get up and come help in the kitchens while Wilem and his officers held their council of war over breakfast in the dining room. Still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, the two young women hurried into the kitchen. As Teggert issued orders like a little general, he told them of the riot – how the miners had barricaded themselves in the main pit – and the rumor that Captain Mysekis and several other Defenders were dead. Dace had been right, she realized as she lugged the heavy iron kettle to the fire. It was a pity Loclon was assigned to the town and not the mines. Getting up this early would have been worth it to hear that he had been killed.

The racket woke the whole house, and once news of the riot reached Crisabelle, she went into a spin, declaring that she was about to be murdered in her bed. In a rare display of temper, Wilem turned on her and told her that he was too busy to concern himself with her right now and that if she didn’t like it, she could visit her sister in Brodenvale and stay there until the damned summer, for all he cared. Wailing like a banshee, Crisabelle fled to her room, screaming for R’shiel to help her pack, making sure that everyone within earshot knew that she was leaving and Wilem would be lucky if she ever came back. The Commandant ignored her and turned back to the business at hand. It was dawn when Wilem thundered out of the town. Fetching and carrying for Crisabelle, R’shiel barely even noticed he had left but for the unusual silence that descended on the house. Of Mahina there was no sign. She had either slept through the entire ruckus, which was unlikely, or chose to remain uninvolved.

The confusion of Crisabelle’s departure, hard on the heels of the Commandant leaving for the mines, made the morning fly. Once she had made up her mind to be gone from the Grimfield there was no stopping her, and R’shiel was quite astounded to see how determined the normally absentminded woman could be. The free servants of the Commandant’s household were hastily given a holiday, and only R’shiel and Sunny were to remain in the house while Crisabelle was away. As Crisabelle clambered aboard the carriage she was still yelling instructions at R’shiel and Teggert. The cook and the convict girl nodded continuously. Yes, Teggert would empty out the pantry before he left. No, R’shiel wouldn’t let any thieving whore from the Women’s Hall into the house. Yes, the stove and the chimneys would be cleaned before the summer. No, Teggert wouldn’t forget to be back in time for her return. Assuming she did return. Wilem had some apologizing to do before that would happen! The orders went on and on, until the driver climbed into his seat and Crisabelle finally gave the order to move out. R’shiel watched the carriage disappear from sight with a sigh of relief.

Teggert went back inside as soon as the carriage moved off. R’shiel waited a moment, just in case Crisabelle thought of something else and ordered the driver to turn around.

“Prisoner!”

R’shiel turned slowly toward the voice, schooling her features into a neutral expression. She had hoped that Loclon would accompany Wilem to the mines, but one of the captains had to stay in the town until he returned. With a sinking heart, R’shiel realized it might be days before the Commandant returned, depending on how well organized the prisoners were.

“Yes, Captain?”

Loclon dismissed the corporal he was addressing and walked toward her, blocking her way back into the house. He must have been here since early this morning, waiting.

“You are to report to Sister Prozlan for reassignment.”

“Mistress Crisabelle said I was to remain here.” Wilem was barely gone. Crisabelle’s carriage had probably not even left the walls of the prison town yet.

“The Commandant isn’t here, and Crisabelle’s orders aren’t worth a pinch of horseshit,” Loclon reminded her. “I am in charge at the moment, and I’m ordering you to report to Sister Prozlan for reassignment.”

“Crisabelle said I was to remain here,” she repeated. Reassignment meant more than losing the protection of the Commandant’s house.

“Are you defying a direct order, prisoner?” Loclon asked. He took a step closer, and she couldn’t help but take a backward step. The low fence surrounding the Commandant’s house pressed into the back of her knees. “Do you know what the punishment—”

“R’shiel! Get in here at once! I want my tea!” Mahina was leaning out of the upstairs window, her expression thunderous. “Captain! Haven’t you got something better to do than annoy my servant? Off with you!”

Without another word to Loclon, she fled inside to safety, aware that this time she had been very, very lucky.

R’shiel spent the remainder of the morning tidying up after Crisabelle. Mahina made no further comment about Loclon. She promised R’shiel she would see her at dinner, but in the meantime, she was off to have lunch with Khira the physic, who was, according to Mahina, the only woman in the Grimfield capable of holding an intelligent conversation.

Sunny announced that she was going back to bed, once they finished. The court'esa was not used to getting up in the early hours of the morning. She was not particularly pleased with her new position. R’shiel was a little hurt that Sunny had not been more appreciative of her efforts to free her from the Women’s Hall. Sunny’s face was still bruised, but the swelling had gone down. Maybe, in time, Sunny would learn that there was more to life than being a court’esa, although R’shiel was not hopeful. Sunny simply believed that you should just go with whatever life threw at you and if there was a profit in it, so much the better. But she didn’t argue the point. Sunny was already asleep by the time R’shiel finished clearing away the table from lunch.

R’shiel knew that with a skeleton force left to guard the town there would never be a better chance for escape. The sky was dark with thunderheads, and another storm was threatening as R’shiel let herself into the yard to collect more wood for the stove. She glanced up at the sky with satisfaction. A few more hours and she would be free of this place. In the meantime, she decided to follow Sunny’s example and get some rest.

It was going to be a long night.

When R’shiel woke it was dark outside. Cautiously, she went to the door and opened it a little. The kitchen was dim and deserted. Gathering up her few belongings, she slipped out of the room softly, so as not to disturb Sunny. She stopped in the kitchen long enough to gather up a loaf of bread, half a wheel of cheese, and a thin paring knife, which she secreted into the side of her boot. She let herself out of the kitchen and ran down the muddy lane, away from the Commandant’s house.

The ominous sky rumbled as she ran, jagged lightning illuminating her path. R’shiel reached the end of the lane, crossed the street and then stopped, glancing around the square. Announcing itself with a fanfare of thunder the storm unleashed itself over the Grimfield, the rain lashing the shuttered windows in its fury, bouncing off the cobbled square like muddy glass marbles. She had only taken two or three steps when she froze at the sound of horses. Quickly jumping back into her place of concealment, she held her breath as two Defenders trotted by, hunched over their saddles in the downpour.

“No one would be out in this!” the nearer one said. He was yelling at his companion to be heard over the storm.

She stayed hidden until they had crossed the square, trying to decide which was the safest route to the South Gate. Should she risk the square, and being seen, which was by far the shorter route? Or stick to the back alleys and take even longer, further increasing the risk of being discovered? R’shiel wavered with indecision for a moment before deciding on a simple mathematical fact. The shortest distance between two points was a straight line. The square was completely deserted now, the shops shuttered against the storm. Even the Defenders’ Headquarters building on the opposite side looked dark and abandoned for the night. The less time she spent getting to the gate, the better. Besides, the majority of the Defenders were at the mines with Wilem. There were not the men to spare to guard the town effectively.

R’shiel turned out of the lane and headed across the square at a dead run. Drenched to the skin in seconds, her feet slipped on the slick cobbles as she ran, but she righted herself without too much effort and maintained her pace. The thunder crashed overhead as the lightning showed her the way. As she passed the tannery, which marked the halfway point, she smiled grimly to herself. She would make it, she was certain now. However, her certainty lasted only a few seconds. Too late, she heard the pounding of hooves on the wet cobbles behind her, their sound muffled by the thunder. She began to run harder.

R’shiel screamed as she was scooped up from behind. Struggling wildly she fought off a strong arm that encircled her waist as her captor turned his horse toward the Headquarters Building. When they arrived, he hauled savagely on the reins, and she was a thrown heavily down to the cobbles. The second rider was only a split second behind her as he jumped down from his horse and hauled her to her feet. R’shiel wriggled out of his grasp desperately. The other trooper grabbed at her wet hair as she tried to run and pulled her up the short steps to the verandah. She tried to pull away from him, screaming as he gave her hair a vicious twist. The other man opened the door and thrust her inside, stopping long enough to lock it behind him, then pushed her through to Wilem’s office.

With a shove, he let her go. A single candle burned on the mantle. The vicious Tail of the Tiger lay on the desk.

Loclon sat behind Wilem’s heavily carved desk, as if trying it on for size.

chapter 40

The whole town seemed to relax a little once Wilem departed the Grimfield. It was nothing obvious – a loose collar here, an undone button there. The Defenders of the Grimfield were like any other soldiers the world over. When the Commanding Officer was away, everything slacked off, just a little. The general feeling among the Defenders left to guard the Grimfield was that all the troublemakers were at the mine. They were not expecting trouble. Tarja was an experienced soldier and knew it would happen. He was relying on it. He also knew it wouldn’t last. Wilem would return soon enough, and his window of opportunity would be gone.

Since learning of the impending riot, Tarja had been honing his plans. Having had over two months to think things through, Tarja was certain he could escape with relative ease. His first step he had taken by becoming, if not a model prisoner, then at least a tractable one. He had done nothing to give Wilem reason to suspect that he was not accepting his punishment with silent fortitude. The second step he had taken when collecting the garbage from the back of the physic’s shop. A small stoppered tube had fallen from a shovel load of garbage. Retrieving it carefully, Tarja had unstoppered the tube and caught a faint whiff of sickly sweet jarabane. The poison was used for trapping animals, and the tube was all but empty. Tarja had pocketed the small vial and hidden it in his small cell under a loose stone. With a small amount of water added, he had a potion that would make the recipient violently ill.

He carried the tube with him now and could feel it pressing against his hip as he sat on the cold ground with Zac, waiting for their dinner. The sky rumbled disturbingly, and Tarja silently hoped that it would rain and rain hard. He had a much better chance of escaping if the Defenders were huddled under shelter, trying to escape the inclement weather. An escape in the middle of a storm was just as likely to be, if not ignored, then overlooked as long as possible. Who wanted to hunt down a miserable escapee in the rain?

“Gonna be a good one tonight,” Fohli remarked as another loud rumble rolled across the compound.

“Sure is,” Tarja agreed. He felt somewhat ambivalent about Corporal Fohli and Sergeant Lycren. The part of him that still felt pride in the Defenders was appalled by the men. They were unshaven, slovenly, lazy – everything Tarja despised in a soldier. Had either been in Tarja’s Company, they would have been straightened out very smartly indeed. On the other hand, were it not for their slackness, Tarja would have little hope of escaping.

It was almost completely dark by the time Tarja and Zac were handed their meals. Tarja offered to collect Fohli’s meal, too, and carried it back to the feeble shelter of the cookhouse eaves. It was a simple matter to tip the watery contents of the tube into Fohli’s stew. Tarja handed him the bowl, and the corporal wolfed down the contents hungrily. Large raindrops splattered intermittently across the compound. Fohli urged his prisoners to eat faster and had them handing in their bowls and heading back to the relative warmth of the cell block almost before they had swallowed their last mouthful.

They were back in the cell block when the corporal doubled over with pain as a stomach cramp clutched at his guts.

“Mother of the Founders!” he swore, clutching at the back of a roughly carved chair for support. Like model prisoners, Tarja and Zac waited patiently for the corporal to recover. When Fohli showed no inclination to move them anywhere, Tarja stepped closer.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “You don’t look at all well, Corporal.”

Fohli yelped as another spasm took him. His skin was ashen, and Tarja worried for a moment that there had been more jarabane than he suspected in the tube. He didn’t want to kill Fohli, just disable him. Zac thoughtfully lit the lantern on the guard table and waited for Fohli to recuperate enough to lock them up.

“It must have been the stew,” Fohli gasped, as another cramp seized him.

“Should we get someone?” Tarja offered.

Fohli shook his head. “In there.” He waved vaguely in the direction of their cells. “Have to lock you up first. OW!”

“Not tonight,” Tarja said, mostly to himself as Fohli collapsed semiconscious against the scrubbed wooden table. With a sigh, Zac stepped forward and scooped the Corporal into his arms. He turned his dull eyes on Tarja.

“You go now.”

Tarja looked at him in surprise. “Go?”

“Escape. You go. I take care of Fohli.”

Tarja was astounded that Zac had read his intentions so easily. “Come with me.”

Zac shook his shaggy head. “Got food. Got bed. Zac stay here.”

“Good luck, Zac.”

“You need luck. Not Zac,” the big man pointed out simply.

Thunder continued to roll through the small walled township like an invisible avalanche as Tarja quickly wended his way through the back alleys of the Grimfield. Months of hauling garbage had taught him where every lane and alley led, and he made good time through the backstreets. The uniform he planned to steal was right where he had hoped it would be, although it was damp and proved to be a tight fit. He shrugged on the jacket as he ran.

The storm broke as he neared the quarters of the married Defenders. Within seconds he was soaked as the rain pelted down in sheets. He kept moving, using the storm for cover. As he neared the street where Wilem’s house was located, he slowed. The street was deserted but for a couple of miserable-looking horses tied up outside the house. Tarja cursed silently, wondering to whom they belonged. If there were Defenders visiting Mahina, extracting R’shiel from the house would be next to impossible. He moved stealthily up the street until he reached the small fence surrounding Wilem’s house. He stepped over it and slipped around to the back. The owners of the horses were a corporal and a trooper, standing on the verandah talking to Mahina. The old woman was holding a lantern, but he could not make out what was being said over the roar of the thunderstorm.

The rear yard was deserted as Tarja made his way to the back door. He eased it open gently and was relieved to discover the kitchen was empty. Leaving an unavoidable trail of wet footprints next to the scrubbed wooden table, Tarja crossed to the door that led into the hall. Voices reached him as he opened the door a fraction. He stopped to listen, hoping that whatever business the troopers had with Mahina, it would not take long.

“I’ll do no such thing!” Mahina was declaring in a tone that made Tarja smile in fond remembrance. “You go back and tell Loclon that if he ever sends me an order like that again, I’ll personally see that he is whipped! Now get out of here! Find Prozlan. That’s her job!”

Mahina slammed the door on the hapless message bearers. Tarja wondered for a moment what Loclon had asked of Mahina that had her in such high dudgeon. He moved back quickly as Mahina turned and headed straight toward him. Glancing quickly around the kitchen, he realized there was nowhere to hide. Even had he found a place of concealment, his muddy footprints left a telltale trail straight across the floor. Tarja sighed and stepped back against the wall as Mahina stomped into the kitchen. If he could not hide, then there was no point in trying to.

“Hello, Mahina,” he said as she stormed into the room.

She squawked with surprise at the unexpected voice and spun around to face him. “By the Founders, what are you doing here?”

“Escaping.”

“Escaping?” she scoffed. “What took you so damned long? You’ve been here two months or more. Like the food, do you?”

“I’ve had my reasons.”

“Fine. Escape then. Why are you hanging around here?”

“I came for R’shiel. She’s in danger.”

“Well you’re too damned late,” Mahina snapped in annoyance.

A door opened off the side of the kitchen, and Sunny stepped into the room, rubbing her eyes sleepily. They widened at the sight of Tarja, and she glanced at Mahina.

“I heard voices.” Sunny appeared uncertain as to how she should react to finding Tarja in the kitchen admitting to an escape.

“You heard nothing,” Mahina snapped at the young woman. “Where is R’shiel?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since lunch.”

“We have to find her,” Tarja said, as it occurred to him that if Loclon was still in the town, he might well be the ranking officer at present. That gave him almost unlimited power until Wilem returned.

“Why?” Mahina asked. “So you can get her into even more trouble?”

“Loclon raped her on the journey here.” Sunny nodded in agreement as Mahina glared at both of them. “You know the penalty for rape, Mahina. If she ever reports it, he’s as good as dead. He has to silence her.”

Mahina’s faded eyes grew cold. “I’ve had just about enough of Loclon,” she snarled. “That arrogant little upstart just sent an order for me to attend to him. Can you believe that? He demanded that I come to him to deliver a whipping to... Oh! By the Founders...” Mahina’s face paled in the lamplight.

“What?” Tarja asked impatiently.

“Tarja, I think he’s already found her.” She sank down into a chair, looking every one of her sixty-seven years. “He ordered me to deliver a whipping to a female convict who was attempting to escape. Do you suppose it’s R’shiel? He wouldn’t ask me to do that, would he?”

“Oh, yes he would.”

Mahina stood up purposefully. “I think perhaps it’s time I had a little chat with Captain Loclon.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“Don’t be stupid, Tarja. Escape while you can.” She reached up and touched his cheek fondly. “Don’t let what has happened sway your resolve, Tarja. Medalon needs you. Go back to the rebellion, get it moving again and unseat your damned mother. I’ll take care of Loclon.”

“I plan to,” he promised her. “But I’m not letting you confront Loclon alone.”

Mahina grabbed her cloak off the hook on the back of the door and slipped it over her shoulders. Sunny stared at them blankly, as if she didn’t understand what was happening.

“Come if you must, Tarja,” Mahina said, “Just don’t get in my way. I have a few things I want to say to young Mister Loclon.”

Tarja opened the door for her. Together they ran toward the stables. The rain was still pelting down to the accompaniment of a thunderous orchestra. They shook off the raindrops as they entered the relatively dry stables. Mahina reached up and hooked the lantern she had brought from the kitchen on a nail driven into the doorframe.

“You haven’t changed a bit, you know,” Tarja told her as he led the first horse out of the stall.

“We’ll need a horse for R’shiel, too. And yes, I have changed,” she corrected. “Now I’m meaner.”

He had finished saddling the horses when Sunny suddenly appeared at the entrance to the stable, clutching one of Crisabelle’s impractical velvet cloaks around her, not caring that the rain was ruining the garment.

“Can I come, too?” she begged. “If they know I saw you and didn’t raise the alarm, I’ll be whipped.”

Tarja had no particular feelings for Sunny, one way or the other, but having been on the receiving end of the lash, it was not a punishment he would wish on anyone. And she spoke the truth. Annoyed by the added burden but unable to see any other course open to him, he nodded.

“Can you ride?”

“I’ll learn as I go,” the court'esa assured him. Then she reached into the folds of the dripping cloak and handed him a sheathed sword. It belonged to Wilem. He recognized the distinctive workmanship of the Citadel smiths in its wire-wrapped hilt. “I thought you might need this.”

Tarja accepted the gift and helped her up into the saddle of the mount he had picked out for R’shiel. “Come on then. And you’d better keep up. We won’t wait for you.”

Sunny wiggled uncomfortably in the saddle. “I’ll be just fine, Captain.”

Tarja swung up into the saddle of his own mount and led the old woman and the court’esa out into the rain, full of doubts and afraid of what he would find if Loclon really did have R’shiel.

chapter 41

“Trying to escape, eh?” Loclon asked. R’shiel backed away from him, bumping into the wet bulk of the trooper behind her. “That’s what she was doing, wasn’t it, Corporal Lenk?”

“Runnin‘ flat out across the Square, sir,” Lenk agreed. “Where were you running to?”

R’shiel did not bother to answer. There seemed little point.

“What’s the punishment for attempting to escape, Corporal?”

“Five lashes I believe, sir,” Lenk replied helpfully.

“Five lashes? Delivered publicly?”

“No, sir. The Commandant don’t allow women to be lashed in public. It’s done by one of the Sisters, out of sight.”

“Then be so good as to deliver a message to Sister Mahina, Corporal,” Loclon said, leaning back in Wilem’s chair with a proprietary air. “Tell her that I have a prisoner in custody who requires a lashing, and I would be most grateful, if the good Sister would attend to it for me.”

“Sir... well, it’s usually Sister Prozlan who does it, sir. Sister Mahina, well... she’s retired.”

“You have your orders, Corporal. The prisoner will be fine with me.”

Lenk glanced at his companion for a moment before he saluted and left the office, his partner in tow. R’shiel glanced at the door, wondering if she could get through it before Loclon reached her.

“By all means, try to escape,” he suggested, turning the whip over and over in his hands, almost lovingly. “That would be two attempted escapes in the one day. Ten lashes. Maybe you could get through them without a whimper like your brother did, but I doubt it. Ah, but then he’s not your brother anymore, is he? You’re nothing but a nameless bastard, these days. My, how the mighty have fallen.”

“Why did you send for Mahina?” she asked.

Loclon stood up, walking slowly around the desk, stroking the plaited leather tails.

“Well, you see, Mahina will either send Lenk off to see Prozlan, or she’ll come here herself. Either way, I don’t care. Watching you lashed by that old hag you call a friend would almost be as much fun as doing it myself.”

She backed away from him as he approached her, afraid to turn her back on him, moving deeper into the room, until eventually she met the solid resistance of Wilem’s desk. Loclon took another step toward her. Trapped by the bulk of the desk she looked around, realizing her mistake. Loclon stood between her and the door. She was trembling, soaked to the skin. He moved closer.

“Don’t touch me,” she warned.

“Or what?” He brought the handle of the whip up under her chin, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to force her head back. With his other hand he reached out and touched her face with surprising gentleness, running his thumb lightly over her lips. His scar was dark against his skin.

R’shiel bit him with all the force she could muster.

“Bitch!” he yelled, snatching his hand away. He backhanded her across the face, throwing her back onto the desk. Too stunned to move out of the way, her mouth filled with the salty warm taste of her own blood mingled with his, she struggled to a half-sit. With a wordless cry he punched her again. She toppled off the desk to the floor, taking several stacks of parchment and an inkwell with her. The cut-crystal well shattered as it hit the floor, the ink pooling darkly beside her. Shards of broken glass glittered in the dim light of the single candle.

As he came at her again, something inside of R’shiel snapped. Her fear and pain vanished, replaced by an unfamiliar feeling of invincibility. She climbed to her feet as the strange feeling engulfed her. Unaware of the change in his quarry, Loclon grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. An inexplicable wellspring of power surged through her.

Instead of fighting him, R’shiel slid her arms around Loclon’s neck and kissed him deeply, open mouthed, making him gasp. Stunned by her sudden capitulation, he fumbled at her clothes, tearing the wet shirt easily from her shoulders. She threw her head back as he buried his face between her breasts. Lightning and thunder crashed in unison with her sudden power surge. She could feel Loclon trembling, shaking from the need to possess and humiliate her. She wanted to cry out as the strength welled up in her. She wanted to feel him trembling, needed to see him quivering at her feet. She ran her hands through his hair as he fell to his knees. She grabbed a handful, jerking his head back savagely. In her right hand the thin paring knife flashed in the jagged glare of the lightning.

Loclon came to his senses with astounding speed. She stood over him, her long hair hung damply over her breasts. Her eyes blazed with power, burning black, even the whites of her eyes consumed by the unfamiliar power. She did not understand the feeling or try to. The paring knife she held to his throat was rock steady. He had the sense to remain absolutely still. It was possible that he had never been so afraid in his life.

“Don’t be... s... stupid,” he gasped. “P... put it down.”

In reply she pressed the point into his neck and a warm trickle of blood slid down the blade.

“No!” Loclon sobbed.

She slid the knife sideways. Not enough to kill him, but enough to make him think she was cutting his throat. She drew the thin blade across his exposed neck, the terror in his eyes thoroughly intoxicating her. The blood oozed out of the thin cut, running down his neck and over her hand. The sharp smell of urine suddenly mingled with the sweet-smelling blood, and R’shiel smirked at the dark spreading stain on the front of Loclon’s trousers.

He thought he was dying. Before she was through with him, he would beg for death. Lifting the blade to his face, she pressed it into his cheek with the intention of carving a matching scar along the right side of his face. Tarja had given him that scar. For killing Georj. It was time to give him another one. For killing a part of her.

Loclon suddenly threw himself backward, jerking her off her feet as they tumbled to the floor. The blade was slick with blood, and it slipped from her grasp. With strength born of desperation and fear, he pushed her off him and lunged for the knife. She landed against the desk and cracked her head against the solid carved wood. The power surged again. Without warning, a faggot detached itself from the fire and hurled itself at Loclon. It caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder, but it was enough to deflect him from the blade. He spun around, looking for his new, invisible assailant as another log hurtled across the room toward him. He ducked it as R’shiel dragged herself into the corner. He looked at her in horror, truly seeing her eyes for the first time. He moved toward her, barely avoiding the small three-legged stool that barreled toward him. Her head throbbed with pain from the blow against the desk. She felt the potent strength fading. Whatever strange power had filled her it was losing its strength.

Loclon saw her eyes change. On his hands and knees he scooped up the paring knife and threw it out of reach, never taking his eyes off her. Struggling upright he retrieved the Tiger’s Tail from near the hearth. R’shiel lay unmoving, as weak as a newborn, lacking the strength to defend herself. As if time had slowed almost to a standstill, she watched him raise the barbed whip above his shoulder. Still on his knees he moved toward her.

Suddenly a booted foot kicked the Tiger’s Tail from his hand. The boot swung up again and caught the captain squarely in the face, throwing him backward in an unconscious heap against the hearth. R’shiel’s eyes rolled back as a wave of blackness engulfed her and she fainted.

“R’shiel!” She opened her eyes slowly and looked up, surprised to find Mahina bending over her. Next to the old woman was a man who looked like Tarja, only it couldn’t be Tarja because this man was wearing a uniform and Tarja wasn’t a Defender anymore. She felt as feeble as an old woman.

“Bloody hell,” Tarja muttered. Mahina studied the somnambulant girl for a moment before slapping her face. R’shiel jerked back at the pain and her vision began to clear, but she still felt as though she was swimming through molasses. She looked at Loclon and began to tremble violently.

“R’shiel! We have to get out of here! Now!”

Loclon lay unmoving beside her. His face was a bloodied pulp where the boot had landed. Blood streamed from his mouth and broken nose, mingling with the blood that still dripped from his slashed throat. He looked dead.

“R’shiel, we have to get out of here,” Mahina told her again, more urgently. “Do you understand me?” The old woman looked at Tarja. “She’s in some sort of shock. Can you carry her?”

Tarja nodded and scooped her easily into his arms. With Mahina leading the way, they headed for the door. R’shiel glanced up and noticed that his hair was damp.

“It’s raining,” she told him.

“I know it’s raining,” he said. They had only taken a few steps when he stopped. Then she realized that Sunny was there, too.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, and we’re not hanging around to find out.”

“You can’t take her outside like that. Let me get something to cover her.”

Sunny disappeared into the hall, while R’shiel was still trying to wade through the molasses of her mind. Sunny came back with a warm Defender’s cloak. R’shiel hadn’t realized how cold she was until the warm wool of the cloak touched her clammy skin.

“How are we going to get through the gates?” Sunny asked as she tucked the cloak around R’shiel.

“I’ll take care of it,” Mahina announced.

Tarja looked as if he might argue the point, but Sunny laid a hand on his arm. “You can’t do this alone. Not with her like this.”

“All right, but only because we don’t have time to argue about it. Check the yard is clear.”

Tarja carried her at a run out of the office and down the long hall to the back of the building. When they emerged into the yard the rain pelted down on them, and R’shiel’s trembling grew worse. Tarja held her close as Sunny led three horses toward them. Lightning crashed overhead as Tarja lifted her onto the horse and then swung up easily behind her. She snuggled into him trustingly as he urged the horse into a canter.

R’shiel had her eyes closed, so she didn’t see the reason that Tarja suddenly hauled on the reins and dragged their mount to a halt. She opened her eyes and squirmed a little in her seat to see what the problem was. Dace was standing beside the horse, holding the bridle.

“Hello, Dace,”

Dace didn’t answer her but looked up at Tarja. “Did she kill him?”

“Let me past, boy.”

Another flash of lightning lit the rain-drenched road, and R’shiel caught sight of Brak. She pressed back into Tarja’s solid and reassuring chest. He has come for me, she suddenly knew.

R’shiel tried to pull away as Brak reached up and gently touched her face. A wave of calm swept through her; a gentle peace seemed to flow through her body and she relaxed. Her mind was still foggy but her trembling stopped. She could hear everything that was going on, but it no longer seemed to matter.

“Come with me. I can help you,” Brak said.

“Like the last time I needed your help?” Tarja asked.

“You’re in no danger from me. But you will never get out of the Grimfield without me. I can help you in ways you cannot possibly imagine.”

“Let’s go with him, Tarja,” she heard Mahina urge. “Any minute now the whole damn Garrison is going to be after her. And you.”

“The old lady’s right. We don’t have time to discuss it here.”

“Let’s move it then,” Tarja snapped. He didn’t sound very happy. Dace let go of the bridle and ran to his own mount.

“Is she all right with you? I can take her if you can’t manage.”

“I can manage, Brak.”

R’shiel was having a great deal of trouble staying awake, even though the thunder still crashed and boomed overhead. The lightning hurt her eyes, and a headache of mammoth proportions was beginning to make its presence felt. The rain was cold, but Tarja’s chest was warm and solid so she cuddled up to him as they moved off, and somehow, in the middle of their escape, she managed to fall asleep.

chapter 42

The storm blew itself out close to dawn. Brak glanced up at the slowly brightening sky and cursed. The horses were nearly finished. Tarja’s was carrying a double load, and although they had swapped mounts at frequent intervals during the long night, there wasn’t much more they could do but rest them. He would have traded every horse in Medalon for a Hythrun sorcerer-bred mount right now. A mount like Cloud Chaser who, when linked with his rider, had the stamina of three normal horses. In battle, their intelligence made them almost invincible, although the Harshini had never bred them for war. The horses had been slaughtered in the thousands by Param and the Sisterhood. It was an unfortunate human trait, this desire to destroy things they did not understand.

He looked around at the others and decided it wasn’t just the horses that were almost at their limit. They were all cold and wet, their clothes plastered to them by the insistent downpour. Dace, riding in the lead, appeared to be holding up, but then he was immortal. The plump court’esa and the old woman looked about ready to drop. Tarja’s back was straight, and he hugged the still unconscious R’shiel to him. Brak knew grim determination kept the rebel in his saddle.

With another muttered curse, he decided that this wasn’t going well at all. All he wanted was get R’shiel back to Sanctuary in one piece and discharge his debt to the Harshini. Once there, she was Korandellen’s problem. When he learned what the gods wanted of the demon child, he decided to let the Harshini King decide if she was up to the task or too dangerous to be allowed to live. It was a decision he did not want to make. Brak had seen R’shiel with the rebels, seen what she had done to Loclon, perhaps even worse, what she had wanted to do to him. There was a streak of ruthlessness buried deep within the half-human girl. He was certain there was a rough road ahead for all of them. Just accepting that she was only half-human might prove an insurmountable hurdle for her.

Dace’s addition to the party was more than an inconvenience. He was a Primal God and sufficiently powerful to assume whatever aspect he chose, but he was still bound by the nature of his divinity. He was the God of Thieves and as such was basically dishonest, unreliable, and opportunistic. Dace would only stay with them as long as it suited him and would probably leave them at the most inconvenient time imaginable. He would only be of real assistance if they were trying to steal something. Brak wasn’t sure if that was because he couldn’t help or wouldn’t. Perhaps it was better not to ask. A demarcation dispute between the gods was something to be avoided.

Brak had no idea who the chubby woman was – a friend of R’shiel’s he guessed. That could prove awkward. As for the other woman, the thought of her made him pale. Brak tried to imagine the look on Korandellen’s face when he appeared at the gates of Sanctuary with a former First Sister in tow. How in the Seven Hells had she become mixed up in an escape attempt?

And then there was Tarja.

Brak just knew there was going to be trouble with him. Tarja thought he had betrayed him at the inn at Testra. He doubted Tarja would be interested in explanations regarding the nature of the glamor Brak had used to conceal himself, or his reasons for it. Tarja was a soldier, and soldiers tended to see the world in black and white. There were no shades of gray that would allow him to consider Brak’s actions as anything other than treachery. At the very least, Tarja probably thought Brak was working for the rebellion and his task was to kill him as a traitor. Not an unreasonable assumption, under the circumstances, but one that would take some explaining. The trouble was, the explanation was likely to be unbelievable. Sometimes the truth was just plain awkward.

They had begun with about a three-hour lead over the Defenders sent to hunt them down. Dace assured him that Loclon wasn’t dead, not yet at least, and had been discovered by Corporal Lenk, who had raised the alarm. Only the fact that the majority of the Defenders were at the mine dealing with the riot prevented a full Company from riding after them. As it was, there were ten of them, closing the gap fast, unhampered by a horse carrying a double burden. Brak figured they couldn’t be more than half an hour behind them now, and they would soon forfeit whatever small advantage the rain and darkness had given them.

“Hold up,” he called to the others, dismounting stiffly. Dace wheeled his horse around and trotted back to Tarja. He slipped off his own mount and reached up for R’shiel. Tarja lowered her down and then slowly dismounted himself.

“What’s the matter?”

Brak glanced up at the sky again. “It’s almost dawn, and we’re still too close to the Grimfield. They’ll be on us in less than an hour.”

“How do you know?”

“I know,” Brak told him, then turned to Dace. “Can you keep going on your own for a while?”

The boy pushed back his damp hair. “I live to serve, Lord Brakandaran.”

Brak frowned. Dace did not appear to be taking this very seriously. “Keep going with the women. Tarja and I will take care of the pursuit.”

“I’m not going with him!” Sunny objected, still mounted.

“You’ll go with Dace and do what he says, or I’ll kill you now and have one less human to worry about.” The woman must have decided he was serious, which was a good thing. Brak had little stomach for killing these days, but she didn’t know that. She sniffed at him and looked away without any further sign of rebellion.

“Can you guarantee that we will be safe if we follow this boy?” Mahina asked.

“No harm will come to any of you while you’re with Dace,” he promised. “You could say the gods will be watching over you.”

She studied him for a moment longer with an unreadable expression. She nodded slightly and wheeled her horse around.

Brak turned back to Tarja. “You got enough strength left in you to fight?”

“I can keep going as long as you can.”

“I seriously doubt that, my friend,” he muttered to himself. “Dace, come here.”

The god was bending over the unconscious girl. He led Dace a little way off, out of the hearing of the humans, ignoring their suspicious stares.

“Keep heading southwest, toward the river. We’ll catch up as soon as we can. And try not to get distracted.”

“You show a disturbing lack of faith in me, Brakandaran.”

“I prefer to think of it as a firm grasp of reality. If you start getting ideas about wandering off, just try to imagine what Zegarnald will do when I tell him it was your fault we lost the demon child.”

“That’s not fair.” The boy-god frowned for a moment then shrugged.

That was one good thing about the gods. They didn’t agonize over anything for very long. “Will R’shiel be all right? I’m not sure what I should do with her. I don’t know much about humans. What happens if she dies?”

“She’s not going to die. All you have to do is keep her safe. You can do that much, can’t you?”

“I suppose,” Dace sighed. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I helped you and Tarja? Looking after the women is sort of... well... boring.”

“We’re going to kill them, Dace, not steal their horses.” Then he decided to try a different tack. This was a god he was talking to, after all. Their egos tended toward the majestic. He lowered his voice and added in a conspiratorial whisper, “You have to stop R’shiel from being stolen away from us. Who better to do that than the God of Thieves?”

Dace brightened considerably at the idea. “Do you think someone might try to steal her?”

“Definitely. They’re probably combing the hills as we speak, just waiting for a chance at her. Of course, if you don’t think you’re up to the task...”

“Don’t be ridiculous! If I can’t thwart a miserable bunch of humans, I’ll give up my believers and become a demon. You take care of the pursuit, Lord Brakandaran, and I will ensure that the demon child is safe.”

“I knew I could count on you,” Brak replied gravely.

They walked back to Tarja, who was bent over R’shiel. The girl’s face was peaceful and serene. The magic that had possessed her earlier vanished as if it had never been. The humans eyed him dubiously but stood back to let him check on her. Her pulse was steady and even. He picked her up off the muddy ground and handed her up to Dace, who had mounted again.

“Vigilance,” he reminded the god.

Dace nodded and clucked at his horse. They moved off into the dim morning, Sunny trailing with slumped shoulders, although Mahina’s back was ramrod straight. Brak turned to his black gelding, whose head hung miserably, his breath steaming.

“There’s a gully about a league back,” he explained as he tied the gelding to the branch of a twisted white-gum. “We’ll wait for them there.”

Tarja tied up his own mount and followed Brak back onto the narrow track. They made good time, but the sky was considerably lighter by the time they reached the gully. The track cut through a long-extinct watercourse, although the night’s rain had caused a trickle to gather in the center of the path in an echo of its former glory. The cutting was about the height of a man on horseback and near thirty strides long, wider at the far end than the end from which the two men approached. Brak could hear the soldiers faintly in the distance.

“They’re coming.”

The rebel glanced at him skeptically.

“Trust me, they’ll be here soon.”

“So what’s your plan? You do have a plan, don’t you Brak?”

“When they ride into the gully we’ll bring down the trees at either end of the cutting. With a bit of luck, a few of them will fall and break their necks in the confusion.”

“Bring down the trees? How?” Tarja was looking at him like he was a simple-minded fool.

“Magic,” he said. “We will call on the gods for help.”

“Who are you?”

“I doubt you’d believe me if I told you, Tarja. Just accept the fact that I’m on your side, for the time being. Explanations can wait.”

Tarja did not look happy with his answer, but the rattle of tack and pounding of hooves, loud enough for even the human to hear, distracted him.

Brak turned his attention to the cutting and wriggled forward on the muddy ground toward the edge. He picked out the two trees he had in mind and reached inside himself, his eyes blackening as the sweet Harshini power filled him. He reached out for the slow, lumbering touch of Voden, the God of Green Life. Voden was a Primal God in the truest sense of the word. He rarely concerned himself with human affairs. Voden would listen to the smallest blade of grass or the most ancient, massive tree, but he generally ignored the Harshini. As for humans, Voden considered them a kind of annoying blight that destroyed his trees for shelter and firewood. Fortunately, they occasionally redeemed themselves by planting things, which placated the god enough to leave humanity alone.

Brak felt incredibly puny under the weight of the god’s notice, but he concentrated on a mental image of what he needed, hoping Voden would understand. He let his mind fill with thoughts of Xaphista, the demon child, and finally the present moment when the Defenders were hunting them down. One could not use words with a god like Voden. One could only hope that he gleaned enough from Brak’s mind to understand that Xaphista could only be destroyed if the demon child lived and that the men who followed them threatened her. It seemed to take forever before he felt Voden’s somewhat reluctant agreement.

“Get around to the other side,” Brak ordered. He half-expected Tarja to argue with him, but the rebel merely slipped away silently. Within a couple of minutes he was in position.

The first Defender came into view not long after. The hollow was lit in the eerie predawn light, a mass of shadows and darkness. The Defenders rode at a trot, two abreast, following the muddy tracks cut into the ancient watercourse. Brak reached out to Voden, felt the power surge through him, and was gratified to hear the crack of splintered timber, startlingly loud in the gully. The lead horse reared in fright as a white trunk crashed down in front of him, throwing his rider. The other horses reacted to the fright of the first as the base of another tree exploded behind the last rider. It crashed down, cutting off their retreat. He then began, somewhat reluctantly, picking off the riders one by one.

Voden’s power was the power of growing things. Long-dormant roots broke through the ground and reached for the soldiers hungrily, strangling them with living tentacles that tightened inexorably around limbs and throats, cutting off terrified screams. The soldiers hacked wildly at a threat they could not comprehend, as the very ground they stood on suddenly became their enemy.

Tarja leaped into the melee and took on the remaining Defenders single-handed. The roots had killed three, and there were two others down, injured in falls from their terrified mounts and unable to get clear of the stamping hooves as the horses dodged and squealed in fright. Brak stayed his power and watched the rebel. He moved like a dancer, one movement flowing into the next with no effort, to the accompaniment of the ring of metal on metal, echoing through the cutting like discordant music. Brak was fascinated. Despite his own low opinion of sword fighting, he had to admit that Tarja was very good. He caught sight of a Defender coming up behind Tarja, his blade raised and ready to plunge between the rebel’s shoulders. The man dropped like a sack of wheat, screaming in agony as the ground beneath him erupted in a mass of deadly, writhing roots. Tarja had cut down two Defenders and was tiring, but Brak still stayed his hand, morbidly curious as to how long Tarja could keep up his violent dance of death. The third man fell, impaled on Tarja’s blade. The rebel jerked it free and turned to the last survivor. He abandoned all pretense of style and swung the blade in a wide arc, decapitating the shocked Defender where he stood. Exhausted, Tarja slumped to his knees amid the carnage.

Brak slithered down the loose slope and surveyed the damage. The horses were milling, but they were Defenders’ mounts and not distressed by the sweet stench of blood. Tarja was literally drenched in gore, and already the buzz of flies attracted to the feast was filling the air.

“Messy thing, sword fighting,” Brak remarked as he looked around.

“At least it’s more honorable than what you did to these men,” Tarja panted. His chest was heaving with the effort of his exertion.

“Honorable? You just decapitated a man. Where’s the honor in that?”

“Who are you?” Tarja demanded. “Or perhaps I should ask, what are you?”

Brak knew he could no longer put off the answer to Tarja’s question. Not after what he had just seen. “My name is Brakandaran té Cam. I am Harshini.”

Tarja accepted the information with an unreadable expression. He struggled to his feet, using the sword like a crutch. “I always thought the Harshini didn’t believe in killing.”

“It’s amazing what a little human blood can do.”

Tarja apparently didn’t have an answer to that. “Do we just leave them here?”

“No, I thought we’d bury them over there in a little grove and plant rosebushes over their graves,” Brak snapped. “Of course we’ll just leave them here! What did you expect, a full military funeral, perhaps?”

“As you wish. I don’t care what they’ll think when they find all these men strangled by tree roots.”

“Point taken. What do you suggest?”

“Burn them.”

Brak frowned. He was Harshini enough that the idea of burning a body, even one belonging to an enemy, was the worst form of desecration.

Tarja noticed his sick expression. “You’re quick enough to kill with magic. Yet you balk at destroying the evidence?” He wiped the sword clean on the shirt of one of the corpses before replacing it in the battered leather scabbard.

Brak agreed to Tarja’s suggestion reluctantly. Together they pushed the fallen tree out of the way. Brak found himself lending their effort a bit of magical help to move the massive trunk. There was no point in letting the horses wander back to the Grimfield to raise the alarm, and the extra mounts would be useful. Tarja found a length of rope in one of the saddlebags and tied the reins to it, then turned to the grisly task of creating a funeral pyre.

A chill wind picked up as they gathered the bodies and covered them with a layer of dead wood. Brak let Tarja arrange the pyre. He had no experience in this sort of thing and no wish to gain any. It took longer than Brak expected, but once the rebel was satisfied with his handiwork he turned to Brak questioningly.

“The wood is too wet to burn,” he told him. “You’ll have to use your... magic, I suppose.”

“It’s not that easy,” Brak told him with a frown. “Voden doesn’t like fire.”

“Voden?”

“The God of Green Life. That’s what killed those men.” Brak looked at the unlit pyre for a moment. “Actually, I think I have a better idea.”

Ignoring Tarja’s puzzled and somewhat suspicious expression, Brak reached out once more to Voden. He drew a picture in his mind that the god understood instantly. Brak had no wish to antagonize the god by lighting a fire, but what he asked of him this time was well within his power to grant.

Brak opened his eyes and glanced at Tarja. “It’ll be all right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just stand back and watch.”

For a wonder, Tarja did as Brak asked. The unlit pyre stood forlornly in the dawn. Brak waited for a moment, feeling Voden’s touch on the edge of his awareness as the dead wood they had laid over the slain Defenders began to sprout. Slowly at first, then ever more rapidly, the branches came to life, new leaves and branches growing over the pyre, almost too rapidly for the eye to see. Within a few minutes, the funeral pyre looked like nothing more than a large hedge growing in the middle of the old watercourse.

Brak smiled at Tarja’s expression. “It’s not exactly rosebushes, but it’ll do.”

The rebel stared at him. “How did you do that?”

“I didn’t do anything; Voden did. He’s a bit hard to communicate with sometimes, but he’s cooperative enough if you ask him nicely.”

“I don’t believe any of this,” Tarja said, shaking his head. “There are no gods, and the Harshini are dead.”

Brak smiled wearily. “I know quite a few Harshini who might disagree with you, Tarja.”

chapter 43

“You’re disappointed in me, aren’t you?” Mahina asked.

“Disappointed might be a little strong,” Tarja said. “Surprised would be more accurate, I think.”

They were riding at a good pace across the central plateau, following a faint game trail toward the silver ribbon of the Glass River, which was still an hour or more ahead of them. Brak rode in the lead with R’shiel at his side, talking to her earnestly. R’shiel had been strangely subdued since she had regained consciousness. She spoke little, and her eyes seemed focused elsewhere, as if she had seen something that she couldn’t tear her gaze from, something that nobody else could see. Tarja could not understand Brak’s interest in her. He seemed to be more concerned with R’shiel than any of them. He thought Brak had been sent to either kill him or return him to the rebels for justice. Brak hadn’t even mentioned the rebellion, and he certainly had not tried to kill him, although there had been no lack of opportunity in the last few days. In fact he had said little, other than announcing he was Harshini, a statement that Tarja would have rejected out of hand, had he not seen the astounding transformation of the funeral pyre. He had always believed the Harshini to be extinct – and Brak looked as human as any man. But the evidence was hard to deny. Tarja heard Mahina say something and turned his attention to the old woman.

“I said, I’m more surprised that I put up with the Grimfield for as long as I did. As the Kariens would say, Crisabelle was more than sufficient penance for my sins.”

Behind them, Dace rode with Sunny, and the boy chattered away to her cheerfully, regaling her with tales of his exploits, none of which, it seemed, Sunny believed. The day was clear but blustery, as spring attempted to blow winter out of the way, although farther north the land would still be firmly in the grip of winter. The sun was shining brightly, but the wind cut through them. Mahina pulled her cloak more tightly around her as she rode.

“What made you do it, Mahina?” he asked.

“Do what? Not challenge Joyhinia when she threw me out? Not call the Defenders when you broke into my house the other night? Help you escape the Grimfield? Be specific, lad.”

“You have been rather busy lately, haven’t you?”

Mahina smiled, and they rode on in silence for a while.

“So how did you wind up as First Sister?” Tarja asked. The question had always puzzled him.

The old woman shrugged. “There were no clear candidates when Trayla died so suddenly. I’d kept my head down and I suppose I appeared harmless to the rest of the Quorum. Your mother had her eye on the job even then. I guess I played right into her hands. Couldn’t believe my luck, actually. I wanted to change the whole world overnight. It doesn’t happen that way, though.” She leaned over and patted his hand. “I taught you, Tarja, remember that. And remember that evil should not be tolerated, no matter the guise it comes in. I was so proud of you when you defied Joyhinia at the Gathering.”

“I’m glad somebody was.”

They rode on in silence after that, only the sound of the wind sighing through the trees and Dace’s perpetually cheerful chatter filling the morning. With some concern Tarja watched R’shiel’s back as she rode. Her shoulders were slumped, and she showed little interest in her surroundings. He wondered what Brak was saying to her.

Brak timed their arrival in Vanahiem to coincide almost exactly with the departure of the ferry, which connected the river town to Testra on the other side. They rode openly past the noisy foundry and through the town, barely noticed by the industrious townsfolk, who had far better things to do than worry about a few more strangers in a town that was frequently full of them.

Tarja expected someone to recognize them. Surely the word had been spread by now of the escapees from the Grimfield? However, they rode on unmolested, maybe because it was market day, or maybe because anyone looking for prison escapees would not consider their well-mounted and well-dressed group to be fugitives. Of course, they would not have fitted any description of them that the Grimfield might have circulated he realized as they neared the ferry. Dace had disappeared last night and this morning had proudly presented them with the results of his night’s labors. Mahina, R’shiel, and Sunny were fashionably dressed as successful merchants, and Brak, Dace, and Tarja wore Defender’s uniforms. Although he had stolen a uniform the night of their escape, the one he wore now was well-made and a much better fit. It even had the rank insignia of a captain.

They loaded the horses onto the ferry with little fuss and almost immediately the flat-bottomed barge set out across the river. Mahina appeared to be having the time of her life and stood at the bow, watching the opposite shore. Brak settled their passage with the ferryman and then came to stand beside Tarja. Dace was nowhere to be seen. R’shiel stood on the other side of the ferry, staring at the broad expanse of the Glass River. Sunny was chatting to her, but she did not appear to be listening. Tarja was worried about her. It was unlike R’shiel to be so withdrawn.

“Well, so far so good,” Brak announced.

“What happens when we get to Testra?”

“There’s an inn there owned by a friend of mine,” Brak explained in a low voice, although their group were the only passengers on the ferry. “We’ll wait there until help arrives.”

“Help?”

“Trust me,” Brak said with a faint smile.

“You know, there’s a saying on the border that ‘trust me’ is Fardohnyan for ‘screw you,’ ” Tarja replied.

“Ah, but I’m Harshini, not Fardohnyan. ‘Trust me’ means exactly what it says. In Harshini.”

“Look at that!”

Sunny’s exclamation drew their attention. They crossed to the other side of the ferry and followed the direction of her pointing finger. A huge, garishly painted blue barquentine was carefully edging her way downstream toward the Testra docks. Her sails were furled, and her smartly dressed crew was scurrying over the decks, pointing and shouting at the oared tugs that were leading the ship in.

“The Karien Envoy,” Tarja said. The Envoy’s ship was returning from his annual visit to the Citadel. Elfron stood on the poop deck, wearing his ceremonial cape beside Pieter, who watched the docking procedure in full armor. He wondered who they were trying to impress, then glanced at R’shiel. Her expression was blank. She didn’t seem to care.

“He has a priest with him,” Brak remarked beside him in a tone that made Tarja look at him curiously. “There aren’t many things in this world I fear, Tarja, but a priest carrying the Staff of Xaphista is one of them.”

Tarja filed that information away thoughtfully, remembering his own meeting with Elfron. The priest had laid his staff on Tarja’s shoulder to absolutely no effect.

“Pieter knows me,” he warned Brak. “And R’shiel.”

“Then pray he doesn’t see you. I’d help if I could, but the priest would feel any glamor I wove.”

“What’s a glamor?” Sunny asked curiously.

“Nothing but wishful thinking in this case.”

“It doesn’t matter,” R’shiel said softly, so softly that Tarja barely heard her. “He’s seen us already. He knows we’re here.”

When the ferry reached Testra the Karien ship had already docked. Pieter and Elfron were nowhere to be seen, and Tarja decided R’shiel’s dire prediction was nothing more than her fear talking. Pieter was aware of the situation in Medalon, and Tarja was quite certain that if he had identified the small figures on the ferry, there would have been a full squad of Defenders waiting to arrest them when they docked.

The fugitives remounted for their ride to the inn. It was located on the other side of the neat town, and just as their appearance in Vanahiem had been unremarkable, so their ride through Testra was equally incident free. Tarja was both surprised and relieved. He was not so concerned about the possibility that Lord Pieter had identified him or R’shiel. Testra was a rebel stronghold, as evidenced by several defiant slogans splashed on the walls of the warehouses near the docks, and if he were ever going to be recognized, it would be here. Their horses’ hooves clattered loudly on the cobblestones as they rode down the paved street.

Brak read the slogans and glanced at Tarja. “Can I ask you a question?”

“I suppose.”

“It’s something that’s bothered me ever since I joined the rebels. Most Medalonians aren’t usually taught to read, are they?”

“Novices and Cadets are,” Tarja told him. “Children of merchants usually attend private schools or have tutors, and servants who need it for their jobs are educated a little. Lack of education is the prime tool of the Sisterhood in keeping the population in their place. Why?”

“Well, if the people can’t read, why go to the bother of splashing slogans on every flat surface you can find?”

“The Sisters can read. The slogans are put up to make them think.”

“Does it work?”

“Well, it makes them nervous. The Sisters see the slogans and begin to wonder the same thing you are – why write them if the people can’t read? Then they start to worry that the people might be able to read them, after all. That starts them worrying about all sorts of other things.”

“You’re very easy to underestimate, Tarja.”

“Just you remember that.”

They reached the inn without mishap. Red brick and shingled like the rest of the town, it was neat and well kept. They were greeted cheerfully by the innkeeper in the yard as they dismounted.

Her name was Affiana. The woman could have been Brak’s sister, Tarja realized with a start. She was statuesque and dark-haired and welcomed them as if she had known they were coming. She greeted Brak first with a relieved smile, before turning to the others. Her next target was Mahina.

“My Lady, it is an honor to have you in my house.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Mahina assured her politely.

Affiana then turned to Dace and bowed. “Divine One. I am honored that you should visit my house, but I beg you not to bestow your blessing on it. I have enough trouble with your followers as it is.”

Dace grinned broadly at the odd welcome. “For you, Affiana, I will restrain myself.”

Affiana nodded with genuine relief at the boy’s answer. Tarja glanced at the boy curiously. Was he Harshini, too? It would explain his presence but not the tone Affiana had used or the appellation “Divine One.” There seemed nothing special about the boy, and Brak certainly treated him with anything but respect.

The innkeeper turned to Tarja then, her expression curious. “Ah... the elusive Tarja, himself. I suggest you keep your head down while in Testra. You have not been forgotten here.”

Tarja had no chance to answer her as Affiana had turned her attention to Sunny and R’shiel. “And the last of our little gathering. You are welcome also, my dears. Come. I have rooms where you can freshen up before lunch is laid out.”

Sunny looked rather taken aback by the warmth of her welcome, but R’shiel remained as coldly distant as she had since leaving the Grimfield.

chapter 44

Lunch was sumptuous as was dinner later that evening and made a welcome change from the dry trail rations they had survived on for the past week or so. Affiana made a private dining room available to them and kept them well supplied with food and wine. Of Dace there had been no sign since they arrived, but Brak appeared unconcerned about the missing boy. Their rooms were quite grand with soft, down-filled beds and clean linen. The inn was built on a far grander scale than the Inn of the Hopeless in the Grimfield. It had three stories and several suites in addition to the normal rooms, and the taproom attracted an affluent class of customer. Tarja found the whole place both comfortable and stifling.

After dinner, he escaped to the stables on the pretext of checking the horses. They didn’t need his attention – Affiana had stableboys in abundance – but Tarja needed to be free of his companions. He needed a chance to think. But more importantly, he needed a chance to get a message to the Citadel. He had to let Jenga know that the Harshini were still among them.

Tarja could not pinpoint the exact moment that the idea had come to him. Perhaps it was in that gully near the Grimfield where he had seen the effect of the Harshini magic on the unsuspecting Defenders. It might have been this morning when he saw the Karien Envoy’s ship docking in Testra. Whatever the reason, he felt compelled to warn Jenga. Once word reached Karien that the Harshini still lived, Tarja doubted any treaty would be enough to hold them on their side of the border. Perhaps even worse was the effect such news would have on Medalon’s southern neighbors. Hythria and Fardohnya worshipped the Harshini with almost as much dedication as they worshipped their gods. News of their survival would be cause for celebration. Suspicion that the surviving Harshini were under threat by either the Kariens or the Sisterhood would bring an army over the southern border that outnumbered the entire population of Medalon. Tarja had broken his sworn oath to the Defenders, but he did not consider he had turned his back on Medalon. They had to be warned, and Jenga was the only one in a position to do anything about it.

He did check the horses, however, enjoying their simple demands for attention as they heard him approaching, pushing velvety muzzles through the rails in the hope of a treat of some sort. He sat down on a hay bale and pulled out a stick of writing charcoal, sharpened to a point, that he had purloined from the small library of the inn. In the dim light, he began to scratch out a succinct report to Garet Warner on a scrap of parchment. It would be pointless addressing it directly to Jenga. The Lord Defender would more than likely tear up the message unread if he thought it came from him. Garet was the safer bet. Garet would use the information. He did not have to tell Jenga its source. That way Jenga would be free to act, without being hampered by his scruples. Tarja knew from experience that Garet Warner’s scruples were a fluid commodity, to be applied or not as he saw fit.

He had barely written the first few lines when a noise behind him startled him, and he leaped to his feet guiltily.

“It’s only me.” R’shiel stood in the entrance to the stables, her shawl pulled tight around her. He shoved the note into his pocket hastily.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s just a bit stuffy inside.” She walked over and sat beside him. She seemed so distant. As if the shell of the old R’shiel remained, but the spark of life was gone. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing important,” he replied. “Are you all right, R’shiel?”

“Something has happened to me, Tarja, and I don’t know what it is. I can’t even describe it.” She pulled idly at the fringe on her shawl for a moment and then looked at him. “I didn’t kill Loclon, did I?”

“No.”

“Did you? I can’t remember.”

“I kicked him in the face. But I doubt it was enough to kill him. I’m sorry.”

“Not half as sorry as I am.”

They sat in silence for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts. Eventually she looked at him, her expression curious. “Who is Brak?”

“I’m not sure.”

“He’s been telling me about the Harshini. I think he’s worried about me, so he’s telling me fairy stories as if I were a little child, to take my mind off things. It’s a nice thing to do, I suppose.”

“Well, Brak can be very nice when he wants to,” he agreed, faintly amused to find himself complimenting a man he was still debating whether or not he should kill.

“I’m sorry, Tarja.”

“For what?”

“It’s my fault you got mixed up with the heathens. Maybe it’s even my fault you deserted. You only did after you learned the truth about me.”

“It’s not your fault, R’shiel.” For some reason he was intensely aware of her, sitting so close, almost but not quite touching.

“I still want to apologize, though.” She reached out and placed her hand on his arm. He could feel her warmth and had to consciously fight the desire to take it in his hand.

“If it makes you feel better.”

She was so close that he stood up abruptly and walked to the door. He leaned against the frame and studied her from a safer distance.

“What are we waiting for, Tarja?” she asked, a little hurt at his sudden withdrawal. She cocked her head, as if she couldn’t figure him out. “Do you think Brak is still with the rebels?”

“If he is, then I suspect Brak was sent to kill me, not rescue me.”

“I’m glad he didn’t kill you.” She stood up and came to stand before him. “If he had, you wouldn’t have been there when I needed you.”

She leaned forward to kiss his cheek thankfully, lingered for a moment, her cheek touching his. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before he turned his mouth to find hers. For a timeless moment she did not react, then she pulled away from him.

“I’m sorry,” he said automatically. But as he looked at her, with her dark red hair, indigo eyes, and her golden skin, he suddenly saw what had been in front of him all along. Saw what Zac had seen in her. R’shiel looked at him uncertainly in the moonlight, unaware of the direction of his thoughts. Totally ignorant of who or what she was. Fairy tales, she had called Brak’s stories. How could she even suspect the truth? That was why Brak wanted her. She was Harshini.

“Tarja?”

He pulled her to him. Kissed her as he had the night in the vineyard, except this time there was no regret, no surprise. Only the certain knowledge that this was meant to be.

“Well now, isn’t this just cozy?” a voice said from the darkness, accompanied by a hiss of unsheathing steel.

Several figures detached themselves silently from the shadows, all carrying naked blades that menacingly caught the moonlight. R’shiel pulled away from him as the rebels surrounded them. The owner of the voice moved into the faint light thrown into the stables by the inn. Tarja recognized the wild-eyed, fair-haired young man, with a rush of despair.

“Ghari!”

“See, lads, he hasn’t forgotten us,” Ghari told them, as he moved closer to Tarja. As soon as he was within reach, he shoved him against the wall roughly and raised his blade to Tarja’s throat. “You lying, treacherous, son of a bitch. I can’t believe you had the gall to show up here. Back in uniform, too, I see.”

“Ghari, I can explain—” Tarja began, trying to sound reasonable.

“Explain what, exactly, Tarja?” Ghari hissed. “Why you betrayed us? Why you left us to fend off a whole freaking company of Defenders while you were living it up with your mother in the Citadel?”

“They tortured him in the Citadel!” R’shiel cried as Ghari’s blade pressed deeper into Tarja’s neck, drawing blood. Her cry brought two of the rebels rushing to her side. They pulled her back roughly. “He never betrayed you!”

Ghari turned to look at her as he eased the blade from Tarja’s throat. Tarja took an involuntary gasp of air.

“You think I’d believe anything that came from you? Though I must admit, I’ve not seen such devotion between siblings before. I knew the Sisterhood cared little for morals, but I hadn’t realized incest was so popular.”

“I’m not his sister!” R’shiel snapped, shaking free of her captors. “And Tarja never betrayed you! Even when they tortured him.”

“R’shiel, don’t—” Tarja began. Ghari had been one of their most ardent supporters. It seemed that he was now one of their most bitter enemies, his disappointment turned to rage.

“Someone’s coming!” a voice hissed from the darkness. Ghari began issuing orders via hand signals to his men. His anger was a palpable thing.

“Let’s go somewhere we can discuss this privately,” he told Tarja, then turned and ordered the men to grab R’shiel. She had no chance to cry out as a hand clamped firmly over her mouth.

“Don’t you—” he warned, but he never had a chance to complete his threat. The last thing Tarja saw was R’shiel struggling against her captors as Ghari brought the hilt of his sword down hard against his head and he swam into a black pool of unconsciousness.

When he came to, he was lying in a wagon, tied hand and foot, and loosely covered with straw. R’shiel was beside him, similarly bound. She had been gagged, but had worked the gag loose and it now hung uselessly around her neck.

“Tarja?” she whispered, as soon as his eyes opened. The wagon hit a bump in the road and his head slammed against the wagon bed, but he fought off the black wave that engulfed him and managed to remain conscious. “Are you all right?”

“Any idea where we are?”

“I think we’re headed for the vineyard. What will they do to us?”

“I really don’t know, R’shiel,” he lied, and then he gave in to the blackness and lost consciousness again.