Medalon

chapter 45

R’shiel suffered through the uncomfortable wagon ride, wondering what was going to happen to them. The savageness of Ghari’s hatred surprised her. Tarja had passed out again. A trickle of blood from the wound on the back of his head had dried on his cheek. If her hands were not tied, she would have wiped it away. As it was, all she could do was look at him and hope that the others would be more reasonable than Ghari.

After a time, the wagon was hauled to a stop, and rough hands reached for her in the darkness, pulling her from the wagon bed and bustling her inside the darkened farmhouse. She was pushed down a flight of stone stairs. A dim light beckoned and then brightened as a door opened. R’shiel was shoved through, followed by two men who carried Tarja. They dumped him unceremoniously on the straw-covered floor. Large barrels stood against the far wall. Padric was there, seated on a small keg. In the lantern light, the cellar appeared full of threatening shadows. Ghari and his companions arranged themselves around the walls, watching both R’shiel and Tarja’s unconscious form warily.

“Welcome back.” Padric looked old and tired rather than threatening. The old man spared the unconscious rebel a glance. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

“No. He’ll come around.”

The old man stood up and walked to where Tarja lay sprawled on the floor. He looked down at him for a moment, shook his head sadly, then turned to R’shiel.

“Why?”

R’shiel did not answer him, not at all certain that she could.

Before Padric could ask anything else, the door flew open and a fairhaired young man burst in. He stopped dead at the sight of Tarja’s prone form and glanced at Padric, his brown eyes widening even further at the sight of R’shiel.

“What is it, Tampa?” Padric asked.

“The Kariens! They’re here!”

“Don’t exaggerate, boy. Tell me exactly what Filip told you.”

“Filip said,” Tampa began, catching his breath, “that the Envoy’s boat docked in Testra just before midday and the Karien Envoy would pay a hundred gold rivets for the red-headed girl who is traveling with Tarja, no questions asked. He said the news is all over the docks in town.”

Tampa had obviously been coached in the message he was to deliver, and he sighed with satisfaction when he finally got it out. R’shiel went cold all over.

“The Karien Envoy is just a lecherous old man,” Tarja remarked, from the floor. R’shiel wondered how long he had been conscious. He had pushed himself up on one elbow and met Padric’s gaze. “But it’s not him who wants R’shiel. It’s his priest.”

“Who asked you?” Ghari growled, sinking his booted foot hard into Tarja’s back. The rebel collapsed with a pain-filled grunt and rolled over, away from Ghari’s next kick.

“Enough! You can get your revenge later, Ghari. Get him up.”

Two of the rebels hauled Tarja to his feet. The wound on his head had reopened and blood trickled down his neck.

Padric turned his gaze on Tarja. “Let’s forget that you’re a treacherous liar for a minute and tell me why you say that.”

Tarja shook off the men who were holding him and stood a little straighten “Joyhinia promised R’shiel to the Karien Envoy in return for his help in deposing Mahina. If he wants R’shiel now, it’s only to get what he feels he’s been cheated of. The Kariens are playing their own games, Padric. Don’t get involved.”

“At least the Kariens believe in the gods.”

“Have you ever been to Karien, Padric?” Tarja asked. “They don’t believe in the gods. They only believe in one god. They’re zealots. They plan to convert the whole world to the Overlord, even if it means slaughtering every nonbeliever to do it. Dealing with them would be worse than dealing with the Sisterhood.”

Padric looked at R’shiel curiously. “A hundred gold rivets is a lot money. Why does he want you so badly?”

R’shiel looked at Tarja for help. She didn’t know the answer.

“The priest who travels with Pieter claims he had a vision.”

“That’s a good enough reason to get rid of her, right there.” Padric rubbed his chin. “Although, if you are right about this, we could use it to our advantage. I’ve no wish to see the Kariens triumph in anything. As you say, they are no friend to our kind. But it would weaken the Sisterhood considerably if the Karien alliance were destroyed.”

“That treaty is the only thing keeping the Kariens on the other side of the border. Destroy it and you are asking for even worse trouble than you have now.”

“Worse trouble?” Padric scoffed. “I don’t see how things could be much worse than they are now, Tarja.”

Tarja took a deep breath before he answered. “Padric, think about this. Handing R’shiel over to the Kariens won’t wreck the alliance; if anything, it will strengthen it. She’s already been promised to them. You would simply be carrying out Joyhinia’s wishes.”

“Maybe. But the Envoy wasn’t expecting to have to pay for her. And a hundred gold rivets is a fortune. Given the trouble you two have caused, it seems small compensation.”

“You’d sell me to the Kariens!”

Padric turned on R’shiel impatiently. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t! You never believed in our cause. All you did was stir the passions of our young men and abandon us at the first sign of trouble. We owe you nothing. I don’t know what the Envoy wants with you, and I don’t really care.”

“Given a choice between feeding starving pagan families for a year or saving R’shiel’s precious neck, I know which one I’d choose,” Ghari added.

“They want her because she’s Harshini,” Tarja said tonelessly.

“What?” R’shiel stared at him, shocked. “That’s ludicrous! If that’s your idea of helping, Tarja, I’d rather you didn’t!”

“She’s your sister!”

“She’s a foundling. R’shiel was born in the Mountains, not at the Citadel. If you don’t believe me, ask Brak. He’s Harshini, too.”

“You can do better than that, Tarja. We checked the inn where Ghari found you. There is no sign of Brak. Only the former First Sister and a court'esa and a few merchants that we already know of. You’re lying.”

The news that Brak was gone did not surprise him. He had a habit of deserting when Tarja needed him the most. “I’m not lying, Padric.”

“Oh? It seems even R’shiel thinks you are. What say you, R’shiel? Are you a Divine One come among us mere mortals?”

She looked at him, puzzled and angry. “Of course not!”

“Well, that settles it then. Take her up to the stables.”

“Padric! Don’t do this! Even if you have no care for R’shiel, think of the consequences! If the Kariens learn the Harshini still live, they’ll be over the border in a matter of weeks, and the Purge will seem like a picnic by comparison!”

The old man turned back to him. “I don’t believe the Harshini exist anymore.”

R’shiel looked at Tarja, willing him to say something, anything, that would change Padric’s mind.

“You can’t just hand her over to him like she’s a piece of meat!”

“I can,” Padric said. “That’s one thing I learned from you, Tarja. How to be ruthless. The Karien Envoy wants the girl, we will get a hundred gold rivets to continue the fight, and best of all, you will suffer for it. That’s plenty of incentive, don’t you think?”

Tarja was taken from the main cellar to a room upstairs. He lay on the stone floor next to the cold hearth, surrounded by his former comrades. R’shiel was nowhere in sight. He struggled to sit up as Ghari entered the room with a shielded lantern. His face looked sinister in the shadows.

“Ghari...”

“I don’t want to hear it, Tarja.”

“The only reason you’re still alive is because he’s waiting for Padric to get back,” Balfor added. “He should be here soon, so if you have any prayers to say to the gods, now would be a good time.”

“I never betrayed you.”

“I’m not interested.” Ghari turned his back on Tarja to stare out into the darkness.

“What happened to Mandah?” He was certain Mandah would not have condoned handing R’shiel over to the Kariens. Had something happened to her, or had she been deliberately excluded from this?

“She’ll be here later.”

With a sigh, Tarja closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cool hearthstones to wait. What was Padric doing? Where had he gone?

About an hour later, the sound of hooves in the yard brought Tarja out of a light doze. He was stiff and cramped from his unnatural position, but when he attempted to move, a sword jabbed him warningly in the ribs. The sound of voices reached him. Finally, the door opened and Padric came in, looking even older and more tired than he had earlier. Close on his heels was Mandah. Tarja breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of her. Perhaps now someone would listen to him. Padric ordered everyone out. Once they were alone, Padric crossed the room and untied him.

Tarja rubbed the circulation back into his hands and feet. “Thanks.”

“Don’t be too free with your thanks,” Mandah said. “We are only here to supervise your hanging.” The woman before him showed little sign of the understanding, placid young woman he remembered.

“I never betrayed you, Mandah.”

“Aye, and I’m the First Sister.” She threw a scrap of parchment at Tarja. A single more damning piece of evidence could not have been planted on him by the First Sister herself. Ghari must have found it when they were taken from the stables. As the younger man could not read, its importance would not have been immediately apparent. Had Ghari been able to read, it was likely Tarja would already be dead.

“I can explain, Mandah, if you’d give me a chance.”

“Explain it to us then,” she said. “I’d be interested in hearing what fiction you and that damned mother of yours cooked up between you.”

“The Harshini are still alive,” Tarja told her. “If the Kariens learn of it, they will cross the border to destroy them. Medalon’s only hope is to warn the Defenders.”

Mandah did not react immediately. She sat down on a three-legged stool and looked at him, weighing her judgment.

“The Harshini are dead.”

“They’re not dead. I would have thought the news would please you. You worship their gods, don’t you?”

“Can you prove this?”

Tarja nodded. “R’shiel is one of them. So is Brak.”

“Padric told me of your wild tale. And you expect us to believe that you were planning to warn the Defenders that the Harshini still live? To what purpose? So that they might protect them from the Kariens? The same Defenders who have spent the last two centuries trying to exterminate them? For pity’s sake, Tarja, you rode into Testra in a Defender’s uniform with Mahina Cortanen!”

“Mahina was impeached. They threw her out!”

“Once a Sister, always a Sister,” Mandah said. “Your story’s certainly entertaining, but I’m surprised you couldn’t come up with something more believable.”

“Mandah, if I was lying, don’t you think I would have come up with something more believable?”

“Who knows?” she shrugged. “I thought I knew you well, once. But now... ? You’ve had your chance. Padric will take R’shiel to the Karien Envoy and then let the others have you.”

She turned toward the door and opened it. As soon as she did, Ghari was inside, looking at them expectantly.

“Make your vengeance swift, Ghari,” Padric said as he and Mandah disappeared into the darkness.

chapter 46

R’shiel was thrown into the stable and a guard posted outside. Padric, with several other rebels, galloped off into the darkness. She sank down onto a pile of smelly straw, her mind racing. It was obvious that the rebels intended to kill them. Their only hope was Brak. How long would it take him to discover they were missing? And when he did, would he realize they had been dragged away and had not simply run off of their own accord?

Refusing to let despair take hold, she glanced around. Her hands and feet were tied and she could see the silhouette of the guard posted at the entrance to the stable, although his back was turned from her. She tentatively tugged on her bonds, but they were secure. There was nothing in the old stable she could see that would help her cut through them, even if the guard didn’t notice what she was up to.

Padric’s intentions regarding the Karien Envoy were clear enough. Pieter wanted her for one reason, she was sure – because he had been thwarted in his deal with Joyhinia. She wondered if he knew she had been disowned, or even cared. Probably not. The reward he had offered for her would have been motivated by spite as much as anything. She cared little about the priest’s vision – and did not believe it in any case. If only Tarja had been able to think of something reasonable to say. She had been shocked to hear him claim she was Harshini. Surely he could have come up with something more believable than that!

R’shiel recognized that there was nothing left to her but to wait and hope that Brak would find her and Tarja before their captors acted on their obvious desire to see Tarja swing. As that thought was even more horrible to contemplate than most, R’shiel closed her eyes and tried to doze.

Sometime later she heard horses in the yard, and soon after the figure of the old rebel appeared in the doorway. He walked over to where she was sitting on the ground and looked at her closely for a moment. R’shiel stared back, hoping that he might be having second thoughts.

“I’ve nothing personal against you, understand,” Padric said, as if trying to justify himself. “But you can see our problem. If we give you to the Karien Envoy, the money will help our cause a great deal.”

“If you give me to the Karien Envoy, Lord Pieter will rape me then kill me,” she said. “Why don’t you kill me yourself, Padric? Spare me the rape at least.”

“I’m sorry, R’shiel.” He stood up and walked back to the guard on the door, issuing orders to see her mounted and ready to leave as soon as he had dealt with Tarja. The guard came forward, untied the ropes that held her and pulled her to her feet. She tried to follow Padric’s slight form as he disappeared into the house, but the guard drew her away, bringing up a small dun mare.

“What did he mean about dealing with Tarja?” she asked. The rebel was a balding middle-aged man with an air of weary resignation.

“They’re going to hang him,” he told her, as he lifted her into the saddle. R’shiel looked around and discovered a number of men standing under a large tree on the other side of the yard. One of them was swinging a rope gently, aiming it for the large branch that spread out over the yard. He threw the rope, and on his second attempt, it looped over the branch. Another man reached for the loose end and pulled it down. R’shiel turned to her guard.

“But he never betrayed you!”

“Aye, it’s hard to credit,” the rebel agreed. “But he convicted himself with his own hand. Had a letter in his pocket to the Defenders, he did.” He frowned at the shock on R’shiel’s face at the news. “He betrayed us, right enough, lass. You, as much as the rest of us. Don’t waste your sympathy on him. He’s nothing but a bastard.” R’shiel realized this man was not a hothead like Ghari. This man was truly saddened by the thought that Tarja might have betrayed him, prepared to believe otherwise until he had been confronted by incontrovertible proof of Tarja’s treachery.

“I don’t believe you,” R’shiel insisted stubbornly.

“Then more fool you, girl.”

Padric emerged from the house in the company of Mandah, who avoided meeting R’shiel’s eye. He remounted, followed by two other rebels, then walked his horse forward and took the lead rein from the rebel holding her horse. His eyes were sad as he looked at her.

“It’ll be best if we leave now, lass,” he said. “You’ll not want to see what’s coming next.”

R’shiel glared at him. “You’re murderers! That’s all you are! Miserable, cold-blooded murderers. You’re going to murder Tarja, and you’re going to murder me!”

Padric pulled her horse closer to his. “Tarja has betrayed us both, R’shiel. His death is deserved. Yours will be unfortunate, but I’ve fought too long to stop now.” He kicked his horse forward, jerking her mare with him, and they galloped out of the yard. R’shiel looked back over her shoulder, but there was no sign of Tarja. Within moments, they were out of sight of the old vineyard.

They galloped at a nightmare pace along a track that was barely visible in the darkness. R’shiel was an experienced horsewoman, but her horse was being led, so she could do little but cling grimly with aching thighs and hope that she didn’t fall off. A fall at this breakneck pace would kill her. Of course, she was riding helter-skelter to a fate worse than death in any case, so it really did not matter if she broke her neck in a fall. It was almost enticing.

They rode along the edge of the river as the sky lightened into morning, and R’shiel could make out a small jetty where the elaborately decorated ship was moored. It was three times the size of the Maera’s Daughter or the Melissa and looked cumbersome and top-heavy, even to her inexperienced eye. Padric brought his small party to a halt and walked his horse forward onto the jetty.

Lord Pieter, dressed in decorative Karien armor, stepped onto the gangway and walked down the jetty to greet Padric. Following him was Elfron, wearing a simple brown cassock. He carried his glorious golden staff, which glittered in the dawn light. R’shiel dared hope a little at the sight of the priest. Pieter would not be able to indulge in anything remotely sinful with him on board.

“You have her?” the knight asked Padric, looking past the old rebel and straight at R’shiel.

“Aye.”

“Bring her here,” the knight ordered. “Elfron? What do you think?”

The priest walked down the jetty until he reached R’shiel’s horse. He studied her intently for a moment before laying the staff gently on her shoulder.

R’shiel screamed as intense pain shot through her like a white-hot lance. In agony, she fell from the horse and landed heavily on the ground.

Excitedly, Elfron touched the staff to her shoulder again and R’shiel screamed anew, certain her body would explode under the torment. He withdrew the staff and turned back to the knight.

“This is magic!” he declared in astonishment, as if he had never truly expected to see the effect of his staff on another living being. “The heathen magicians cannot fight the Staff of Xaphista. My vision was true! She is one of them!” He reached down and jerked R’shiel to her feet. She was sobbing uncontrollably, pain radiating from her shoulder. As she looked up, the Karien knight took a step backward.

“You have done well,” the Envoy told Padric, then he turned to Elfron and added, “Get her on the boat, quickly!”

Padric looked stunned and more than a little guilty as the priest dragged R’shiel away.

“What will you do with the girl?” Padric asked.

“The Staff of Xaphista is infallible! You have brought us proof that the Sisterhood harbors the Harshini. You can be assured that we will be forever grateful for your assistance. As for the girl, she will be burned on the altar of Xaphista in the Temple at Yarnarrow, as the Overlord showed us in Elfron’s vision.”

“Just you be sure to keep your side of the bargain.”

Pieter handed a heavy purse to the rebel, somewhat disdainfully. “I have given you my pledge, sir!”

The Envoy followed the priest onto the boat and gave the order to push off. R’shiel collapsed to her knees and knelt on the deck, watching the old rebel through tear-filled eyes as the boat moved out into the swift current. The old man stared at her, his expression distraught. A fine time to have an attack of guilt, R’shiel thought.

The agony subsided a little as the figures of the rebels on the wharf grew smaller and smaller in the distance. R’shiel cursed them all, fervently hoping that Padric lived a long, long time and suffered the guilt of his betrayal for the rest of his miserable life.

chapter 47

Jenga delivered the news of the escape from the Grimfield personally. Hearing Tarja had escaped with R’shiel was bad enough, but the news that Mahina was with them was of far greater concern. Reports from the Grimfield suggested that Mahina was a hostage, but Joyhinia did not believe that for a moment. She ordered him to face the Quorum and explain how such a thing could have occurred.

The rebellion had hurt Joyhinia more than she cared to admit, both personally and politically. Lord Pieter had been back on his annual visit, insisting that she allow the Kariens to deal with the ongoing problem of the heathen rebels. Her Purge, which had sounded so reasonable when she had removed Mahina, had brought nothing but scorn from the Envoy. He had all but accused Joyhinia of being in league with the heathens.

“How in the Founders’ name did Mahina get mixed up in this?” Harith demanded, almost before the Quorum had taken their seats. It was rare that Jenga was invited to the meetings these days. Usually, he must rely on Draco’s terse reports. The Spear of the First Sister stood behind the First Sister’s desk by the wall, his expression implacable. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“Tarja’s friendship with Mahina was no secret. He may have called on that friendship to aid in his escape,” Francil suggested. “Did it occur to anyone, when we decided to send him there, that Mahina was also at the Grimfield?”

The women all looked at Joyhinia accusingly.

“Do you have any idea of the damage she could do if she decides to throw her lot in with the rebels?” Louhina added.

“Mahina won’t betray us. She may have been misguided, but she would not turn on her own kind.”

“That’s not what you said when we threw her out,” Harith pointed out. “In fact, the word ‘betrayal’ featured rather prominently in your impassioned campaign to have her removed. Could it be that you might have made an error in judgment, First Sister?”

“I think you are overreacting, Harith. You forget that Mahina is an old woman. Tarja and R’shiel are heading for the Sanctuary Mountains. I suspect they will dump her somewhere along the way so she doesn’t slow them down. They may even kill her, which would be convenient.”

Jenga was appalled by her remark. None of the Quorum blinked.

“We need to take decisive action,” Joyhinia continued. “We must have troops in place to recapture the fugitives as soon as they are located.”

Joyhinia’s political survival depended on giving the impression that victory was certain. Troop movements would go a long way to convincing the Kariens that she was firm in her resolve to destroy the heathens, and if that meant mobilizing the entire Corps, she didn’t seem to care. And it would keep everyone’s thoughts occupied, Jenga thought, resenting her use of the Defenders in such a manner.

“Of course, I will announce publicly that we will spare no effort in rescuing Mahina from the rebels.” She turned to Jenga, acknowledging his presence for the first time. “I want the Defenders sent downriver to Testra immediately, as many as you can muster. It’s the most logical place to stage any offensive on the Sanctuary Mountains and that appears to be where they’re headed.” She glanced at the Sisters, before adding, “I need not add, my Lord Defender, that Mahina’s rescue is not the overriding concern in this campaign.”

“Your Grace?” Jenga asked, not at all certain he believed what she had just ordered him to do.

“Is there a problem, my Lord?”

“Such an order might be misinterpreted, your Grace. In my opinion—”

“Your opinion is not required, my Lord. Merely that you do as you are ordered.”

“Mahina was very popular among the Defenders, even before she became First Sister,” Jenga persisted. He could not take this order without objecting. Joyhinia was very close to pushing him too far. “Such an order will be... difficult to enforce.”

“He has a point,” Harith agreed. “Can you claim to own the same level of respect, Joyhinia?”

The First Sister glared at the Mistress of the Sisterhood. “The Defenders will honor their oath to the Sisters of the Blade. Of that I am sure. Is that not so, my Lord?”

Jenga hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yes, your Grace. That is so.”

Later that evening, Lord Jenga carefully folded the letter he was reading and rose from his chair as his visitor entered his office.

“You’ve heard the news?” he asked Garet.

The commandant nodded. “I warned you something like this would happen. You have always underestimated Tarja.”

“Now is not the time to apportion blame. I doubt we could have prevented this, no matter what we did. Any news on how that officer... what’s his name?”

“Loclon.”

“Any news on how he is faring?”

“He’ll live.”

“Has he been able to tell what happened?”

“Cortanen says he was muttering some gibberish about R’shiel and Harshini magic.”

“Harshini magic? Founders! That’s all I need! I want you to question him personally when he gets back to the Citadel.”

“I’ll see to it, sir. He should be fit to travel in a week or so. Was that all?”

The Lord Defender studied the commandant for a moment, then with a wave of his hand, indicated that he should sit. He remained standing.

“What I am about to reveal to you is highly confidential,” Jenga warned. Highly confidential and possibly treasonous, he added to himself. But he no longer felt able to bear the burden alone.

“I understand,” Garet said, although it was patently obvious that he didn’t. He might have even been a little offended that Jenga felt the need to warn him to secrecy.

“I have been ordered to ensure that if we find Mahina Cortanen alive, to see she doesn’t stay that way.”

“I don’t believe that even Joyhinia would go that far.”

“Believe it or not, it’s the truth.”

“But Mahina is no threat to the First Sister. What possible reason could she have for demanding such a thing?”

“Because Mahina is still dangerous. Mahina commanded more respect from the Defenders than any other First Sister before or since. Her involvement in this escape has taken the Sisterhood by surprise. Before the Karien Envoy left he was threatening invasion, if the First Sister does not gain a measure of control over the situation.”

“And what of the heathens?”

Jenga shrugged. “Numerically, I doubt they’re a genuine threat, but we can’t afford to have troops tied up routing out heathens if the Kariens appear on our northern border.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Follow my orders,” Jenga told him. “Most of them, anyway. But I promise you this: No Defender will take any action to harm Mahina, even if it means defying the current First Sister.”

Garet flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his jacket before he looked up, his expression grim. “You’re talking treason.”

“Am I?” Jenga sat down heavily. “Is it treason to refuse to carry out an order that you find morally reprehensible? If the First Sister ordered you to kill every prisoner in the Grimfield, would you do it?”

“Of course not, but—”

“Then you, sir,” Jenga said, “would be committing treason.”

Garet nodded. “Are you sure you understood your orders? Is it not possible that you misread her intentions?”

“No, I understood the First Sister well enough.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “It is quite disturbing, after all this time to think that Tarja may have been right.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Find Tarja,” Jenga said. “Before Joyhinia does.”

“It will cost money,” Garet warned. “Informants put a high price on their loyalty.”

“Do whatever you have to,” Jenga agreed.

Garet nodded. “And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, we uphold our oath.”

“To defend and serve the Sisters of the Blade for the protection of Medalon,” Garet quoted, an edge to his voice.

“Mahina is a Sister of the Blade, and the Defenders will defend her with the same vigor as any other Sister.”

“Even if it means defying Joyhinia?”

Jenga nodded slowly. “Aye. Even if it means that.”

Jenga took a walk among his troops later that evening. The barracks were alive with the sounds of men preparing to move out. They would leave at first light. The jingle of tack and the whine of swords being sharpened on oilstone overlaid the sound of voices talking excitedly at the prospect of action. He moved quietly between the buildings, not wishing to give his men the idea he was checking on them. A good commander always knew what his troops were feeling. A good officer could gauge the mood of his men and know whether they needed bullying or mothering. If these men were going into action, he needed to know, before they left the Citadel, if he had a fighting force or a liability at his back.

“Are you sure it’s Tarja we’re going after?”

Jenga stopped in the shadow of the Officer’s Barracks. He recognized the voice. It was Osbon, newly promoted to captain and itching for excitement.

“I heard a rumor it was the Harshini,” another voice added. Jenga thought it sounded like Nheal. He had been in Tarja’s class as a Cadet. He had failed to apprehend Tarja at Reddingdale and was the officer who took it into his head to conduct a snap inspection of the cell guards the morning of Tarja’s abortive escape attempt. Jenga was still not convinced it was a coincidence.

“The Harshini are a fairy tale,” a third voice scoffed. “It’s the Kariens we’re after. Their Envoy left recently, and he didn’t look happy.” Jenga wasn’t sure who the third man was, but he sounded older than the other two.

“Tarja said the Kariens were the real danger to Medalon,” Nheal said.

“And what good did it do him?” the third man asked.

“He’s escaped from the Grimfield. It’s bound to be him we’re after. Do you think they’ll hang him this time?”

“They should have hanged him the last time,” the other man pointed out. “I heard a rumor that he didn’t really desert, you know. That the whole thing was just a cover that he and Garet Warner worked out so that he could join the rebels and expose them.”

“Makes sense,” Osbon replied thoughtfully. “That would explain a lot of things. He’s got more guts than I have, let me tell you. I wouldn’t throw everything away...”

Jenga moved off, frowning in the darkness. Even publicly condemned, Tarja’s influence was still felt in the Defenders. He wished, not for the first time, that he had found the chance to speak with him alone. Not in the interrogation cells or in the company of the guards, but man to man.

Jenga was an honorable man, and his pride in the Defenders had sustained him for most of his life. He truly believed that they had a solemn duty to protect Medalon and the Sisters of the Blade. But he was finding it hard to reconcile his duty with his oath. For a while, when Mahina had been First Sister, he had positively relished his position, as he watched her trying to bring about some genuine change. Her reign had been all too brief.

Satisfied that the Defenders would be ready to move out in the morning, Jenga made his way back to his quarters. He picked up the letter on his desk and read it again. It was from Verkin on the southern border. Jenga had read it so often in the past few days, he knew its contents by heart.

So Dayan was dead. The manner did not surprise him, only that it had not happened sooner. He grieved for his brother, but his death finally freed him from his debt to Joyhinia. He read the letter again, then threw it on the fire and watched the flames consume it. When it was nothing more than white ash he dug out a bottle of illegally distilled potato spirit and for the first time in twenty years, drank himself into insensibility.

chapter 48

Tarja climbed to his feet warily as Ghari approached, pushing aside his despair in the face of a more immediate threat. They both knew that in a fight, Tarja would be the victor. He was bigger, stronger, and far better trained – a professional soldier – where Ghari was a farm-boy-turned-freedom-fighter. But the younger man wanted him to fight. Tarja could see it in his eyes. He wanted Tarja to resist so that he could take out some of his frustration and anger on the man who had once been his hero. Tarja was in no mood to accommodate him. Neither was he particularly enamored of being hanged.

“I didn’t betray you, Ghari,” Tarja repeated, partly as a plea and partly to distract the younger man long enough to get his bearings. Out in the yard, he heard voices again followed by horses leaving at a gallop. Padric leaving with R’shiel. How long would it take the old rebel to reach the Kariens? The faint beginnings of dawn lightened the sky through the dusty window.

“I don’t listen to traitors.” Ghari carried a sword but made no attempt to draw it. “Are you going to come peacefully, or kicking and screaming like the miserable coward you are?”

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.”

Ghari glared at him for a moment then motioned toward the door. “After you, Captain.”

Tarja walked toward the door, Ghari watching him warily. He was level with the young rebel before he brought his elbow up sharply into Ghari’s face. The young man barely had time to call out before he dropped to the floor, his hands clutched to his broken nose. Tears of pain filled his eyes as he opened his mouth to call out again, but Tarja silenced him with a second blow to the side of his head. He checked the pulse in Ghari’s neck to assure himself the lad was still alive. The young man had been about to escort him to his hanging. He had nothing about which to feel guilty. He quickly relieved the unconscious rebel of his sword and turned to face the door. Either Ghari’s cry had not been heard, or the rebels outside had not recognized the sound for what it was.

Tarja moved to the window and glanced out into the rapidly lightening yard. A dozen or more rebels were still out there, most of them concentrating on putting together a workable noose and pushing an unhitched wagon underneath the tree limb where the noose had been thrown. Mandah stood watching them, but her back was to him. Knowing he had only seconds, Tarja ran toward the back of the house and the cellars. He had supervised the construction of this stronghold and knew its every secret. He barreled down the stone steps into the wine cellar and ran through the gloom toward the last huge barrel. As raised voices reached him from above, he knew Ghari had been discovered. Tarja forced himself not to rush as he felt along the wall in the darkness for the concealed latch. Pushing down on it, he waited as the barrel swung slowly outward. He squeezed into the narrow opening and pulled it shut behind him, dropping the locking bar into place.

Muffled voices reached him in the darkness as the rebels searched the cellar. Tarja ignored them, and, stooping painfully, he felt his way along the tunnel. The darkness was complete. He could not even see his hand in front of his face. Forcing himself to stop for a moment, Tarja tried to remember all he could about where the tunnel led. It opened out in the vineyard, he knew that much, but how far from the house he could not recall. It was pointless worrying about it any case. He would just have to rely on the fact that if he had had enough brains to create an escape route, he also had the sense to make the exit a safe distance from the house.

Several nasty bumps on his forehead convinced Tarja that crawling on his hands and knees was the safest way to negotiate the suffocatingly dark tunnel. Scuttling insects scurried beneath his fingers as he crawled along the dank floor. More than once something dropped on him, and he brushed the unseen creature away with a shudder.

Time lost all meaning as he cautiously made his way through the tunnel, and he began to understand what it was to be blind by the time he discovered the exit by crawling headfirst into it. He let out a yelp of pain as he cracked his forehead on the rough wooden barricade. He touched his forehead and felt the wet, sticky blood with a sigh. Sitting back on his heels, he felt along the rough planking that was sealed with turf on the other side. The roots grew through the gaps in the planking and brushed his seeking hands like ghostly tentacles. He found the latch and forced it down, not really surprised when nothing happened. Pushing on the trapdoor proved fruitless. With a curse, he maneuvered himself around until he was lying on his back, then brought up both feet and kicked the door solidly. He winced at the sound in the close confines of the tunnel, praying there was nobody outside to hear it. A second kick brought a spear of light from a small crack in the opening. Several more kicks forced the trapdoor clear. Light pierced his eyes painfully as he turned his head away, giving himself a few moments to adjust. It would be pointless to get this far, just to stumble blindly out of the tunnel into the arms of his former comrades.

When he could finally face the light without squinting, he crawled clear of the tunnel into the open air. Tarja threw himself on the ground and took several deep breaths, the air clear and pure after the musty tunnel. His face pressed into the turf, he smelled the fresh dampness with unabashed delight. Nothing had ever smelled better.

Finally, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and looked back toward the farmhouse, astounded at the distance the tunnel had covered. It must have taken him hours to crawl through it. Glancing up at the sky, Tarja discovered the sun was quite high overhead. His elation vanished as he realized how great a start Padric had on him. He pushed himself up to his knees and looked around, suddenly aware of a deep rumbling that seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere. For a moment he stopped to listen, unable to place the sound, sure that it sounded like nothing so much as someone breathing. Someone very large, admittedly, but breathing, nonetheless. As he identified the sound, he glanced at the tree trunks that grew in front of the tunnel. Their roots spread out evenly like claws gripping the fresh turf. Two coppery-scaled trunks, glinting in the sunlight, grew from the clawlike roots. About the same time it occurred to Tarja that he wasn’t looking at tree trunks, he thought to look up.

The massive dragon’s head lowered itself slowly until its plate-sized eyes were almost level with his head.

“Are you human or worm?” the dragon asked curiously.

chapter 49

“You found him,” a musical voice said behind him as Tarja tore his eyes away from the curious gaze of the dragon.

“Of course,” the beast replied, as if there had never been any doubt regarding the outcome. Tarja looked over his shoulder. The woman who walked toward him was of the same tall and slender proportions as R’shiel, dressed in dark, close-fitting riding leathers that covered her like a second skin. The dragon moved his massive head forward to greet her, and she gently reached up and scratched the bony ridge over his huge eye. Her eyes were as black as midnight.

“You must be Tarja. My name is Shananara,” she said by way of introduction. “This is Lord Dranymire and his brethren.”

“His brethren?” He had not yet recovered from the shock of being confronted by a dragon, but he was certain there was only one creature standing before him.

“Dragons don’t really exist, Tarja. This beast is simply a demon meld.” She turned to the dragon. “You frightened him. I asked you to be careful.”

“He’s human. They jump at their own shadows.”

Shananara shrugged apologetically. “He’s not been around humans much lately. You’ll have to excuse him. Where is the child R’shiel?”

“R’shiel?” Tarja asked. “I don’t know. They rode off with her in the middle of the night. I think they plan to hand her over to the Kariens.”

Shananara’s expression clouded. She turned to the dragon. “Can you feel her at all?”

“We have felt little since early this morning when we felt her pain.”

“What does he mean?” Tarja asked, forgetting for a moment that he was talking to a dragon and a Harshini magician, two things that only a few days ago he thought were long extinct from his world. “What pain?”

“She might have done something. She’s already proved she has considerable power, particularly for a wildling; she just doesn’t know how to control it. Or...”

“Or what?” The Harshini was not telling him everything. For that matter, she was not telling him anything. What had happened to the rebels?

“If you say she has been given to the Kariens, then the pain may have been caused by a Karien priest,” the dragon informed him. “Unfortunately, we can only tell that she suffers. Not how.”

Tarja needed no further prompting. He turned for the farmhouse at run, his only thought to find a way to follow R’shiel. Shananara called after him. He ignored her. A thunderous rush of wind almost flattened him as he neared the farmhouse. The dragon landed, blocking his path. Tarja skidded to a halt. The beast was taller than a two-story building, and the span of his coppery wings was almost too wide for Tarja to comprehend. The dragon stared at him disdainfully.

“Human manners have not improved in the last few hundred years.”

Shananara caught up to them and grabbed Tarja’s arm, pulling him around to face her. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to find R’shiel. The Kariens have her.”

“You don’t know that for certain. And even if they do have her, you have no idea where she is or how to find her.”

“Then what do you suggest I do?” he snapped, intensely annoyed as he realized that she was right. He had no idea where Padric had taken R’shiel. All Tarja knew at that moment was that he had to find her and that he would happily murder Padric himself, if any harm had come to her.

The Harshini studied him. “Is she a particular friend of yours?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Shananara frowned, as if she knew something Tarja was not privy to. “Oh, nothing. Let’s wake up one of your rebel friends and ask him where they took her, shall we?”

Shananara led him back to the yard of the farmhouse. The dragon followed, his huge tail leaving a trail as wide as a narrow road in the dirt behind him. The dozen or so rebels who had been planning to hang him lay still on the ground, the noose waving gently in the breeze like a child’s swing. Tarja looked away from the uncomfortable reminder of his close brush with death and glanced about him with growing dread.

“Did you kill them?”

The Harshini rolled her eyes with exasperation. “No! Of course I didn’t kill them! What do you take me for? They’re asleep. Which one should we wake?”

Tarja looked around, but he could not see Ghari among the unconscious rebels. He led Shananara into the farmhouse and found the young man lying in the doorway, his face still bloodied and bruised from Tarja’s attack.

“What happened to him?” she asked.

“I hit him. I was trying to escape.”

She knelt down beside the unconscious rebel. “And these people were friends of yours? I wonder what you do to people you don’t like?”

“Just wake him up. Ghari will know where Padric took R’shiel.”

Shananara gently placed her hand on Ghari’s forehead, closing her eyes. Tarja watched expectantly, but he felt nothing. Ghari’s eyes fluttered open. He looked at them blankly for a moment before jerking backward in fear at the sight of the black-eyed Harshini woman leaning over him.

“Don’t be afraid,” Shananara said.

Tarja didn’t know if there was any magic in her musical voice, but the young rebel visibly relaxed as she spoke. He turned his gaze on Tarja before cautiously climbing to his feet. They stood back to give him room.

“What happened?” he asked, gingerly touching his broken nose.

“I escaped,” Tarja told him. “And the Harshini came looking for R’shiel.”

Ghari stared at the woman. “They really do exist?”

“Yes, they really do,” Tarja agreed. Every moment they wasted R’shiel was getting further away. “And the Karien Envoy will kill R’shiel as soon as he learns what she is. Where did Padric take her?”

Ghari’s eyes narrowed. “Why should I tell you anything?”

Tarja’s first impatient reaction was to beat the truth out of Ghari, but, as if she knew what he was planning, Shananara stepped between the two humans.

“Now, now, children. There is no need for any unpleasantness. Where did they take her, Ghari?”

The young rebel found his gaze locked with the Harshini’s. “To a jetty about eight leagues south of here. The Karien Envoy was to meet them there.”

She released the thrall on Ghari and turned to Tarja. “There! That was painless, wasn’t it?”

Tarja did a few rapid calculations in his head. The results were not encouraging. “She’s long gone, then. They would have handed her over just after dawn.”

“About the same time the demons felt her pain,” Shananara agreed. “I’m sorry, Tarja.”

“What do you mean, you’re sorry? Aren’t you going after her?”

“Tarja, we risked much coming this far. The demons can only assume a shape as complex as a dragon for a limited time, even with hundreds in the meld. I can’t risk taking them so far from Sanctuary. If the meld weakened and we were airborne at the time...” Her voice trailed off helplessly.

Tarja was sure that he would have been quite sympathetic to her plight had he the faintest idea what she was talking about.

“Can’t you do something?” he asked.

“I can,” she conceded, “but a Karien priest would see right through it. And not for you or R’shiel or the King of the Harshini, will I risk my demons being seen by a Karien priest. I’m sorry.”

“Then what do we do?” Tarja refused to give in so easily. He could not, would not, leave R’shiel in the hands of the Kariens. Not if there was the slightest chance he could save her. He owed her that much at least.

“Find a boat, I suppose,” she suggested. “I don’t know much about them, but I imagine there are faster boats on the river than the Karien Envoy’s. Shipbuilding was never a strength of the Kariens. Maybe you can catch up with them.”

“And then what? Suppose I get her back? Will you help then?”

“Do you know what you’re doing, Tarja?” she asked. “Do you know the pain that comes from loving a Harshini?”

“What?”

“We call it Kalianah’s Curse,” she told him. “You will grow old and die, Tarja, while she is in the prime of her life. Just because we look human, don’t mistake us for your kind. You do not understand the differences between our races. They are differences that can only cause you pain.”

Tarja opened his mouth to object again and then wondered why he should bother. He did not have the time to argue with her.

“Will you help her or not?”

“You’ve been warned,” she said shaking her head. She slipped a small pendant over her head and handed it to Tarja. He examined it carefully. It was a cube of transparent material with the faint image of a dragon clutching the world in its claws etched in the center. “If you find her. If you are certain you’re unobserved and only if the Karien priest is dead, you may call us.”

“Only if the Karien priest is dead?” Tarja asked. “I thought you people abhorred killing?”

“We do. And I am not asking you to kill the priest. I couldn’t do that, even if I wanted to. I am simply telling you that you must not call us unless the priest is dead.”

Tarja slipped the fine gold chain over his own head and hid the pendant under his shirt, wondering at the fine distinction she made between not asking him to kill the priest and asking him to ensure he was dead. He glanced at Ghari, who stood staring wonderingly through the open doorway at Dranymire, who had settled himself down in the center of the yard, his huge tail wrapped elegantly around him like a contented cat.

“I’ll take Ghari with me,” Tarja told her. “What about the others?”

“They’ll wake up eventually. They will remember nothing.”

“What about Mahina?”

“She is safe with Affiana and the other human. Never fear, Tarja, they will not be harmed.”

“Is Affiana one of you?”

The Harshini shook her head. “She is the descendant of Brak’s human half-sister. Brak’s niece, I suppose you could call her.” She laughed at his expression. “Brak is somewhat... older than he appears. He was born in a time when human and Harshini were less at odds with each other. Don’t let it bother you, Tarja.”

With a frown, Tarja pushed Ghari ahead of him into the yard. Dranymire turned a curious eye on the two humans. “Are we taking them, too? You should have told us if you wanted a public transport conveyance. Then we could have assumed the form of a drafthorse.”

“No, my Lord,” Shananara assured him. “They have other tasks to take care of.”

The demons in dragon form stared directly at Tarja. “You seek the wildling?” Tarja nodded, assuming he – they – meant R’shiel. “Then we wish you luck, little human,” the dragon said gravely.

Tarja and Ghari rode into Testra midafternoon on the wagon that had taken them to the farmhouse the night before. Tarja’s eyes were gritty with lack of sleep, and the wound on the back of his head throbbed at every bump in the road. Ghari looked in even worse shape, his nose swollen and bent, but at least he had the benefit of a few hours’ sleep – albeit magically induced. The young heathen had been strangely quiet ever since meeting the Harshini and her demons, for which Tarja was extremely grateful. It was hard enough for him to cope with all he had seen and heard this day, and Tarja at least had some inkling that the Harshini still flourished. Ghari, on the other hand, had confidently considered them long extinct, despite his belief in their gods. Since seeing the mighty Lord Dranymire and his brethren in dragon form, Ghari had been in shock, answering only in monosyllables. Occasionally he reached across to grip Tarja’s forearm painfully to demand: “It was a dragon, wasn’t it?”

By the time they rode into the town, Ghari had recovered his wits somewhat. Although hardly talkative, he had lost the wide-eyed look of startled terror that he had worn for most of the day. They drove their wagon slowly through the town, heads lowered. Tarja had discarded his Defender’s uniform gladly, and they were dressed as farmhands. He turned the wagon for the docks and looked at Ghari.

“Do you have many riverboat captains among your sympathizers?”

“A few. But we’ll be lucky if they’re here. Do you have any money?”

“Not a rivet.”

“Then we’ll have trouble. Even our sympathizers won’t take us for love. They must have coin to show their owners at the end of their journey.”

“We’ll think of something,” Tarja assured his companion, although how, he had no idea. As they drove along the waterfront, he glanced at the dozen or more riverboats tied up at the docks. Which of them, he wondered, could he convince to risk everything in pursuit of a vessel belonging to a foreign envoy, to save a girl who was one of a race that supposedly no longer existed?

“Here,” Ghari told him, pointing at a swinging tavern sign. The Chain and Anchor was the largest tavern along the wharf, and even from this distance, Tarja could hear the rowdy singing coming from the taproom. He pulled the wagon to a stop and climbed down.

Ghari followed him, catching his arm. “I have to ask you, Tarja. Was Padric right about the letter? Were you really writing to the Defenders?”

“We’re not ready for a war, Ghari. I wasn’t trying to betray you, I was trying to protect you.”

“But what of our people who died after you were captured? How did the Sisterhood learn of them?”

“You underestimate the depth of Garet Warner’s intelligence network. Joyhinia had those names long before I was captured. She simply held off using them until it would have the most effect.”

The young man nodded. He jerked his head in the direction of the tavern, the matter apparently now put to rest. “They know me here,” he warned. “And your name isn’t very popular. Keep your head down. I’ll do the talking.” Tarja stood back and let Ghari lead the way.

The taproom was crowded with sailors. The singing was coming from half a dozen men standing on a table near the door, their arms linked, belting out a chorus about a handsome sailor and a very accommodating mistress. Another sailor accompanied them on a squeezebox. He seemed to know only about three notes, but he played each one with great enthusiasm, making up in volume what he lacked in talent. Tarja lowered his head as he followed Ghari through the crush of bodies, trying not to draw any attention to himself. Ghari pushed his way through to the bar, leaning forward to catch the eye of the overworked but extremely prosperous tavern keeper. Tarja glanced around the room, hoping he would recognize someone, praying no one would recognize him. In the far corner of the room, a figure was hunched miserably over his tankard, his back to the revelers, totally uninvolved in the celebrations. Startled, Tarja tapped Ghari on the arm and pointed. Ghari’s eyes widened in surprise and he abandoned his attempt to catch the tavern keeper’s attention. They pushed their way back through the crowd.

Ghari sat down opposite the old man and placed a hand on his shoulder. Tarja stood behind him, partly to stop him escaping and partly because he needed time to dampen the anger he felt at the sight of the old man. This man, this former friend, had handed R’shiel over to the Kariens.

“Padric?” Ghari said. “Where are the others?”

Padric raised his head slowly. He was as drunk as a bird that had spent the day feasting on rotten jarafruit. “Murderers,” he mumbled, miserably. “She called us murderers.”

“Padric!”

“We shouldn’t have killed him, lad,” Padric continued woefully. “I knew him. He wasn’t a traitor. He explained about the letter. He was trying to save lives, not destroy them. I should have trusted him. And R’shiel. She really was—”

Ghari looked at Tarja in exasperation. Tarja leaned over the old man and grabbed his collar, pulling him up. “Then it’s a damn good thing I’m still alive, isn’t it?” he said in a low voice.

Padric turned his red rimmed eyes to Tarja. “Tarja!”

“Shut up!” Ghari hissed, with a nervous glance around the rowdy taproom. “We have to get a boat. We’re going to get R’shiel back.”

Padric never questioned Ghari’s change of heart. His anguish was clear for anyone to see, and he drunkenly grabbed at the chance to undo his deed.

“We’ll have to hurry. But you won’t find help among this lot. The word has just come that the Defenders are mobilizing. They’re all headed north to Brodenvale to pick up the troops.”

“Mobilizing?” Tarja glanced back over his shoulder. That accounted for the celebration, at least. The sailors cared little for the Sisterhood, but there was a lot of money to be made transporting troops. The crews were facing a period of upcoming prosperity. The fact that it would halt virtually all other trade on the river and threaten the livelihood of countless other folk bothered them not at all. “What for?”

“To destroy us, of course,” Padric mumbled. “Word is out that you are here and heading for the mountains. The entire bloody Corps will be on us in a matter of weeks.”

The news concerned Tarja. He had arrived in Testra only the day before. For the news to reach the sailors in Testra, Joyhinia must have ordered the mobilization within hours of learning of their escape from the Grimfield.

The tavern door swung open and another crew entered the tavern, although they looked less enthusiastic about the celebration than the sailors who were already well into their cups. With a silent prayer to the Harshini gods he did not believe in, who he was certain must be looking out for him, he turned back to Ghari.

“I think we’ve found our boat,” he said. “Get him out of here and meet me at the wagon.”

Ghari was quickly falling back into the old habit of doing what Tarja ordered. He nodded and stood up, helping the drunken old rebel to his feet. Tarja watched them leave and then turned his attention back to the big Fardohnyan who was pushing his way through the throng to the bar. His brothers waited near the door, looking for an empty table. Tarja waved and pointed to the table that Padric had just vacated. The two men nodded and made their way across the room to him. They had not recognized him, merely taking him for a helpful farmer. Drendik was not far behind them, but as he turned to thank Tarja, his brows rose in startled recognition.

“You!” he exclaimed.

“I need your help,” he said, not bothering with any preamble. “There is a Harshini girl in trouble. The Karien Envoy has her.”

If there was one thing Tarja knew that would rile a Fardohnyan it was mentioning the Kariens, whom they hated with something close to religious fervor. To throw in the Harshini, whom they revered with equal passion, was guaranteed to get the riverboat captain’s attention.

“The Kariens have a Harshini?” the younger sailor demanded. Although they revered them, it was unlikely the Fardohnyans had ever laid eyes on a Harshini. Unlike Padric and the rebels, however, they did not question the continuing existence of the fabled race.

“Will you help me?”

“Well it’s damned certain I won’t be ferrying Medalonian troops for the cursed Sisterhood,” Drendik said. The Fardohnyan downed his large tankard in one go and slammed it down on the table. “Well, my rebellious young friend, let us go forth and gain the favor of the gods by saving one of their chosen ones. Do you have any money?”

Tarja shook his head and the Fardohnyan sighed. “There’s just no profit in being a hero these days.”

chapter 50

The Karien Envoy studied R’shiel fearfully as the ship was picked up and pushed south by the current before he turned to Elfron. R’shiel was still on her hands and knees at Pieter’s feet, trying to push back waves of nausea. The pain from Elfron’s staff had subsided to a vicious aching throb that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

“What did you do to her?”

“I did nothing,” Elfron said. “It is Xaphista who has spoken through the power of his staff. She is Harshini.”

“But she’s the First Sister’s daughter! Or at least she was, until Joyhinia disowned her. Do you suppose she knew?”

“Of course she knew! Have I not been warning you that the Sisterhood is in league with the forces of evil? You are lucky, my Lord, that she did not attempt to entrap you.”

If she was in league with the forces of evil, it was the first R’shiel had heard about it. Pieter looked at her again, but there was no lust or desire in his eyes. Just loathing.

“Take her below.”

“We should tie her to the mast so that all of Medalon can see that we have captured an evil one,” Elfron declared. “We must let it be known that Xaphista cannot be deceived.”

“Don’t be a fool! You can’t sail through Medalon with one of their women tied to the mast! Do you want to provoke a war?”

“She is not one of their women, she is a Harshini witch,” he pointed out. “Medalon should rejoice in the knowledge that we have removed a serpent from the breast of their insidious Sisterhood.”

“The Harshini mean nothing to these people! They are a forgotten race. Only in Karien, where the power of the Overlord protects us from the thrall of the Harshini, do we remember the threat. They will not rejoice in your triumph, Elfron, they will run you through!”

Elfron conceded the point with ill grace. “Very well then, secure her below. But when we have left the Glass River, when we are safely through the Fardohnyan Gulf and are back in Karien waters, then she will be tied to the mast so that our people, at least, may rejoice in our triumph. My vision was a true one. We shall sail the Ironbrook in glory.”

With an imperious wave of his arm, Pieter ordered two sailors to drag her below. R’shiel did not resist. She was still shaking and weak as they half-dragged, half-carried her along the deck and pushed her below, finally locking her in a small storage cabin at the end of a long passage. Light filtered in dimly from the slatted door. Feeling her way along the deck, she found a pile of musty smelling sacks and collapsed onto them.

Tears spilled onto the dirty sacks as R’shiel gave in to a wave of hopelessness. Her grief over Tarja’s death overwhelmed her for a time, left her hollow and sick. It felt like the perfect side dish to accompany the main course of her pain. She didn’t care what happened now. No suffering anyone could inflict on her could be worse than the suffering she could inflict upon herself by simply thinking of Tarja.

R’shiel dozed for while in the small cabin, as they sailed further south. The cabin grew uncomfortably warm as the day progressed, and she woke up feeling thirsty and hungry, but no one came to offer her any sustenance. She looked around the shelves in the gloom and found nothing useful. The closet contained old sacks, lengths of rope, and several barrels of foul-smelling pitch, but nothing remotely resembling food or water. Had they forgotten she was down here, or was it their intention to starve her to death? She did not think that likely. Elfron was too enamoured of the idea of sailing up the Ironbrook River with his Harshini prize lashed to the main mast. He would not allow her to die before then and rob him of his triumph.

With nothing else to do and her grief over Tarja beginning to settle like grit in a bottle of sour wine, R’shiel finally thought to wonder about Pieter and Elfron and their strange notion that she was Harshini. It seemed so unreal. Brak had told her a great deal about the Harshini on their journey from the Grimfield. He made them sound so charming and elegant that she had almost wished they still lived. His tales had drawn her out of herself, woven a magical web of wonder over her bruised and battered soul. Until now, she had not realized how much Brak had helped her. In the days following her escape from the Grimfield, she had not particularly cared if she lived or died. There had been a fear in her that she couldn’t name, an unwillingness to face what she had done, an inability to even comprehend it. She had told Brak of the mural in her room, and from her description, he had been able to tell her what the mural represented. Sanctuary, he called it. A place built by the Harshini to provide a haven of peace. A place where joy and laughter filled the halls and serenity washed over the soul with every breath. She wondered how much Brak had known and how much of it he had made up. He should have been a bard.

But it seemed rather odd that the Harshini, who were long dead and gone, should suddenly loom so large in her life. First Brak had regaled her with stories about them, then Tarja had tried to convince the rebels that she was one, when he would have been much better off telling them something more credible. His folly had likely cost him his life. Now Elfron and Lord Pieter were taking her back to Karien to burn her as a witch because they thought she was one of them, too. Was it possible? Had her unknown father been a Harshini? A lifetime of certainty was threatened by the very notion. She knew her mother had refused to name her father. But the Harshini were dead. The Sisterhood had destroyed them.

It was long after dark when Elfron finally came for her. The motion of the boat had changed, and R’shiel wondered if they had pulled into the riverbank for the night. She knew next to nothing about boats but suspected that the Karien vessel must be a seafaring ship, ill-equipped to deal with the river. It was likely that the Envoy’s captain was not familiar enough with the Glass River to risk sailing it at night.

In the vain hope that unconsciousness would spare her the pain of her grief, her throbbing shoulder, her dry throat, and her rumbling stomach, R’shiel was trying to sleep when she heard a rattle in the lock. She had eaten nothing since dinner at the inn in Testra. The part of her that was still grieving hoped that it would not take too long to die of thirst or starvation. The part of her that still lived craved food and water with a passion that almost overcame her grief. A spark of life burned in R’shiel, too bright to be put out by grief or pain.

Elfron threw open the door and ordered her to stand. She did so slowly, as much from physical weakness as fear. He grabbed her arm as soon as she was standing and pulled her from the cabin. He propelled her forward along the passage to another cabin with elaborately carved double doors. In his left hand, Elfron clutched the Staff of Xaphista. R’shiel glanced at it, knowing that her idle boast to herself earlier, that no pain could exceed the pain of losing Tarja, was a hollow one indeed when faced with the staff.

The cabin was sumptuously furnished. Everything – the bedhead, the chairs, the paneled walls – was inlaid with gold, and everywhere the five-pointed star intersected with a lightning bolt shone out. Even the blue satin quilt on the bed was embroidered with the symbol, beautifully worked in gold thread. The richness of the cabin was overpowering.

“You stand in the presence of the Overlord’s representative,” Elfron told her. “You are unclean. You will cleanse yourself and dress more appropriately before we begin.” He indicated a jug and washbowl that lay on the table next to a small covered tray. Over the back of one of the chairs was a rough cassock, similar to the one that Elfron wore, which seemed plain and ordinary amid the sumptuousness of the cabin. R’shiel eyed him warily, but Elfron appeared to have no more interest in her than he would in any other animal. R’shiel did as he ordered, turning her back to him as she peeled off her clothes. Elfron continued to watch her as she washed herself with all the concern he might have shown watching a cat lick itself clean. She pulled on the rough, itchy cassock and turned to face him.

“You may eat,” he told her, indicating the tray.

R’shiel removed the covering cloth and discovered a loaf of dry black bread and a small pitcher of wine. It was quite the most lavish feast she had ever consumed. She ate the bread hungrily and drank every drop of the watered wine, watching the priest out of the corner of her eye. Elfron continued to ignore her until she had finished. As she wiped the last crumbs of the bread from her mouth with the back of her hand, he nodded with satisfaction.

“You will now tell me where the Harshini settlement is hidden,” he announced in the same implacable tone as he had ordered her to wash and eat.

R’shiel glanced at the staff warily before she answered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Lying is a sin. You will answer honestly, or suffer the wrath of Xaphista’s staff.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know. The Harshini are dead. I’m not one of them. I’m as human as you are.”

“You are not human,” Elfron declared, moving the staff so that he held it in both hands. The lantern light glittered dangerously off the precious stones. “You are the essence of Harshini evil. You wear the body of a whore, designed to tempt the righteous from the true path. Your beauty is contrived and designed solely to beguile pious men. You flaunt your woman’s body and seduce devout souls with your godless magic. The Overlord spoke to me in a vision and demanded your surrender. He will not – cannot – be denied.”

R’shiel stepped backward as he ranted. She didn’t know if Elfron was mad or merely devoted to the point of insanity, and it really didn’t matter. The end result was the same. He stepped forward and brought down the staff sharply across R’shiel’s already tender shoulder. Once again the agony shot through her, forcing a scream of soul-wrenching torment. He held it there as she fell to the floor, chanting under his breath in a slow litany. R’shiel screamed and screamed until her throat was raw, and then she screamed again.

Elfron’s eyes were alight with religious fervor as he watched her, his pleasure almost sexual in its intensity. R’shiel’s cries were incoherent in their terror and agony as fire lanced through her body – she felt as though a white-hot sword slashed her.

“You fool! You’ll kill her!”

The agony suddenly eased as Pieter snatched the staff from Elfron’s hand. The priest looked down at R’shiel’s sobbing, twitching body.

“Xaphista will see that she lives long enough to be sacrificed.”

“Well, I’d prefer not to put the Overlord to the trouble. I said you could question her, not make her scream like a banshee. Every farmlet in a five-league radius probably heard her, you fool!”

Elfron snatched the staff back from the knight. “Why do you seek to spare her?” he asked. “Has the insidious lure of the witch overcome you?”

Pieter glanced down at R’shiel’s limp, trembling body with disgust. “She has you in a thrall, more likely,” the knight scoffed. “I find her repulsive. Put her back in the storeroom and leave her be. She is no use to either of us like this. Not even our people would consider that a threat.” He waved his arm disdainfully toward the terrified, sobbing girl.

Elfron sniffed, bowing reluctantly to the knight’s logic. “Have her removed, then.”

Pieter’s eyes narrowed at the presumptuous order, but he obeyed. R’shiel felt strong, rough hands dragging her to her feet and back down the long passage to her cell. They threw her in, and she landed heavily on the floor. She dragged herself over to the pile of musty sacks as she heard the door being locked. As she lost consciousness, her last thought was an idle question: How much pain does it take to die?

chapter 51

“Did you really speak with a dragon?”

Tarja glanced at the captain. The Fardohnyan gripped the wheel of the riverboat, steering it with unconscious skill as the Maera’s Daughter flew southward. Running with the current and under a full set of sails, the small boat was making astounding speed. They had traveled through the night, though even Drendik had balked at doing that under sail, settling for running with the current instead. As soon as dawn broke, the Fardohnyans and the rebels had set the sails, and a crisp breeze had sprung up, snapping the canvas sharply and pushing the boat on. Drendik had assured Tarja it was proof the gods favored their mission. Tarja privately considered it nothing more than luck, but he was not about to offend the Fardohnyan’s beliefs. “Yes, I truly spoke with a dragon.”

During the long night and the following day, Tarja had related most of his tale to the Fardohnyans. He had finally managed to sleep earlier this morning and had come up on deck to find them much farther south than he would have thought possible. Drendik was confident they would overtake the Karien boat by nightfall. He had seen it in his travels and gave Tarja a long list of reasons why it would not move very fast, starting with the basic stupidity of its design and finishing with the incompetence of its crew. But more than anything, Drendik was enchanted by the idea that Tarja had met a dragon.

“You are truly blessed by the Divine Ones, if they allowed you to speak to a dragon,” Drendik assured him. “Even our most powerful magicians only claim to have heard of them. I never met anyone who actually spoke to a demon meld before.”

“Neither have I.”

The big Fardohnyan laughed. “You’re all right for an atheist.”

“Where are we?” Tarja asked, glancing at the rolling grasslands that faded into the distance on either side of the river. The sun hovered low over the jagged purple horizon in the distance that was the Sanctuary Mountains.

“About four days from Bordertown at this speed,” Drendik told him. “We should find them soon.” He glanced at the setting sun on the western horizon. “They will pull into the bank for the night.”

Tarja was willing to believe anything that Drendik told him that meant they would catch the Karien Envoy before he left Medalon, although Drendik’s assessment was more than likely correct. Unfamiliar-ity with the Glass River was a prime cause of accidents on the vast waterway. Even Tarja, who had spent little time on the river, knew that.

“And when we find them? What then?” Tarja asked. “If you help us storm the boat, it will be considered an act of piracy.”

Drendik shrugged. “Storming a Karien boat to rescue a Divine One would be considered an act of great chivalry where I come from.” He slapped Tarja’s shoulder companionably, almost knocking him down. “You are kind to worry, but we were heading south anyway. We only make this trek once a year. By next year they will have forgotten about us.”

“You don’t have to help,” Tarja assured him. “We can do it on our own.”

“What? You, the young hothead, and the old man?” Drendik said, highly amused at the idea. “I admire your courage, rebel, but not your common sense.”

“Just thought I’d offer.”

“That’s settled then,” Drendik announced, glancing at the rapidly setting sun again. “Aber! Reef that mainsail! At this rate we’ll sail straight past them!”

They sailed on as darkness settled over the river and the nighttime chorus of insects struck up their evening song. The Maera’s Daughter slipped silently through the water on the very edge of the current. Tarja glanced up at the main mast, where Aber was perched precariously, watching for the telltale lanterns. Ghari and Gazil were in the bow, watching for any sign that would betray the presence of the Kariens. Tarja stood with Padric and Drendik, who skillfully kept the riverboat hovering between the still waters of the river’s edge and the powerful current in the center. They sailed on in the darkness for hours, in the same state of nervous anticipation, until Tarja was certain they had either passed the Karien boat, or Drendik was wrong in assuming they would stop for the night.

A low whistle from Aber caused them all to look up. The sailor pointed to the western bank, and Tarja quickly followed his arm. Almost too faint to make out, several small pinpoints of light twinkled in the darkness.

Drendik wrenched the wheel of the boat around toward the western bank, and Tarja cringed as she creaked in complaint. Aber and Gazil raced to set the gaff sail as Drendik cut sharply across the current, angling toward the opposite bank. They were running without lights, but Tarja was certain someone on board must see them as the current took them closer and closer. The bulk of the top-heavy Karien ship took shape in the darkness. Maera’s Daughter seemed tiny in comparison. Drendik eased the little boat into the bank and Tarja felt it bump gently against reeds. A small splash sounded as Gazil dropped the anchor and Aber scurried down the mast in the darkness. The men gathered on the deck and looked at Tarja expectantly.

“Can you all swim?” he asked, as it suddenly occurred to him that his grand rescue would fall rather short of the mark if his small band of heroes drowned before they got to the Karien ship. A series of nods reassured him his plan was workable, and he quietly issued his orders. Aber and Ghari were to take the bow, Gazil and Padric the stern, leaving the midships for Drendik and Tarja. It was likely that R’shiel was being held below decks so Tarja and Drendik would make their way below while the others took care of any resistance above. The men nodded silently in the darkness, not questioning his orders.

“Let’s go then,” he said.

“You have forgotten something,” Drendik reminded him. “The priest.”

“What about the priest?” Padric asked. His eyes looked haunted in the darkness, as if he bore some terrible guilt.

“Kill the priest,” Tarja said. “If we do nothing else, we kill the priest.”

Drendik and the Fardohnyans nodded in agreement. Padric seemed equally content. Only Ghari glanced at Tarja with a doubtful look. Tarja shrugged, as if to tell the young man that he had no idea why it was so important to kill the priest but that the Harshini and the Fardohnyans both thought the world would be a better place without him.

The water was icy as Tarja slipped into the shallows next to Maera’s Daughter and gently pushed out into the river. With a borrowed Fardohnyan sword strapped to his back and a viciously barbed Fardohnyan dagger between his teeth, Tarja swam toward the bulk of the Karien vessel. He could make out the bobbing heads of his companions as they moved toward the ship. The length of rope he carried over his shoulder was quickly becoming soaked, and he could feel it weighing him down as the river deepened near the hull of the bigger vessel. He looked up at the deck as he unhooked the rope, wondering how he could get enough swing up to hook the rope over the railing, which towered over him. A soft whistle caught his attention and he turned. As if sensing his dilemma, Aber held up the grappling hook attached to his own rope and began circling it overhead, letting a little more of the rope out with each revolution. Finally, he flung the rope up, letting the momentum of the swing and the weight of the hook carry the rope upward. It landed with a clatter on the deck and wrapped itself around a carved upright. With a silent nod, Tarja thanked the boy for his demonstration and followed suit. He winced at the sound of the hook scraping across the deck, but it seemed to attract no attention from above. Tarja tugged on the rope to assure himself that it would hold and began to pull himself up, hand over hand, onto the deck.

The main deck was deserted, which worried Tarja, as he hauled himself over the railing and dropped into a low, dripping crouch. He grasped the dagger in his left hand. He saw Drendik climb over the starboard rail and glance around, his beard dripping, a curious shrug greeting the absence of any guards.

Tarja pointed to the large carved door amidships, below the poop deck. With a nod, they moved silently toward it. Tarja glanced around again before trying the gilt handle. He cried out as a white-hot bolt of pain tore through his arm, leaving it numb to the shoulder. Almost as soon as he triggered the magical alarm, the deck came to life as a dozen or more armed Kariens emerged from their hiding places. A flare of light split the night from the poop deck. The small band of invaders backed up nervously, staring up at the specter of the Karien priest who stood on the poop deck clutching a blazing staff in one hand and holding R’shiel by the hair with the other.

“Is this what you have come for?” the priest crowed, jerking R’shiel’s head back. In an instant, any lingering doubt Tarja had about the fate of the priest vanished. “Drop your weapons!”

Reluctantly, the Fardohnyans and the rebels did as they were bid. The Karien sailors rushed forward to herd the would-be pirates together as Tarja stared up at R’shiel. There were no marks on her that he could see, but she looked dazed and limp. Blinded by the magical light from the staff, it was more than likely that she did not know who her erstwhile rescuers were.

As they were gathered together, Tarja realized that Padric had not been apprehended. He was to have taken the poop deck with Gazil. Was he dead already, or had the priest revealed his presence before the old man could haul himself aboard?

As if in answer to his unspoken question, a yell came from the poop deck as Padric ran at the priest, his sword held high, aimed squarely at the priest’s exposed back. The priest turned and threw R’shiel aside as he raised his arm to ward off the attack. Almost casually, the Karien Envoy stepped forward and ran the old man through.

Tarja and his companions did not waste time grieving for him. The startled priest dropped the staff and the boat was suddenly plunged into darkness. They dived for their weapons as the Kariens milled in confusion. Tarja tripped on the pile of discarded weapons. He found a sword, scooped it up with his left hand and ran it into the shadow that appeared before him, relieved that he had not run through one of his own men by mistake, when the man screamed a Karien curse. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he ran toward the companionway, his only thought to get to R’shiel before the priest could retrieve his staff and light the boat again. By the time he reached the poop deck, his eyes were accustomed to the dim starlight, although his sword arm still hung uselessly by his side, numbed from the magical blast. The priest was on his hands and knees, feeling about for the staff that lay just out of his reach. The Envoy was standing at the head of the companionway on the far side of the deck, fighting off a determined attack from the Fardohnyan captain. R’shiel lay near the fallen staff.

“R’shiel!”

She ignored the priest for a moment and turned toward him. As Elfron reached for the staff, she suddenly seemed to come alive. She kicked it away from him and scrambled to her feet. A Karien sailor behind him distracted Tarja for a moment. He turned, banging the railing painfully with his useless right hand and kicked the man in the face, throwing him backward into two more Kariens who were trying to follow him up the companionway. When he turned back, a blinding light split the night again, but it was R’shiel who held the staff, not the priest.

Screaming, she grimly clung to the staff, as if holding it caused excruciating pain. The priest screeched an agonized protest. With an incomprehensible cry, she swung the staff in a wide arc and smashed it against the mizzenmast.

The light from the staff died in a moment of complete darkness, then the mast suddenly burst into flame. Within seconds the flames spread along the boat in strange green lines of fire. Tarja jumped back from the rail as it flared beneath his hand. The magical fire consumed the wards protecting the ship like they were lines of lamp oil, blistering the garish blue paint and eating into the wood beneath. In less than a minute, the entire ship was ablaze.

“Tarja!” R’shiel screamed, as she dropped the broken staff, holding her burned hands out in front of her. He ran toward her, leaping the rising flames that stood between them. Only the fact that he was drenched from his swim saved him from the inferno. Drendik reached them about the same time. The Karien Envoy lay at the head of the companionway, the Fardohnyan’s sword embedded in the center of his decorated armored chest. Tarja spared the captain a glance, wondering at the strength of the man. The Karien’s armor might have been ceremonial, but it still took a great deal of strength to pierce it. As he reached R’shiel, she collapsed into his arms. Pins and needles attacked his numb right arm as the feeling began to return. Tarja threw his sword to Drendik. The Fardohnyan snatched it from the air and turned on the priest, slicing the man from shoulder to belly where he stood. Without hesitating, Tarja ran for the side of the boat, crashing through the flaming rail into the darkness and the safety of the river below. R’shiel, the loose cassock aflame, screamed as she felt them falling. Then the dark icy water swallowed them, pulling them down into its glassy depths.

chapter 52

In the dawn light, the smoldering hull of the Karien boat looked forlorn, floating near the shore amid the burned flotsam of what had once been a mighty, if rather cumbersome vessel. It had burned to the waterline. Another smoking pile smoldered on the shore, where the bodies of the Karien sailors had been cremated. Gazil, Aber, and Ghari spent the remainder of the night at their grizzly task, gathering the bodies from the water’s edge and throwing them on the impromptu funeral pyre. The Fardohnyans were not pleased with the cremations but were willing to make an exception for the Kariens, particularly when Tarja pointed out what would happen if the bodies washed up downstream. The body of the Envoy had not been recovered. Tarja supposed he had sunk into the muddy river, weighted down by his ornate armor. The body of the priest lay separate from the pyre. Tarja would not let them burn it, not yet. They were all tired and filthy, worn out by the night’s exertions and suffering the typical letdown of men who had faced death and then discovered, somewhat to their surprise, that they had survived.

Tarja scanned the western horizon again, expectantly, but the sky remained clear. With a sigh, he turned back toward the small fire that Drendik had built, away from the sight of the funeral pyre. R’shiel sat beside it, wearing the charred remains of a cassock and wrapped in a gray woolen blanket, her eyes vacant. Tarja was desperately worried about her. She had said nothing since they had dragged her ashore. She flinched whenever somebody touched her, even accidentally. Her hands were burned where she had gripped the staff, and another deep burn scarred her right shoulder.

Ghari walked up the small rise to stand beside him.

“You know the irony of all this,” Tarja remarked to the young rebel, “is that we’ve started a war despite ourselves. When the Kariens learn their Envoy was killed on Medalon soil, they’ll be over the border in an instant. The alliance is well and truly broken.”

“I think Padric knew it, too,” he said. For a moment they shared a silent thought for the old rebel. His body had been one of the first they recovered.

“Will she be all right?” Ghari asked, glancing at R’shiel’s hunched and trembling figure.

“What happened on the boat was magic, and I don’t know anything about it. Hell, I don’t even believe in it.” He studied her for a moment and added, “She needs her own people now.”

“Did you call them?”

Tarja nodded. “Hours ago.”

Ghari scanned the horizon, just as Tarja had been doing a few moments before, then he turned to Tarja. “You said it was magic? I thought the Kariens hated magic more than the Sisterhood?”

“So did I.”

“Maybe it wasn’t magic. Maybe it was their god.”

Tarja smiled grimly at the suggestion. “Ghari, do you honestly think we would be standing here now if a god had intervened on their behalf?”

“I suppose not.” He turned back to study the horizon again. “Tarja! Look!”

Tarja followed his pointing finger and discovered two dark specks in the sky, rapidly growing larger as they approached the river. A coppery glint of light reflected off the specks and removed all doubt about what they were. He nodded with relief and headed down toward the fire.

Drendik was trying to get R’shiel to accept a cup of hot tea, but she stared into the fire, ignoring him. He looked up as Tarja approached with a helpless shrug. Tarja knelt down beside R’shiel and gently took her arm. She jerked back at his touch, staring at him as if he was a ghost.

“R’shiel? Come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”

She stared at him for a long moment before allowing him to help her up. He led her up the small rise where Ghari waited, hopping up and down with excitement. The Fardohnyans followed them, staring at the growing specks with astonishment.

“Mother of the gods!” Drendik breathed as he realized what he was seeing. The specks had grown much larger now and looked like huge birds, their coppery wings outstretched as they rode the thermals down toward the river.

“Look!” Tarja urged.

R’shiel glanced at him and then followed his pointing finger as the dragons drew nearer. She stared at them as a tear spilled onto her cheek and rolled down toward her lip, leaving a white streak on her soot-stained face.

They waited until the dragons finally landed with a powerful beat of their wings. Lord Dranymire was in the lead, raising a dusty cloud that settled over the humans. The dragon that landed beside him was a little smaller, her scales more green than coppery, her features more delicate. The two dragons lowered their massive heads to the ground to allow their riders an easy descent. Tarja recognized Shananara riding Dranymire and was a little surprised to find Brak climbing down off the other dragon. As the Harshini walked toward them the Fardohnyans fell to their knees.

R’shiel watched the dragons, ignoring everyone around her. She shook off Tarja’s arm and walked down the small slope toward the two Harshini, still clutching the blanket around her. She ignored their greeting and kept walking. Tarja ran after her, but Shananara and Brak stopped him as he drew level with them.

“Leave her be,” Shananara advised. “I want to see what happens.”

Tarja watched anxiously as R’shiel walked toward the larger of the two dragons. She stopped a few paces from him, seemingly unafraid, and stared up at him.

The dragon studied her curiously for a moment. “Well met, Your Highness,” he said in his deep, resonant voice. Dranymire lowered his huge head toward the girl in a courtly bow.

Finally, R’shiel reached out and touched the dragon with a burned hand. As she touched him, the dragon seemed to dissolve before their eyes. One moment there was a mighty beast standing before them, the next moment it was gone, and the ground was swarming with tiny, ugly gray creatures with bright black eyes. Tarja was aghast at the sight.

“You’ve done well, Brak,” Shananara said as she watched the demons falling over themselves to get near R’shiel, who stood frozen in the middle of the sea of gray creatures, too stunned or afraid to move. Tarja glanced at the Harshini and caught the look she gave Brak as she spoke. It was anything but reassuring.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, really.”

“Were you expecting them to harm her?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Tarja glared at the two Harshini suspiciously. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Demons are bonded to Harshini through their bloodlines,” Shananara explained. “Dranymire and the demons can feel the link with R’shiel, just as she can feel the link with them, although she may not recognize it as such.”

If he suspended all disbelief, Tarja found her explanation easy enough to follow. “So if she is bonded to the same demons as you, R’shiel is related to you?” he asked, not sure why that should be such a cause for concern.

The Harshini woman nodded. “So it would seem.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“She’s half-human,” Brak pointed out, watching the girl and the demons with an unreadable expression.

“I’d already worked that out. What’s the problem?”

Brak turned from watching R’shiel and the demons. “It’s the family she comes from. Shananara’s full title is Her Royal Highness, Princess Shananara té Ortyn. Her brother is our King, Korandellen.”

Tarja was not surprised to find out R’shiel was of royal blood. It almost seemed fitting, somehow. But the thought did not seem to please Brak or Shananara very much.

“That’s not the problem though, is it?” he asked intuitively.

“Actually, it is,” Shananara told him. “She is Lorandranek’s child.”

The name struck a chord in Tarja’s mind. He recalled what he had heard about Lorandranek and turned to Shananara, his eyes wide. Seeing from his expression that he had made the connection, the Harshini woman nodded.

“That’s right. She is the half-human child of a Harshini King.”

“Behold the demon child,” Brak muttered darkly.

Brak surveyed the destruction Tarja and his Fardohnyan allies had wrought with a shake of his head. “Does the expression ‘minimum force’ mean anything to you?” he asked.

Tarja frowned at the implied criticism. “About as much as ‘you can count on me’ means to you.”

“You killed the priest, then?” He walked over to the shore, where the body of the Karien priest lay. The river had washed the blood from the corpse. In death he looked barely human, like a flaccid, blue sea creature brought up from the depths.

“Drendik killed him.”

“What happened to his staff?”

“R’shiel destroyed it.”

Brak looked at him sharply. “She what?”

“She destroyed it. Smashed it against the mizzenmast. That’s what set the ship on fire. How she burned her hands.”

“Gods!” Brak muttered. The Harshini turned and headed toward the demons, leaving Tarja standing by the bloated corpse.

“What?” Tarja called after him.

Brak made no reply. He just kept walking.

The she-dragon was amusing herself by talking to the Fardohnyans, who stood before her reverently, like worshippers at a huge, animated altar. The demons that had been the other dragon had dispersed into smaller clusters, constantly changing shapes in a way that made Tarja’s head swim. They seemed to be entertaining themselves by changing into numerous other forms, as simple as birds or small rodents in some cases. A few of the larger groups appeared to be attempting more complex forms that changed with blinding speed and were only sometimes recognizable as creatures of the world Tarja was familiar with. As they approached, a small figure detached itself from one of the groups and waddled over to them.

“Something disturbs you, Lord Brakandaran?” the demon asked. The same booming voice that had belonged to the dragon sounded bizarre coming from this grotesque little gnome. Brak bowed to the demon respectfully, which surprised Tarja a little. It was odd seeing him so humble in the presence of an ugly little imp who only came up to his knee.

“If I may seek your counsel, Wise One?”

Tarja wondered at Brak’s sudden turn of manners.

“I will help if I can,” the demon agreed. “What is it that troubles you?”

“R’shiel destroyed the Karien priest’s staff.”

“The Staff of Xaphista is not a thing to be tampered with lightly.” Tarja could have sworn the wrinkled face, with its too-big eyes, was furrowed with concern. “Was the priest already dead?”

Brak glanced over his shoulder at Tarja questioningly.

“No,” Tarja told them, walking forward to stand next to Brak. “Drendik killed him after she smashed it.”

Lord Dranymire was silent for a moment. “She is of té Ortyn blood,” the demon said eventually.

“Does that matter?” Tarja asked. There seemed to be so much that Brak and the demon knew, it was as if they were only having half a conversation, leaving out all the important bits.

“All magic is connected through the gods,” the demon explained. “Xaphista is an Incidental God, but a god, nonetheless, like any other.”

So what? he wanted to yell at the demon. What difference does it make?

Sensing his lack of understanding, Brak finally, if a little reluctantly, came to Tarja’s rescue. “He means that Xaphista would have felt the staff being destroyed. If the priest was still alive when it happened, then he could have used the priest to discover the identity of the destroyer.”

“So the Karien god knows who R’shiel is?” Tarja asked.

“Xaphista has probably known of the demon child’s existence for some time.”

“The priest’s vision!” Tarja exclaimed. “Elfron said he had a vision about R’shiel. That’s why they wanted her!”

“Xaphista knows the demon child is coming,” the demon agreed.

“But why should that bother him?” Tarja asked. He had given up trying to puzzle out whether or not the gods existed. It was easier, at the moment, just to assume that they did.

“Because she was created to destroy him,” Brak said.

“You want R’shiel to destroy a god? You can’t be serious!”

“This has nothing to do with you, Tarja. If you have any sense at all, you will just walk away and leave her be. You don’t believe in the gods, even though you’ve met one. You simply aren’t equipped to handle this. Leave it to those of us who know what we’re facing.”

Tarja looked back at the Fardohnyan riverboat, where Shananara had disappeared with R’shiel several hours ago. The two women had not emerged since.

“I won’t let you do this to her.”

“The decision is not yours, human,” Dranymire reminded him. “It is up to the child. Only she can decide to take up the task for which she was created.”

“And what if she refuses?” Tarja asked. Brak did not answer him, but glanced at the demon who turned his wrinkled head away. Dread washed over him as he read the reluctance of the Harshini and the demon to answer his question. He grabbed Brak by his leather vest and pulled him close, until their faces were only inches apart. “What happens if she refuses?”

Brak met Tarja’s threatening gaze, undaunted by his anger. “It’s not up to me, Tarja. I’m not her judge.”

Tarja let Brak go with a shove. “Not her judge, perhaps. More like her executioner, I suspect.”

Brak shook his head, but he did not deny the charge.

chapter 53

R’shiel woke suddenly, startled and unsure of her surroundings. As she looked around she discovered she was in a small cabin on the Maera’s Daughter. She lay back and closed her eyes with relief as visions of the previous night filled her head. Tarja was alive. Padric had died trying to undo his deeds. The Fardohnyans from the riverboat had been there, too. Drendik had killed the insane priest. And Ghari – why was he here? The swift change of circumstances left her head spinning.

“Feeling better?”

R’shiel turned toward the voice and opened her eyes. The Harshini woman was seated on the other bunk, watching over her. She had black-on-black eyes, flawless skin, and thick dark red hair. She had introduced herself as Shananara as she had led R’shiel away from the demons. R’shiel glanced down and discovered her burned hands were unmarked. In fact, her whole body felt renewed. She could not remember ever feeling so well.

“I feel... wonderful. Did you do that?”

“I just gave your own healing powers a bit of a helping hand.”

“Thank you,” R’shiel said, genuinely grateful. With the physical pain gone, it was far easier to ignore the mental scars. She pushed back the blanket and sat up, a little startled to discover she was clean, but naked, under the covers. She hurriedly pulled the blanket up to cover herself.

“You have learned the human concept of modesty, I fear.”

Shananara reached into a deep bag and handed R’shiel a set of black riding leathers, similar to those she wore. “I thought you might need something to wear. We are of a size, I suspect. They should fit you.”

Shananara mistook her astonishment for embarrassment. “It’s all right. I won’t look.”

The Harshini woman politely turned her back as R’shiel dressed in the supple leathers. She had worn long concealing skirts all her life, and the velvety leather of the Harshini outfit clung to her frame as if molded to it. R’shiel felt rather exposed. When Shananara turned back she clapped her hands delightedly.

“Now you look like a true Harshini Dragon Rider!” she declared. “But for your eyes, it’s hard to believe you have any human blood in you at all.”

“I find it harder to accept that I have Harshini blood,” R’shiel remarked with a frown.

“Your mother never told you anything useful, did she? Who your father was, for instance? How she met him? Why he abandoned her? If he even knew of your existence?”

“My mother... my real mother died when I was born.”

“I’m sorry, R’shiel. I didn’t know. Family raised you, then? An aunt or uncle, perhaps?”

R’shiel wondered how much she should tell her. This woman had arrived on a dragon. She was a member of a race that the Sisterhood had deliberately set out to exterminate. R’shiel was not certain how Shananara would take the news that she had been raised by the current First Sister.

“I was taken in by someone,” R’shiel told her, evasively.

“Someone who lived at the Citadel?” Shananara asked, as she walked to the small shelf near the door and took down two goblets and a wineskin. “Don’t let it bother you, R’shiel. Dranymire and the demons have felt the bond with you ever since you reached maturity. We know you lived at the Citadel. It is nothing to be ashamed of.” She offered R’shiel a cup of wine. The sweet liquid slipped down her throat and warmed her through.

“I’m not ashamed of being raised in the Citadel.”

“You might have been a Sister of the Blade. Now that would have been interesting.” The idea seemed to amuse Shananara greatly.

“How dare you laugh at me! You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know who I am. You don’t know what I think, or what I feel, or what I’ve been through! You’re not even real!”

“Oh, I’m real enough, R’shiel. As for who you are and what you feel, let me take an educated guess. You were probably a perfectly normal human girl up until... what? About two years ago? A little brighter than your friends perhaps, quicker to learn, faster to pick things up? You never got sick. In fact, you never had much trouble with anything. Then one day, the sight of meat started to repulse you. And headaches, there would have been terrible, terrible headaches. It went on for months until finally you could not even stand the smell of meat and the headaches were so painful you could barely lift your head in the mornings. How am I doing so far?”

“Tarja told you all of this!”

Shananara shook her head. “He did not, as well you know. Do you want me to go on?” R’shiel looked away, but she continued without waiting for an answer. “Finally, your menses arrived, years after all of your friends. The headaches vanished and the smell of meat no longer made you sick to your stomach, but other strange things began to happen to you, didn’t they? Your skin took on a golden cast that looked as if you’d been tanning yourself in the middle of winter. You could see auras around people sometimes. You began to feel strange, as if something far away was calling to you, but you couldn’t work out what it was. Eventually, the pull became so much a part of you that you didn’t even notice it anymore. Until today. Until you met Dranymire and the demons.”

R’shiel felt tears pricking her eyes as Shananara described her life so accurately it was painful. There was no way she could have known any of it.

“How do you know this? Who told you?”

“Who did you tell, R’shiel? You claim Tarja told me, but you never told him, did you?”

“How could you know any of this?”

“I know because every half-human Harshini goes through the same ordeal as they approach puberty. Your experience is not unique, R’shiel. Had you been at Sanctuary, where people understand what you were going through, it would have been much easier for you. I can explain it if you like.”

“Explain what?”

“Your aversion to meat for instance,” she said. “Harshini can’t eat meat, but humans can. It’s all part of the prohibition we have against killing. The only time it seems to affect half-bloods is during the onset of puberty. Ask Brak, if you don’t believe me. Like you, he is half-human.”

R’shiel accepted that news with barely a flicker of surprise. She was beyond shock, beyond awe.

“And the headaches?”

“Half-human children can’t reach the source of Harshini power until they mature.” Seeing her uncomprehending expression, Shananara frowned. “Think of it as a door in your mind that opens onto a river of magic. Until you reach maturity, the door is locked. Opening it can be painful. I don’t know why, that’s just the way it is. The headaches were the result of your mind trying to open a door to your power.”

“Then I really am one of you?”

“Yes, R’shiel. You really are.”

“Who is my father?”

Shananara hesitated before answering. “Do you remember what Dranymire said when he greeted you?”

She nodded. “He said, ‘Well met, Your Highness.’ Although why, I can’t imagine.” Looking back, she didn’t know why she had even approached the creature, or stood there surrounded by the ugly little gray monsters who swarmed over her. All she could recall was a need to reach out and touch the beautiful beast. To be wrapped in the security of the demons’ affection, where she felt, for the first time in her life, that she was truly whole.

“Dranymire and his demon brethren are bonded to the té Ortyn house. They can feel the call of your blood.” Shananara thought for a moment before continuing. “How old are you, R’shiel?”

“Twenty.”

Shananara nodded. “That would make you born in the Year of the Cheating Moon.” She rolled her eyes. “Now there’s an omen, if ever I needed one! Only two té Ortyn males were alive at the time of your birth, R’shiel: my brother Korandellen, who has never stepped foot outside of Sanctuary, and our uncle, Lorandranek, whom we were never able to keep inside. Lorandranek was your father.”

“Lorandranek,” R’shiel said, the name sounding strange, yet familiar. “Wasn’t he the Harshini King when the Sisterhood freed Medalon from idolatry?”

“When the Sisterhood freed Medalon?” she repeated with a shake of her head. “My, we have a long road ahead of us, don’t we? But yes, he was King at the time the Sisterhood... freed... Medalon.”

R’shiel pulled her feet up and tucked them under her on the narrow bunk, feeling a little more sure about herself. She knew her history. “That was nearly two hundred years ago. How could he be my father?”

“Lorandranek was nearly nine hundred years old when he died, R’shiel, and he wasn’t an old man. You are going to have to learn not to think in human terms.”

“I’m sorry that you find my humanity so distressing.”

“Oh! R’shiel, I didn’t mean it like that! You have so much to learn, that’s all. But that will come with time. It’s just that...”

“What?”

“The problem is not you, it’s what you are.”

“So what am I?” R’shiel asked.

“Lorandranek’s heir.”

“And this means...?” R’shiel prompted, leaning forward a little. Being Lorandranek’s heir might be a title of great importance to the Harshini, but it meant absolutely nothing to her.

“At best? That we are cousins!”

“And at worst?” Getting information out of the Harshini woman was like picking straw off a blanket.

“At worst, R’shiel, it means you are the demon child.”

chapter 54

They gathered around a cheerful fire on the shore of the river later that evening. Aber and Gazil had prepared quite a feast from the boat’s stores, and everyone had eaten their fill. The Fardohnyans had gone to a great deal of trouble to produce a special meal for the Harshini woman that contained no meat. For most of them it was the first substantial meal they had consumed in days. The demons were scattered around them, even more numerous than before. The other dragon had dissolved into a clutter of little demons not long after Brak and Tarja had spoken with Lord Dranymire. They avoided the humans gathered around the fire, although Lord Dranymire had sidled up to Shananara once she had finished eating and ingratiated his way into her lap, seemingly without her noticing. She stroked his wrinkled gray head absently, with the familiarity of long association.

R’shiel tried not to notice the demons and watched Tarja, wondering about him. The welcome discovery that he had escaped the noose waiting for him at the vineyard had done much to help ease the anguish of the last few days. Tarja glanced up and smiled at her distractedly.

The startling news that she was a Harshini Princess had been met with mixed reactions. The Fardohnyans had applauded the tidings and announced confidently that they had suspected as much, all along. Ghari had looked at her with wide eyes and said nothing. Tarja and Brak had seemed neither surprised nor pleased by the news. R’shiel desperately wanted to ask Tarja what he thought. However, there were more important issues to be resolved first.

“Had I known R’shiel had it in her to destroy the priest’s staff, we would have risked going after her ourselves,” Shananara said. The Harshini had not taken the news about R’shiel’s destruction of the staff very well at all. R’shiel wondered why it caused such a fuss. Given a chance to live the last day again, she would not have acted any differently.

“It’s done now,” Drendik said philosophically. “There’s naught to be done but make the best of things.”

Shananara nodded and turned her attention to Tarja. “I owe you thanks for what you did. All of you. R’shiel is very important to us.”

“Not just to you,” Tarja replied.

Shananara studied him in the firelight. “What will you do now?”

“If the Kariens invade, and it’s likely they will as soon as they hear of Pieter’s death, then the Defenders must be on the northern border. I have to get back to Testra to warn them.”

“Why Testra?” R’shiel asked.

“The Defenders have been mobilized. By the time I get back to Testra, they should be there.”

“Isn’t it time to let this go, Tarja?” Brak asked with a shake of his head.

“It’s my fault,” Tarja shrugged. “I’m responsible for the Envoy’s death. It’s up to me to ensure that the Defenders are warned.”

“Assuming they listen to you. As you just pointed out, they have been mobilized to hunt you down. The chances are they’ll kill you before you get close enough to warn them of anything.”

“I still have to try,” Tarja insisted stubbornly.

“We will take you,” Drendik offered, glancing at his brothers, who nodded in agreement.

“I thought you were heading home?”

Drendik shrugged. “This is more fun.”

“I think you’re crazy. But thank you.” He turned his attention back to Brak and Shananara. “The Defenders will move in stages. There simply aren’t enough boats on the river to move them all at once. Jenga will be in the advance party. The First Sister will probably follow in the second wave. There will be three companies, four at the most, in the advance party. If the rebels create a diversion, and I get to Jenga before the First Sister arrives, I might have a chance of convincing him.” Tarja glanced at Ghari. “Are you with me?”

The young man nodded. “Unless you’re planning to take on the entire Defender Corps single handed, I suppose I must be. But it will take some talking to convince many of our number that you haven’t betrayed them. With Padric dead, there is nobody they trust left to lead them. Many of the rebels will simply give up and go home.”

“Then we have to get to our people before they do,” Tarja said. “And find a way to convince them that we speak the truth.”

“I’ll go with you,” R’shiel heard herself say, unsure what had made her volunteer.

Shananara objected immediately. “R’shiel, don’t be a fool! You are wanted by the Defenders and marked by Xaphista. The only place you will be truly safe is at Sanctuary. Besides, you are a Princess of the Blood. You can’t go gallivanting around Medalon like a homeless orphan.”

“If Tarja fails and the Kariens invade Medalon, I won’t be safe anywhere,” she said, her decision becoming clearer in her mind as she spoke. “Neither will you. I don’t care who you think I am, Shananara. I was a homeless orphan yesterday, and despite what you tell me about who I might be, I still feel like a homeless orphan. Tarja has saved my life so many times I’m beginning to lose count. If I can help convince the rebels that he speaks the truth, then I will.”

“If that does not convince you she is Lorandranek’s get, nothing will,” Dranymire rumbled from Shananara’s lap. “Recklessness was ever a trait of his.”

Brak glanced at the demon, before looking at R’shiel. “Do you understand what you are saying, R’shiel? What you are refusing?”

“I’m refusing to turn my back on a friend.”

“We cannot help you if you go with them,” Shananara reminded her. “And I dread to think of Korandellen’s reaction when he hears that I have let you go.”

“He should be delighted that I won’t be around to muddy the clear line of succession.” Why should she care what the Harshini King thought, cousin or not? “Besides, I have no interest in being your demon child. I don’t believe in your gods, and I don’t want to be a Harshini. I just want things back the way they were!”

“You want to return to the Sisterhood?” Shananara asked dubiously. “Knowing what you are? R’shiel, they would kill you if they even suspected the truth.”

“And what are you offering me? What is the demon child supposed to do? Or am I just some awkward accident that you haven’t figured out how to deal with?”

“I will not lie to you, R’shiel. It is not an easy path that lies ahead for you. There is a task the demon child must perform. But the decision will be yours.”

R’shiel was completely fed up with being the instrument of other people’s expectations. Joyhinia had stolen her from her family to raise her to be what she wanted. Now these people, who shouldn’t even exist, had a “task” for her. Rebellion flared inside her like brandy thrown onto an open flame.

“No!” she said flatly.

“R’shiel, maybe you should think this over,” Tarja suggested.

“Since when have you been on their side?”

“I’m not on their side. I just don’t think you should be so hasty, that’s all.”

“I don’t care what you think,” she snapped. “I just want to be left alone.”

“Her father to the core,” Dranymire rumbled. “Lorandranek lives again.”

“Do you mind?” R’shiel snapped. There was something hugely disturbing about being mocked by a demon.

“I mean you no disrespect, Princess,” Dranymire said. “I admired your father greatly. He, too, despaired of being responsible for others. He did not feel himself worthy of the task. Nor was he particularly enchanted with the idea of being King. His reluctance made him a great one. Power always sits safer with those who do not seek it. I have missed him. You remind me of him a great deal.”

Silence followed the demon’s statement. R’shiel was aware that everyone was looking at her, and the feeling made her intensely uncomfortable. She glanced across at Tarja, who was studying her with concern.

“If R’shiel wants to come with me, then she is welcome,” he told the Harshini, not taking his eyes from her. “She’s right when she says I will need help to convince the rebels. Perhaps she will join you when she has had an opportunity to... grow accustomed... to her new status.” Tarja glanced at Brak. A look passed between the two men that R’shiel didn’t understand.

“You are risking her life, Tarja,” Shananara pointed out, obviously hoping to appeal to his common sense where she had failed with R’shiel.

“It’s her life to risk. You were more than happy to leave her in the hands of the Kariens, a couple of days ago.”

“That’s hardly fair,” Brak objected.

“She’s right in saying that her presence will help,” Ghari added, lending Tarja his support. “Without proof, the rebels will hang Tarja soon as look at him. If we bring them the demon child—”

“I am not the demon child!” R’shiel declared. “Will you please stop pretending that I am?”

Shananara shook her head. “Dranymire is right. You are as reckless as your father was. You have no idea of the danger you are in, R’shiel.”

“It would make little difference if she did,” Dranymire observed. “She will go with her friends, regardless of what you tell her. You are té Ortyn yourself Shananara. How much notice have you ever taken of others? Even your brother? Grant your cousin the same privilege.”

Shananara took in the words of the demon, then glanced at Brak with a shake of her head, before turning back to R’shiel. “Very well, if you must go with them, I cannot stop you, much that I wish I could. But I will not allow you to leave completely ignorant of your heritage. We have the night ahead of us. You will learn something of your power before you leave, I will see to that. Come.”

There seemed to be as much a threat as an offer of assistance in her cousin’s words, but R’shiel rose and followed Shananara into the darkness beyond the fire.

“You must understand what it is that makes you unique,” Shananara told her, as they seated themselves on the ground at the top of the small knoll where she had watched the dragons landing earlier that day. “What separates you from all others, human or Harshini.”

“You mean other than the fact that I don’t want to be your wretched demon child?”

Shananara sighed. “You are what you are, R’shiel. Denying it will not make it go away. In time, you will come to see that you must accept your destiny, or...”

“Or what?”

“Or you will never be content,” Shananara replied. “Now let us begin. As I was saying, your power is unique. All Harshini can tap the power of the gods. In your case...”

“Doesn’t that make you gods, too?”

“No. It means that... Oh dear, this is going to take forever... You don’t even understand the nature of the gods, do you? This is like explaining philosophy to a tree stump.”

R’shiel smiled at the Harshini’s frustration. “So I guess that means you’ll just have to forget about me. Thanks anyway, Shananara, but...”

“Sit down!” Shananara’s voice cut through her like a sliver of ice. The Harshini might have an aversion to violence, but it seemed a bit of mental compulsion wasn’t out of the question. Helplessly, R’shiel obeyed the command. “You foolish child. You have no idea of the damage you could do to yourself, let alone others. The Harshini are linked to each other through the power of the gods, and every time you inadvertently draw on that power, you risk harm to yourself and to us. The last time you drew on that power, even the gods trembled.”

“The last time?” R’shiel asked, rather chastened by Shananara’s outburst.

“You tried to kill someone, R’shiel. No, worse than that, you wanted to make him suffer. You deliberately set out to torment another living creature. Your human side might have thought it justified, but your actions tore through the soul of every Harshini and demon linked to that power. You cannot let that happen again. Not if you wish to live.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Of course not. I am incapable of even thinking such a thing. But there are others who are not. The demons are not bound by our aversion to violence, and their bond with the Harshini demands they protect us. If they come to believe you are a threat, then they will do whatever it takes to ensure that threat does not continue. Do you understand?”

R’shiel nodded slowly, the reality of her situation beginning to sink in with a certain amount of dread.

“Good. Now, are you ready to continue?”

“Yes.” She did not want to admit it, but Shananara had frightened her.

“That’s better. Now let’s go back to the picture of the door in your mind I used before. That made sense, didn’t it?”

R’shiel nodded.

“Well, when you reach for the power, you open that door. A normal Harshini... dips a cup into the river and takes the magic he or she needs for the task at hand. If the task requires more than they can channel, then they must appeal to the gods directly for their assistance.”

“Is that what happened when I broke the staff?”

“Not exactly. The Staff of Xaphista is more a destroyer of magic than a weapon. The more magic you have, the more painful it is. That’s why you were burned. To break it requires you to draw sufficient magic to fight the effects of the staff long enough to destroy it. What you did was no mean feat. The staff is not alive, but it can sense when it is threatened.”

“You speak as if it still exists.”

“It does,” Shananara assured her. “Not the one you destroyed, certainly. But every priest carries a staff, and they are all as dangerous as Elfron’s. Don’t think that destroying one has removed the threat.” She hesitated before continuing. “We are related to the Karien Priests, R’shiel. Once, a long time ago, they were Harshini, like us. Although the line is almost extinct, Xaphista keeps the demon bond alive by making his priests drink his blood during their initiation. He feeds off his believers and trust me, he has millions of them. His power rivals that of a Primal God. Incurring his wrath is not a thing you should take lightly.”

R’shiel shuddered at the thought of ever meeting another of Xaphista’s priests. “So what must I learn?”

Shananara sighed. “R’shiel, if we had a thousand nights like this one, I still could not teach you all you must know. You don’t understand the difference between a Primal and an Incidental God. You don’t understand the nature of demons, or how they are bonded to the Harshini. You don’t even understand the difference between you and other Harshini.”

“Well that’s hardly my fault,” R’shiel pointed out, a little annoyed by Shananara’s despairing tone. “What is the difference?”

“The difference is your blood. Ordinary Harshini can only dip a cup into the river. You and I are té Ortyn. If we need to, we can dam the whole river and release it all at once, but unlike my brother, or me, your human blood makes you capable of using it to hurt people, to destroy. Do you understand the danger?”

R’shiel nodded uncertainly, not at all sure that she understood anything.

“I can only teach you two things in the time we have. How to reach your power and how to let it go. But you have a lot to learn before dawn. Let us begin.”

By morning, the only thing R’shiel was certain of was that she would never be able to control the Harshini magic. Shananara had taught her how to touch it. Once she identified it for what it was it had been frighteningly easy to reach in, open the door in her mind, and dip into the power that lay within her. The same sweet power that had filled her the night she had attacked Loclon was waiting for her, poised to explode as soon as she opened herself to it. Her first attempt had left her almost unconscious, frightened to try again. Shananara demanded she continue, and as the long night progressed she had learned, quite painfully at times, to reach in, touch the power, and then withdraw from it, closing the door behind her. She met with varying degrees of success, ranging from a minor shiver that ran down her spine as she sensed, but could not quite grasp, the power, to a vast explosion that had destroyed the remains of the Karien vessel. Had it not been for Shananara’s vigilance in turning the power toward a place where it would do no harm, she could have easily destroyed the Maera’s Daughter. The Fardohnyans, Tarja, Ghari, and Brak had spent a nervous night, wondering where her uncontrollable magic would strike next. Even the demons retreated to a safe distance as Shananara forced R’shiel, repeatedly, to touch the source and then withdraw.

It was almost light when Shananara finally conceded that she had done all she could in the time available. R’shiel felt wrung out like an old wet sheet. Her hair was damp with sweat, her body aching in every limb. Shananara looked little better. Brak seemed to sense that they were done and walked up the knoll toward them. R’shiel was shaking all over.

“I hope you don’t have to rely on your power to convince those rebels,” he said. “It would be defeating the whole purpose of your journey if you blow them all into the lowest of the Seven Hells, trying to prove you’re the demon child.”

R’shiel did not have the energy to come up with a suitable retort, so she let the remark pass. Besides, Brak was right. The power she felt might be strong, but she had no idea what to do with it. She could not weave a glamor to hide herself, as Brak had done, or aim her power the way Shananara had been able to. All she could do was reach for it and hope for the best.

Shananara climbed to her feet and held out her hand to help R’shiel up. R’shiel dusted off her leathers and turned toward the boat, but Shananara called her back.

“R’shiel, there is something else you must be aware of.”

She nodded wearily, wondering if her mind could take in anymore after the tiring night she had already endured.

“What’s that?”

“Be careful of the attachments you form with humans.”

Puzzled by the seemingly irrelevant advice, R’shiel shrugged. “I don’t understand. What attachments? Do you mean my friends?”

Shananara exchanged a glance with Brak before she nodded. “Yes, with your friends. You are Harshini, R’shiel. You are not really human. Not completely. I don’t wish to see you hurt by forming... attachments to humans who cannot ever truly understand us.”

Not sure what her cousin meant, R’shiel had the strangest feeling that she would not like the answer if she pressed for an explanation. “I’ll be careful,” she promised.

“If only I thought you would,” Shananara sighed, then let the matter drop.

Tarja and Ghari were waiting for them at the boat. The Fardohnyans were already aboard, preparing to cast off. She looked around for the demons and discovered Dranymire alighting with remarkable grace in the shape of an eagle, near the riverbank. She shook off Brak’s arm and walked cautiously toward the demon, who assumed his true from as she approached.

“I have to say good-bye now.”

“Farewell then, Princess,” Dranymire rumbled.

She reached down and scratched him above the wrinkled ridge over his huge, intelligent eyes, instinctively knowing where he would like it most. He almost purred.

“If you call, we will come, whatever the reason,” Dranymire assured her. “As we did for your father.”

R’shiel smiled at the demon’s insistence that she was Lorandranek’s child. She was only reluctantly willing to concede that she was Harshini, but the rest of it was still too unreal.

“Did you really know my father?”

“Yes. And your mother, too. Lorandranek found her wandering in the mountains,” Dranymire said, as if he understood her need to know. “She was very young. Younger than you are now. Your father was enchanted by her.”

“Did he love her?”

“Very much,” Dranymire assured her. “But he was the Harshini King. He died before he had a chance to know you. He wanted you very much.”

R’shiel nodded, still not certain she accepted any of this, but a little less apprehensive than she had been. “Thank you,” she said, bending down to kiss the demon’s wrinkled cheek. She turned and ran back toward the boat. A small chasm of uncertainty in her mind had finally been filled.

R’shiel finally knew who she was.

chapter 55

Shananara came to stand beside her demon as the Fardohnyan boat pushed off and was caught by the current, before they could hoist the sails and turn the boat to take them up river. She idly stroked his wrinkled head as she watched them, returning R’shiel’s wave.

“I heard what you said to her,” she told the demon, as the boat caught the wind and began to move upstream. Brak headed back from the shore toward them, a trail of gray demons in his wake.

“Did you?” the demon asked, feigning boredom.

“You lied to her.”

“I told her what she needed to hear, Shananara,” Dranymire corrected, loftily. “That is not the same as lying.”

“It’s a very fine distinction. Why didn’t you tell her the truth?”

“Much of what I told her was the truth. The gods asked Lorandranek to create the demon child. It therefore follows that he wanted her.”

“Lorandranek tried to destroy her when she was still in the womb, Lord Dranymire,” Brak pointed out as he came to stand beside them.

“He was driven mad by what the gods asked of him,” Shananara reminded him, placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “You must not continue to punish yourself, Brakandaran.”

“He was still my king. Even an insane king deserves better than that.”

“Lorandranek was a great king,” Dranymire insisted stubbornly.

“Of course he was,” the Princess said. “You must agree though, Dranymire, he spent more time trying to escape his responsibilities as king than he ever did ruling Sanctuary. And you were his willing accomplice, I might add. One noble deed does not alter that. Thanks to my uncle’s madness, Korandellen was king in all but name for a long time before he inherited the crown.”

“To you perhaps, Lorandranek was less than perfect, but to R’shiel he is the father who would have loved her. Would you have me hurt the child more than she has been already?”

Shananara smiled at the demon. “Of course not. I just never realized until now that you’re nothing but a romantic sentimentalist.”

The demon snorted indignantly. “I am nothing of the sort! Continue to insult me in such a manner, Your Highness, and you can walk back to Sanctuary.”

Shananara laughed and then turned to Brak. “And you, Brakandaran? Will you finally come home now? You have found the demon child for us. Your task is done.”

He shook his head. “My task is far from done, Shananara. I might have found the demon child, but in case you haven’t noticed, she’s sailing away from us, as we speak, into real danger.”

“Tarja seems more than capable of taking care of her.”

“Kalianah has made certain of that.”

“Oh dear, what did she do?”

“She interfered. As she usually does. The Goddess of Love thought R’shiel might be more tractable if somebody loved her.”

“And she chose a human? That’s cruel.”

“Maybe. He probably has a better grasp of the situation than R’shiel does.”

Shananara sighed. “She is very young yet and not fully comprehending of her situation. She will come around eventually. And Tarja will see that she is safe.”

Brak glanced at the Princess. “You’ve been in Sanctuary too long, Shananara. There’s a big, nasty world out there. Tarja’s got some very human ideas about honor. He is planning to take on the entire Defender Corps with a handful of hopeful farmers. R’shiel is in more danger than you can possibly imagine. You may be right, thinking she will come around, but I’m more concerned that she lives long enough to do it.”

“But what can we do? We can’t get involved in a human war.”

“No, but I know somebody who wouldn’t mind a bit. And he’s quite fond of Tarja in a bloodthirsty, warrior sort of way.” He laughed at her puzzled expression. “Don’t try figuring it out. You simply wouldn’t understand. It’s a human thing.”

“Just tell me if you can help them or not.”

“If Lady Elarnymire and her brethren can take the form of something strong enough to fly me south, I think I can. If you could ask Brehn to stall our little band of reckless humans with some unfavorable winds, I think I can bring help in time. It will take me less than a day to get where I’m going. On sorcerer-bred mounts, help could be in Testra within a few weeks.”

“Sorcerer-bred mounts?” Shananara asked. “You’re going to Hythria, then? You’re not planning to involve the Sorcerer’s Collective, are you? Korandellen wanted you to find the demon child, Brak, not change the entire political climate in three nations. Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“No. I don’t even know if it will work. But I am sure that I will have killed Lorandranek for nothing, if the child I saved by taking his life is hanged as an escaped convict, before she can do what she was born for.”

Shananara looked unconvinced. “I don’t know, Brak...”

“Let me put it this way. The gods want to get rid of Xaphista, and they can’t kill one of their own kind. That’s why they need R’shiel. If she dies, they will demand another demon child.”

“I know that, but—”

“If the gods demand another demon child, Shananara, either you or Korandellen will have to conceive a half-human child and risk the insanity that destroyed Lorandranek. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“He speaks wisely,” Dranymire agreed. “We must do what we can to protect the demon child, and if that means involving ourselves once again in human affairs, then so be it. Lorandranek never intended the Harshini to withdraw permanently.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Maybe the time has come for us to step forward again. Go then Brak, and may the gods speed you on your journey. I will speak with the God of Storms. And Maera. I will see that R’shiel is delayed until you can bring help.”

Brak nodded and walked over to Lady Elarnymire, who chittered excitedly as he approached. She had missed him during his long absence from Sanctuary and was still in a state of excitement over his return. He did not want her and her brethren losing their concentration mid-flight. Demons in their natural form were no more able to fly than he was. He would not ask them to form another dragon. Dragons were spectacular, but they were complex creatures and hard to maintain. A large bird would be better, one with speed and agility and no desire to swoop down on a herd of hapless cattle whenever it felt hungry. He squatted down and patted the demon fondly, explained what he needed, then turned to Shananara as a rather alarming thought occurred to him.

“When you return to Sanctuary, you might want to prepare Korandellen for the worst,” he suggested.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I’m not sure how he’s going to take the news that Lorandranek’s long-awaited child was raised by the First Sister to be a Sister of the Blade.”

chapter 56

It took nearly three weeks to return upriver to Testra on a journey that had taken a tenth of that time downstream. It was partly the fault of the fickle river winds, partly because Drendik insisted on docking by the riverbank at night, and partly because the boat was plagued with minor mishaps that were almost too numerous to be coincidental.

On their third night out, the steering gear jammed, and it took the Fardohnyans nearly two days to fix it. After that, it was just one thing after another. A sail tore inexplicably. The hull developed a crack in the forward hold, and they began taking on water. When they got that under control, the aft hold sprang a leak. Finally, when everything on the boat appeared to be in working order, the winds dropped, and Drendik found himself sitting in the middle of a river that seemed determined to push them south with the current. The Fardohnyans dropped anchor and muttered about the gods no longer favoring them. Drendik even suggested making an offering, to appease their obvious displeasure. But nothing they did seemed to have any affect. Tarja fretted at the delay, but R’shiel found herself welcoming it. The river was peaceful, the Fardohnyans were embarrassingly solicitous of her comfort, and she was, for the moment, safe.

Ghari and Tarja had spent the first few days closeted together, forming their plans for their assault on the Defenders. Tarja was anxious to find Jenga before Joyhinia landed in Testra, certain that the Lord Defender could be persuaded to listen to him. He was equally concerned that they not force an armed confrontation with the Defenders in any great number. The rebels had courage and fervor aplenty, but little in the way of weapons or training. They were guerrilla fighters, not disciplined troops. In any organized, head-on confrontation, even outnumbered, the Defenders would slaughter them. But once their plans were made, reviewed, amended, and then reviewed again, there was nothing left for the two rebels to do but wait, and worry, and wait some more.

R’shiel found herself with more idle time than she’d ever had in her life. Drendik needed no convincing that she was the demon child and was determined to treat her accordingly. She was allowed to do nothing for herself. The Fardohnyans insisted on calling her “Your Highness” or “Princess” or even “Divine One,” which made her squirm uncomfortably. Shananara té Ortyn was a Harshini Princess – beautiful, poised, and trained to handle her magic with the delicate touch of a master. No matter how tempting the knowledge that she had a name and a family of her own, the part of R’shiel raised in the bosom of the Sisterhood did not want to accept her “fate.”

Tarja appeared to be amused by her dilemma when he finally emerged from his war council with Ghari. He advised her to enjoy the Fardohnyans’ attention while it lasted. R’shiel retorted that it was all right for him; nobody was trying to bow and scrape every time he tried to blow his nose. Tarja had laughed at her complaints and offered to treat her like she was still back in the Grimfield, if that would make her feel better. R’shiel stormed off and didn’t speak to him for the rest of the day.

But the slow river journey sealed the final healing layer on R’shiel’s battered soul as they painstakingly wound their way north. Her nightmares of Loclon and the savagery of Elfron’s staff were, if not forgotten, at least no longer unbearable. How much of her newfound peace was the result of Shananara’s healing, and how much was simply her own inner strength, she had no idea.

Finally, a day south of Testra, Drendik bumped the Maera’s Daughter gently against the riverbank to allow Ghari to disembark. Tarja was sending him to Testra overland, so he could send out a call for the rebels to muster at the vineyard on the evening of the following day. Tarja and R’shiel would disembark in Testra and make their way back to Affiana’s Inn, where Mahina, Sunny, and maybe Dace still waited. From there, they would make their way to the vineyard and try to convince the rebels that Tarja had not betrayed them. Worse, they had to convince them to mount an attack on the Defenders as a diversion. Although she had volunteered to go with him, R’shiel wondered if she had done it simply to avoid staying with the Harshini.

R’shiel had thought Tarja was worrying about the Kariens unnecessarily. News of the Envoy’s death would take weeks, perhaps months, to reach Yarnarrow. An invasion force would take even longer to muster and cross the vast northern reaches. It wasn’t until she heard Tarja outlining his plans to Drendik that she understood his concerns. The northern border was completely undefended, protected by a treaty that had been well and truly broken. It would take months to move the Defenders into position. Even if the Kariens did not arrive until next summer, Tarja worried that it wouldn’t be enough time.

Ghari waved to them as he disappeared in the long reeds growing close to the riverbank. The farm of a rebel sympathizer lay less than a league from where they had left him. He would be mounted and on his way within the hour. They pushed back into the river and headed north, watching the retreating figure of the young rebel.

“Will they come?” she asked.

“They’ll come. To see me hang, if nothing else.”

“That’s not funny, Tarja.”

“I wasn’t joking,” he said.

It was obvious that the first wave of Defenders had arrived in Testra when Drendik eased the boat into the docks early the following afternoon. A red-coated corporal immediately hailed them. Drendik gave a wonderful impression of a foreigner who didn’t understand a word of Medalonian, nodding and calling “Yes! Yes!” to every question the corporal yelled at him. Tarja and R’shiel waited below in the passage just beneath the companionway, listening to the exchange.

“Suppose they try to search the boat?”

“Drendik’s an old hand at this,” Tarja said. “They won’t get a foot on board until he wants them to.”

“I’m sorry.”

He looked at her curiously. “For what?”

“For getting us into this mess. If I hadn’t killed that Defender in Reddingdale...”

The passage was narrow and Tarja had braced himself against the movement of the boat by placing his hand on the bulkhead above her head.

“If you must blame someone, blame Joyhinia. She’s the one who started it all.”

“Perhaps. I wonder if she would have been so anxious to adopt me if she’d known who my father was?”

“Be grateful she didn’t know. She would have slit your throat.”

“Well, it must be all her fault then,” she agreed wryly. “If she’d murdered me at birth, we wouldn’t be here now.”

“Poor little Princess,” he teased.

“Don’t call me that.”

“What should I call you then? Divine One? Oh-Fabled-Harshini-Demon-Child, perhaps?” It was almost like the old days. She hadn’t seen that mocking smile for so long. His eyes were startlingly blue in the dim light of the passage. He looked at her for a long moment then lowered his mouth toward hers. Be careful of the human attachments you form, Shananara had warned her. R’shiel suddenly understood what her Harshini cousin was hinting at. To the Seven Hells with you, Shananara té Ortyn, she thought, closing her eyes.

“The captain says it’s safe to come up now.”

R’shiel jerked back at the sound of Aber’s voice, burying her head in Tarja’s leather-clad shoulder in embarrassment.

“Thank you,” Tarja said. “We’ll be right up.”

Aber closed the hatch behind him. Tarja gently lifted her chin with his forefinger, forcing her to meet his eye.

“R’shiel?”

“What?”

“I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

“You’re just saying that because you’re afraid I’ll turn you into a toad, or something.”

He smiled. “You think so?”

“Don’t you care that I’m not human?”

“You’re human here,” he assured her, pointing to her heart, “where it counts. Now get a move on. We’d better get up top before young Aber comes looking for us again.”

She kissed him, just to be certain that he meant what he said. Somewhat reluctantly, Tarja peeled her arms from around his neck and held them by her sides.

“We have a long road ahead of us, R’shiel. Don’t make it any harder.”

“Do we have to do this, Tarja?” she asked. “Can’t we just go away? Find a place where nobody knows us?”

“Some place where I’m not a marked man and you’re not the demon child? Name it and we’ll leave this minute.”

She sighed. “There is no such place, is there?”

“No.”

Tarja let her go and moved to the hatch. R’shiel followed him, catching a movement out of the corner of her eye. She spun toward it, but the dim passage was empty.

“What’s the matter?”

“I could have sworn I saw somebody!”

“There’s nobody there. It must have been a trick of the light.”

“It was a little girl.”

Tarja opened the hatch and stepped through. R’shiel glanced back over her shoulder at the empty passage. She was certain she had seen something. She turned to follow Tarja up the companionway, touching something with her boot on the first step. Curiously, she bent down and picked it up. It was an acorn, tied with two white feathers.

“Look at this.”

Tarja looked down at the amulet and shrugged.

“It’s the symbol the heathens have for the Goddess of Love.”

“How did it get here?”

“It probably belongs to Drendik or one of his brothers.”

She frowned, certain she had never seen any of the Fardohnyans with such an icon.

“Should I give it back to them?”

“If you want,” he agreed, a little impatiently. “Come on.”

R’shiel slipped the acorn amulet into her pack and followed Tarja out into the bright sunlight.

chapter 57

Tarja had never felt more exposed than he did walking through Testra toward the inn where Mahina waited. It felt like the streets were crawling with Defenders. He was certain he would be recognized, certain someone would notice them. He walked with his back stooped, a barrel of cider balanced on his shoulder, which served to conceal his face. R’shiel walked ahead of him, the Harshini Dragon Rider’s leathers concealed beneath a long blue cloak. The hood was pulled up to conceal her hair and shadow her face. What had seemed like a brief ride a few weeks ago now felt like the longest walk he had ever taken. Surely R’shiel had lost her way. They must have taken a wrong turn.

Even as he thought about it, the inn appeared across the way. He could feel R’shiel relax and realized she was as tense as he was. He wanted to reach out to her. To touch her hand and reassure her. She glanced down the road and crossed it quickly, waving imperiously for him to follow. He smiled to himself as she did. R’shiel knew the habits of the Sisterhood. Tarja trailed obediently in her wake, almost bumping into her as she stopped dead just inside the entrance to the taproom.

The room was full of Defenders, officers, every one of them. Tarja saw at least four men he knew well at his first glance. Fortunately, R’shiel’s blue cloak gave the impression she was a Sister, so their entrance was unremarked upon. Tarja hid behind the small barrel, wishing it were large enough for him to crawl into completely.

“May I help you, my Lady?” Affiana asked as she approached them, her eyes widening as R’shiel lifted her head and stared at her. “I have private rooms that will be more comfortable,” Affiana added, barely missing a beat. “Have your man come this way.”

R’shiel followed the innkeeper through the taproom, her whole body as tense as an overtightened guy rope. Tarja followed, trying to stoop as much as possible. As they moved into the hall and through to the private dining room he dropped the barrel heavily, weak with relief.

“By the gods!” Affiana declared as she closed the door behind them. “Where did you two come from?”

“It’s a long story,” he said, as R’shiel threw back the hood of her cloak. “How long have the Defenders been here?”

“A few days. I get the officers. The enlisted men drink in the taverns closer to the docks. Are you all right?”

R’shiel nodded. “We’re fine. Is Mahina still here? And Sunny?”

“And Dace, too,” Affiana told them. “When he’s in the mood. Mahina’s been keeping to her room, and nobody has seen her, but Sunny’s been out working the docks.” She glanced back at Tarja with concern. “I heard you’d been hanged. Then I heard you killed a couple of rebels and escaped.”

“Almost accurate. How can I get to Mahina’s room without being seen?”

“You can’t,” Affiana told him. “I’ll bring her down. You two stay here and keep the door locked.” The innkeeper slipped from the room and Tarja locked the door behind her. As soon as she was gone, R’shiel came to him and lay her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her and held her wordlessly for a moment.

“I think walking through that taproom was the scariest thing I have ever done in my life,” she said.

Considering what R’shiel had endured recently, that was saying something. He kissed the top of head, then her forehead, and then she was kissing him hard and hungrily and he was startled to discover how quickly things could get out of hand. He pushed her away with admirable self-control.

“There is a room full of Defenders out there who would very much like to kill us both. Maybe we should wait until a more appropriate time?”

She sighed and pulled out of his arms, crossing to the window to stare out into the yard. “When will that be, Tarja?” she asked. “When you’ve faced the rebels? When you’ve confronted Jenga? When you’ve brought down the Sisterhood? When you’ve fought off the Karien invasion?”

He shrugged. “I’m a busy man.”

She stared at him for a moment, and then suddenly her mood changed and she laughed. “Well, you may just have to wait until I have time for you. I am a personage of some note among the heathens, you know.”

“Forgive me, Divine One,” he said, wondering what had made her suddenly admit to her demon-child status. She had seemed singularly unimpressed by the news up to now. A faint knock sounded at the door, and he unlocked it, opening it a fraction to look outside, then swinging it wide to allow Mahina and Sunny in.

“By the Founders!” Mahina declared. “We thought you were both dead!”

“Not quite.”

“Where have you been?” Sunny asked. She glanced at R’shiel who stood by the window, her blue cloak pushed back over one shoulder. She frowned at the close-fitting leathers. “Interesting outfit,” she remarked, before turning back to confront him. “We were worried sick! First you disappear, then we heard that you’re dead! Then that other fella left us stranded here. Now here you are, large as life, like nothing’s happened!”

“We had an encounter with the Karien Envoy,” R’shiel said, glancing at Tarja. With that look, he knew she wanted him to skip the details. There was no need to tell them of Elfron, or the staff. It was enough that they know of Pieter’s death and of the threat of invasion from Karien. She did not want to relive the nightmare for the sake of a good narrative.

“What sort of encounter?” Mahina asked suspiciously.

“The fatal sort,” Tarja told her. “We... er... met some Harshini, too.”

They stared at him openmouthed. “Harshini?”

“Have you been drinking?” Sunny asked.

“How in the name of the Founders did you stumble across them?” Mahina asked, clearly not believing a word he said. “They’re supposed to be long dead.”

“The Harshini came to us. It seems R’shiel is a Harshini princess.”

Mahina and Sunny both turned to look at R’shiel. Mahina suddenly laughed. “And Joyhinia passed you off as her own child? Oh, that is just too much! The Quorum will have a collective fit! The Karien Envoy must have been apoplectic!”

“The Karien Envoy is dead,” Tarja told her.

Mahina turned back to him, her laughter fading. “How did it happen?”

“The how doesn’t matter,” he said. “The important thing is that it did.”

“And the Defenders are here in Testra,” Mahina added, understanding the situation immediately. “Or headed this way. What are you going to do?”

“I have to warn Jenga,” he told her. “If I can get to him before Joyhinia arrives. I’m going to create a diversion using the rebels.”

“A diversion?” Mahina asked skeptically. “You’ll need more than a handful of farmers to distract the Defenders, Tarja. Besides, aren’t these the same rebels that tried to hang you only a few weeks ago?”

“I’ll convince them of the truth,” R’shiel said.

“You?” Mahina said with a raised brow. “I’ll admit that your outfit is distracting, R’shiel, but I hardly think it’s going to turn the rebels’ mind from reality for very long.”

R’shiel took a deep breath before she answered. “I am the demon child.”

Mahina looked as if she was going to laugh at the notion, but a glance at Tarja and R’shiel stayed her mirth. “Founders! You’re serious!”

“I am the half-human child of the last Harshini King, Lorandranek,” she said. To Tarja, it sounded as if R’shiel were trying to convince herself as much as Mahina. “The heathen rebels will listen to me.”

Mahina turned to Tarja. “And you believe this?”

Tarja nodded. “It’s why the Harshini sought us out.”

Mahina sank down onto one of the carved dining chairs, as if her knees would no longer support her. “Founders! I never thought to hear this in my lifetime. It’s... I... I’m... speechless...”

“Imagine how I feel,” R’shiel remarked wryly.

“It’s so...” Mahina began helplessly.

“I need information,” Tarja interrupted. He didn’t have time for Mahina to come to grips with the truth about R’shiel.

“What sort of information?” Sunny asked. She stood behind Mahina’s chair with wide eyes, staring at R’shiel.

“I need to know where Jenga is staying.”

“I suppose I can find that out,” she offered. Tarja was wary of Sunny for some reason he could not pinpoint, but he pushed aside his unease. The woman was a barracks court’esa and knew nothing of politics. But she was R’shiel’s friend.

“As soon as it’s dark, we’ll ride for the rebel stronghold. If all goes well, we’ll be back by midnight. The off-duty troops should be well into their cups by then. The remainder, except for the lookouts, will be asleep. Can you find out where the rest of the Defenders are quartered, too?”

“Aye,” she agreed. “I’ll do that for you. It may take me some time, though. What if I meet you on the south road at midnight? That way I can let you know exactly what’s happening.”

Tarja nodded at the generous offer. “Thank you.”

Another knock sounded impatiently at the door, and Dace was in the room before Tarja had time to realize that he had forgotten to lock it. The boy flew at Tarja and hugged him soundly, before treating R’shiel to the same exuberant welcome.

“I knew you weren’t dead!” he declared. “Didn’t I tell you they weren’t dead? Didn’t I?”

“Yes, Dace, you said they weren’t dead,” Mahina agreed. “Now keep your damned voice down, before you manage to remedy the situation by bringing a whole taproom full of Defenders in here with your shouting.”

Dace looked rather abashed at Mahina’s scolding, but nothing could wipe the smile from his face. He immediately demanded a full and complete blow-by-blow description of their every move since they disappeared from the stables.

“I’ll let R’shiel fill you in,” he told the boy. That way she could tell Dace as much or as little as she chose.

“I’d best be going,” Sunny said, slipping from the room.

R’shiel and Dace stood by the window talking in low voices. Tarja glanced at Mahina, who shook her head.

“When Joyhinia hears this news, she is going to rue the day she ever laid eyes on either of you.”

“I think she’s long past that point.”

“Be very careful, Tarja. She won’t make the same mistake again. There will be no trials, no court of law. If you fail, she will kill you.”

chapter 58

They could see the flares from the torches gathered around the farmhouse for quite some time before they reached the old vineyard. R’shiel looked worriedly at Tarja as they rode at a canter toward the rebels, wondering what he was thinking. What would he say to them? Would he live long enough to say anything? As if sensing her concern he looked at her and smiled.

“Don’t worry. I’ve survived this long. I’m sure I’ll get through the next few hours.”

R’shiel wasn’t sure she shared his confidence. She glanced at Dace who rode on her left and wondered why he hadn’t been in the least bit surprised or concerned by her news. His face was alight with excitement at the prospect of facing action with the rebels.

Tarja slowed their pace as they neared the first lookout, posted about half a league from the vineyard. To Tarja’s obvious relief, the guard proved to be Ghari’s cousin, a taciturn, hirsute man with big farmer’s hands. He was not the most encouraging example of the rebellion’s mettle, but he could be trusted not to kill Tarja on sight. He nodded gravely to his former leader.

“Ghari said you’d be comin‘ this way. You’re either very brave, or very foolish, Cap’n.”

“A bit of both, I fear, Herve,” Tarja replied. “Are they all up at the farmhouse?”

“All them that’s comin,” he said with a shrug. “Two hun’ed, maybe three.”

Tarja scowled. R’shiel knew that he was counting on twice that number. Tarja looked across at her and Dace. “Well, let’s do it then.”

He kicked his horse forward, but she followed more slowly, a little less enthusiastic about riding into the middle of three hundred angry rebels than Tarja. Dace seemed to share Tarja’s suicidal enthusiasm and quickly caught up with him. She hurried her horse forward as if her mere proximity could offer him some form of protection.

Word spread quickly through the rebels that Tarja had arrived, and a torchlit clearing opened ominously before them as they rode into the yard. R’shiel didn’t know what Ghari had said to the rebels before they arrived, but it had been enough to stay their hand temporarily. They were to be given a hearing, it seemed, before the rebels made their decision.

Tarja sat tall in the saddle, partly to allow him to see over the crowd and partly because he wasn’t stupid. Mounted, he might have some small chance at escape if the rebels turned on him. He had insisted that Dace and R’shiel remain mounted, too.

R’shiel watched the rebels nervously. Ghari jumped down from the wagon bed under the tree where Tarja was to have been hanged so recently. R’shiel’s horse, borrowed from Affiana’s stables, tossed his head irritably, as if he sensed the uneasy feeling of the mob.

“Well, I’ve done all I can,” Ghari told Tarja. “They’re not happy, but they’re not unreasonable. Good luck.”

Tarja turned back to the rebels and studied them in silence. Many of the faces remained shadowed and anonymous behind the smoky torches.

“Tonight we unite Medalon!” Tarja said in a voice that had been trained to be heard across the Citadel parade ground. She was startled by the effect it had on the rebels. Defiant these men might be, but they were conditioned from birth to respond to authority. Tarja knew that, and was relying on his manner, as much as his words, to convince these men.

“What you think of me is irrelevant. That I did not betray you is a fact that you must accept. I didn’t come here to offer you an apology or an idle promise of better times ahead. I offer you action. Medalon faces a threat from an enemy far worse than the Sisterhood. Soon the Kariens will be crossing our northern border. The Kariens will not deny you the opportunity to worship your gods. They will destroy anyone who refuses to worship theirs. The treaty between Medalon and Karien is destroyed. The Sisterhood must now bend its efforts to protecting Medalon. To do that, they need our help. Most of you profess to want nothing more than to be left alone with the chance to worship your gods in peace. I offer you a chance to act on what you profess to believe or to slink home like cowards to hide behind the skirts of your mothers and your wives.”

R’shiel cringed as Tarja sat his horse in front of three hundred angry rebels and accused them of being cowards. She glanced at Dace, but the boy was as entranced by Tarja as the rebels were.

“Our northern border lies undefended while the Sisterhood moves the Defenders to Testra to destroy us. They know nothing of the Karien threat. Once they do, we have a chance to resolve this. The Sisterhood cannot support a Purge and a war at the same time.”

“More likely they’ll just make sure we’re all dead first!” a voice called out.

Tarja glanced over his shoulder at R’shiel before continuing, as if asking her for permission for what he was about to do. She nodded minutely.

“If you won’t do it for me, then do it for yourselves. For your gods. For the Harshini.”

At the mention of the Harshini, someone in the crowd finally overcame their thrall to call out angrily, “We’re not children Tarja! You’ll not save your precious neck by spinning fairy tales! The Sisterhood destroyed the Harshini, just as they plan to destroy us!”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the mob. Tarja waited patiently for it to subside before continuing. “I do not offer you tales to entertain children. The Harshini once roamed this land in peace until the Sisterhood forced them into hiding. Medalon flourished under their hand. They are still with us. I have spoken with them. I have spoken with their demons.”

R’shiel watched as Tarja’s words were met with derision. She moved her horse forward and rode up beside him.

“He speaks the truth about the Harshini!” she called to the rebels. “I am one of them!”

“You’re a liar!” a voice shouted angrily.

“You’re the First Sister’s daughter!”

“It’s your fault the Defenders are here!”

“I am Harshini! I am Joyhinia’s child. I was born in a village called Haven. My mother was human, but my father was Lorandranek! I am the demon child!”

Her declaration was met with startled silence. Even Tarja spared her an astonished glance. In truth, she had surprised herself. She caught sight of Dace, out of the corner of her eye, riding forward to snatch a torch from one of the rebels.

He rode back and handed it to her, leaning forward as he spoke. “Hold it up and don’t drop it,” he whispered. With no idea what he was planning, she held the torch aloft.

“The threat of the Karien zealots is real,” she continued. “I have seen their evil with my own eyes. You once revered the Harshini. The time has come for you to step forward to defend them.” R’shiel could feel Dace in the background as the intoxicating sweetness of the Harshini magic washed over her. She recognized it for what it was now and was startled to realize that not only could Dace touch it, but he could do so with a finesse that made Shananara’s touch feel clumsy and ham-fisted.

Suddenly the torch flared brightly, savagely, in her hand as Dace released the magic into the flame, lighting the yard as if a thousand torches had suddenly exploded into life. Her skin prickled as she felt the power, minute that it was. The circle widened as the rebels took a step backward, astounded by her display.

Tarja grabbed the moment and called out to the rebels. “Do we face this threat to our people and the Harshini, or crawl home like frightened children? I say we fight!”

Someone in the crowd started chanting “Fight! Fight!” and it was quickly taken up by the mob. Tarja sat and watched them as they yelled, although he hardly looked pleased. R’shiel lowered the torch, which sputtered and died in her hand.

“You’ve won!” she said, so that only he could hear. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I’ve got a chanting mob, excited by a parlor trick. There’s barely a man among them who would follow me in the cold light of day because he believed in what I said.”

Dace rode up on the other side of Tarja. “Then let’s get this done before the sun rises,” he suggested with a grin.

Tarja shook his head at the boy’s enthusiasm and rode forward to speak with Ghari and several other rebel lieutenants as the chanting subsided slowly. R’shiel leaned forward and grabbed Dace’s bridle before he could follow.

“Who are you, Dace?” she asked him curiously. “That wasn’t me, just now, it was you.”

“Actually, it wasn’t really me,” Dace told her with a sly smile. “I stole the flames from Jashia, the God of Fire. But he won’t mind.”

“What do you mean, you stole it?”

“That’s what I do, R’shiel. It’s who I am.”

R’shiel studied the boy in the torchlight. “You’re Harshini, aren’t you?”

“Of course not, silly. I am Dacendaran.”

Seeing that it meant nothing to her he leaned across and took her hand in his. The feeling that washed over her at his touch left her weak and trembling. “I am Dacendaran, the God of Thieves.”

R’shiel shook her head in denial. “You can’t be. I don’t believe in gods.”

“That’s what makes you so much fun!” He let her go and turned his horse toward the gate. “I have to be going now, though. The others will be mad at me if I get mixed up in what’s going to happen next.”

“The others?”

“The rest of the gods you don’t believe in. You be careful now. They’ll be rather put out if you go and get yourself killed.”

Dace clucked his horse forward and vanished into the darkness. She opened her mouth to call him back, but he had literally vanished from sight. Dumbfounded, Ghari had to call her name twice before she even noticed he was speaking to her.

“R’shiel?”

She turned to look down at him. “What?”

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Before we go the men want... well, they want your blessing.”

“My blessing?”

“You are the demon child,” he said with an apologetic shrug.

R’shiel looked up and suddenly noticed the sea of expectant faces, staring at her with a mixture of awe and fear and perhaps a little distrust.

Mandah walked forward to stand beside Ghari. “R’shiel, every one of us here has known the demon child would come one day, though I’m not sure we’re pleased to discover it is you. But most likely some of these men will die this night. Would you withhold your blessing?”

“But I don’t know what to say.”

“Just tell them that the gods are with them,” the young woman advised. “That is all they want to hear.”

R’shiel nodded doubtfully and moved her horse forward to face the heathens. Tell them the gods are with them, she said. The only thing R’shiel knew for certain about the gods was that they were going to be rather “put out” if she got herself killed.

chapter 59

Only about half of Tarja’s ragtag band of rebels were mounted. The rest had come in wagons or on foot to the rendezvous. Nor were they particularly well armed. Their weapons ranged from knives, rusty swords, and halberds to pitchforks, scythes, and other farm implements. R’shiel thought they looked pitiful, but Tarja assured her that the attack on the Defenders would be by stealth, rather than open confrontation.

They set out for Testra last, with the mounted men who formed the rear of the attack party. Tarja had sent his infantry ahead several hours ago. He had timed his own arrival for closer to midnight, to meet Sunny on the road outside Testra and give his final orders, based on the intelligence she provided. R’shiel watched as Tarja ordered his men with a quiet confidence she suspected he did not feel. He had fewer men than he hoped for, poorly armed, and ill-trained. Any one of them was liable to break ranks, either through fear or misguided bravery. She could tell he wished for even a handful of the superbly trained Defenders he had once commanded. The rebels were fractious, independent, and barely convinced that Tarja was not leading them into a trap. Only her faith in him let her believe that they had any chance of winning.

They reached the outskirts of Testra just before midnight. The night was dark, the moon hidden behind a bank of low clouds. The heat of the day had not been able to escape, and the night was uncomfortably warm. Sunny waved as they drew near. They dismounted and walked off the road a way.

“I found Lord Jenga. He’s at an inn called the Bondsman’s Friend.” Ghari nodded. “I know where it is. It’s at the end of a cul-de-sac near the docks.”

Tarja frowned “A dead end? Trust Jenga to pick a place that’s easy to defend. How many men are with him?”

“No more than a dozen,” Sunny assured him. “Just a few officers and scribes and the like. The rest are camped on the western side of town in the fields.”

Tarja nodded and turned back to Ghari and his men. R’shiel pulled Sunny aside and looked at her closely. “Is something wrong?”

Sunny shook her head. “I’m fine. All this talk of heathens and Harshini makes me a bit nervous, that’s all.”

“You’re still my friend, Sunny. I haven’t changed.”

Sunny shrugged uncomfortably. “I’d best be getting back.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“You can count on it,” Sunny promised.

Testra was quiet as they rode into the town. The taverns were mostly closed for the night, and decent people were well abed. Tarja sent the bulk of his troops to the field on the town’s west side where the Defenders were camped, under the leadership of a tall, thin, but capable-looking man called Wylbir. A former sergeant in the Defenders, he was the closest thing to a military trained officer that Tarja had. Tarja, Ghari, R’shiel, and a dozen more hand-picked men were to move on the Bondsman’s Friend. If things were as Sunny claimed, they could be in and out before the Defenders knew what had happened.

They dismounted a block or more from the inn and made their way on foot, hugging the shadows and jumping at every sound. R’shiel followed Tarja closely. He waved his men forward with hand signals as they turned into the cul-de-sac, then stopped them abruptly.

Darkened shops, obviously catering to the wealthier clientele of Testra, flanked the street. Small, discreet signs hung over several of the shops. Some of them were so exclusive, no signs were displayed at all. The Bondsman’s Friend was a tall, double-storied building of red brick, with two rather imposing columns flanking the entrance. A circular driveway surrounded a small fountain in the center of the yard, which splashed softly in the still night. He studied the deserted street for a long time, before turning back to flatten himself against the wall.

“What’s wrong?” R’shiel whispered.

“There are no guards.”

“Is that bad?” She knew nothing about tactics, but it did not seem unreasonable that Jenga might think himself safe in an inn in the middle of Medalon.

“It’s not like Jenga.”

“Maybe it’s the wrong inn?” one of the others suggested.

“Maybe it’s not,” Tarja muttered. He glanced across the street at Ghari who was flattened against the opposite wall with the rest of the men. Tarja wavered for a moment, he seemed on the verge of ordering their withdrawal. But before he could act, Ghari broke cover and moved toward the inn. Cursing the boys recklessness under his breath, Tarja beckoned the others forward. There was no going back now.

They were almost at the fountain when the rattle of hooves and tack sounded behind them. R’shiel jumped at the unexpected noise and turned as light flared from a score of torches. The darkened inn was suddenly alive with soldiers. Squinting in the unexpected light, she counted more than a hundred red-coated Defenders, swords drawn, ringing the courtyard. Their retreat was cut off by a dozen or more mounted Defenders at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. She glanced at Tarja, waiting for him to charge, to fight his way to freedom, or die trying. But Tarja was not looking at her. He was looking at the tall, gray-haired man emerging from the inn and the short plump woman who walked beside him. R’shiel stood frozen in shock as the Lord Defender and his companion walked into the light of the flaring torches.

“Don’t make me kill you, Tarja,” Jenga said as he stopped a pace from the rebel leader. “There is no need for bloodshed.”

Tarja met the Lord Defender’s eye for a tense moment, then threw down his sword and waved to his men to do the same. The rebels complied, hurling their weapons to the ground in a furious clatter of metal against the cobblestones. The atmosphere in the yard relaxed almost visibly as the Defenders realized Tarja did not plan to make a fight of it.

“See, I told you they’d come,” the woman said. R’shiel stared at her. “Do I get paid now?”

“A hundred gold rivets and a pardon. As agreed.”

“Sunny?” R’shiel said, finally finding her voice. She was numb with shock. “What have you done?”

“What have I done?” she asked. “I have done my duty to the Sisterhood, nothing more.”

“But you were my friend!” R’shiel was suddenly afraid that she was going to cry.

“I’m no friend to any heathen. Particularly one who’s not even human.” She spat on the ground in front of R’shiel.

R’shiel raised her arm and punched the court’esa in the face with all the force she could muster. Sunny staggered backward under the blow, crying out in pain. She cowered on the ground, whimpering as R’shiel raised her arm to hit her again. Neither Jenga nor the Defenders made to interfere. If R’shiel could have figured out how to burn Sunny to ashes where she stood, she would have done it gladly, but she was too angry to call on her magic,

“R’shiel, no!” Tarja cried, stepping quickly between her and Sunny. He caught her wrist above her head and held it there, as she prepared to strike again. R’shiel glared at him, struggling against his hold, but he was stronger than her anger.

“Let me go! I’m going to kill her!”

“No you’re not,” he told her firmly, then added in a low voice meant only for her, “Look around you, R’shiel. Kill her and you’ll be dead before she hits the ground. There will be another time.”

“Oh? I don’t know,” Ghari called as a Defender grabbed him and pulled him back from the fracas between the two women. “Sounds like a grand idea to me. Let her at it, Tarja. Give the girl her head!”

“Shut up, fool,” Jenga snapped, but he made no other attempt to interfere.

Still struggling against Tarja’s grip, R’shiel tried to remember what Shananara had taught her about touching her magic. She couldn’t break free of Tarja without it, but neither could she risk harming him by mistake. Besides, she wasn’t angry with Tarja; it was Sunny she wanted to kill. His knuckles were white, and the veins along his arm stood out with the strain.

“But you don’t understand...” she whispered. The depth of Sunny’s betrayal was beyond comprehension. She wished more than anything, at that moment, that she had stayed with the Harshini. That she had never come back to discover how easily she had been duped. She slowly lowered her arm. Tarja held her for a fleeting moment before she was pulled away by two Defenders.

Sunny had struggled to her feet and approached R’shiel with a murderous look, blood dripping from her broken nose. She slapped R’shiel’s face with stinging force, but the pain was almost a relief compared to the knowledge of the woman’s treachery.

“Harshini bitch!”

Sunny stormed back toward the inn as R’shiel was dragged away by the Defenders. Her last sight of Tarja was of him being bound securely with heavy chains and led away to await his fate with the other captured rebels.

chapter 60

Tarja was separated from the other rebels and taken into the inn. He was escorted into a small dining room that held a polished circular table surrounded by elegant, high-backed chairs and ordered to sit by the Defender who had charge of him. Tarja recognized the man. He had been a cadet the last time Tarja had seen him; now he was a captain. He suddenly felt very old. “Harven, isn’t it?” he asked the young captain. “I told you to sit down.”

Tarja shrugged, indicating the chains that bound him. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to stand.”

“Suit yourself.” The captain looked away, as if afraid to meet his eyes. That suited Tarja just fine. He had no wish to suffer the accusing glare of the young man. He was far too busy accusing himself.

He should have known Sunny was too much of an opportunist to be trusted. A hundred gold rivets was more than she could earn in a lifetime as a court'esa. In a way, he didn’t blame her for choosing the reward. A fortune in gold and a pardon from the Sisterhood undoubtedly appeared a much safer option than a dubious alliance with the heathen rebels. But even had he suspected her unexpected allegiance to the Sisterhood, the fact that he had walked into a trap, while every sense he owned screamed at him that something was amiss, was unforgivable. He should have acted on his first impulse to withdraw. Thanks entirely to his stupidity, R’shiel was in the hands of the Sisterhood, and they knew that she was Harshini. The rebels had been captured, almost to a man. He had led them all to their peril while arrogantly assuming that he could win against a superior force with a motley collection of rebellious farmers armed with pitchforks. He was a bloody fool.

Harven snapped to attention as the door opened and Lord Jenga entered the room. His expression was grim. He seemed to take no joy in his victory.

“Unchain him,” he ordered Harven. The captain did as he was told, then returned to his post by the door.

Tarja shed the chains gladly and this time took the seat that Jenga offered him. Jenga pushed the glass-shaded lantern on the table aside so that he could see the younger man more clearly. The shadows lent him an air of deep melancholy.

“You will talk to me this time, Tarja,” the Lord Defender said. “There will be no torture. No threats. I simply want the truth. On your honor as a captain of the Defenders.”

“That’s a strange oath to ask me to honor, Jenga. I broke that trust a long time ago.”

“Why did you come back? Why attempt such a foolish thing?” Jenga appeared more concerned by Tarja’s tactical error than his desertion.

“Because the Karien Envoy is dead. We face invasion from the north, and Joyhinia is moving you away from the border.”

“So you attacked me? You never used to be so stupid, Tarja.”

“No. The attack was just a diversion so that I could warn you before Joyhinia got here. I hoped you’d listen to reason.” How ludicrous his plan seemed now. How grandiose and improbable. Jenga was right. He never used to be so stupid.

“Did you think I would turn the Defenders around against the express orders of the First Sister to face an invasion that I’ve heard nothing of?”

“You’ll hear about it soon enough, my Lord.”

“And R’shiel?” Jenga asked. “How is she involved in this? The court’esa says she now claims to be Harshini.”

Tarja was very tempted to lie. By denying Sunny’s story he might be able to save R’shiel... from what? They would both be hanged as soon as Joyhinia arrived. She would not suffer either of them to live any longer.

“The Harshini are no threat to Medalon,” Tarja said, shaking his head. “Quite the opposite.”

“I always wondered about who she really was,” Jenga said, staring at his hands, then he looked up, the Lord Defender to the core. “I assume you found them, then? The Harshini who are still in hiding? You have the location of their settlement?”

“Jenga, forget the Harshini!” Tarja pleaded. “They are not the threat the Sisterhood claims!”

“Where are they hiding? Or have you changed sides again, Tarja? Have the Harshini sorcerers addled your wits? It would account for your actions tonight, at least.”

“I don’t know where they are. I only met a couple of them.”

“And based on this meeting with two representatives of their race, you have determined that they are no threat to us?” Jenga asked skeptically. “A sound military assessment if ever I heard one.”

“The Harshini are not warriors. They’re peaceful.”

“Do you think me a fool? The Hythrun follow the gods of the Harshini and are the most warlike nation in the world. The Fardohnyans keep a standing army that outnumbers our entire population! These are the followers of your peaceful Harshini, Tarja. Every Hythrun warlord sacrifices living things to your Harshini gods.”

Tarja wished he knew more. He wished he knew how to explain what he knew in his heart to be true.

“You’re wrong, Jenga,” Tarja insisted, although he lacked the words to make the old man believe him.

“Then you will not disclose the information regarding their location?”

“Not even if I knew where it was. The threat that faces Medalon is coming from the north.”

Jenga leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps R’shiel will be more forthcoming?”

“Harm one hair on her head and I will kill you, Jenga.”

Harven’s hand instinctively went to his sword, so dangerous did Tarja appear at that moment. The Lord Defender raised his hand to halt the young captain.

“It is clear where your loyalties now lie, Tarja. I never cease to be amazed at your facility to change sides. You wondered earlier if I thought you had broken your oath. I see now that any oath is meaningless to you. You have no honor. You are nothing but an opportunist. A cold-blooded mercenary who fights for whichever side offers the highest coin.”

Tarja was saddened by the Lord Defender’s words, but beyond being offended by them. “If only you could see what I have seen, Jenga.”

Jenga pushed himself wearily to his feet. He turned to Harven. “Take him back and put him with the other prisoners in the compound, but see that he’s well guarded. They probably want him dead as much as I do, but I imagine the First Sister will want that pleasure for herself.”

By midmorning, all the prisoners caught in Sunny’s trap were confined to a temporary compound erected to hold them on the outskirts of the town. Although the planking that had been hastily nailed to the fences would almost certainly fall under a concerted attack, the rebels made no attempt to escape. Ringing the flimsy compound was a circle of grim-faced Defenders who were a much greater deterrent.

Just after first light, Mahina and Affiana were pushed through the gate, looking rather disheveled, their expressions more resigned than frightened. R’shiel followed, after the prisoners had been fed a thin broth and surprisingly fresh bread for breakfast. The troopers assigned to guard Tarja stepped forward to prevent her coming near, but Harven waved them back. The young captain had been surprisingly relaxed in his custodial duties. He did not seem interested in preventing contact with the other prisoners. Much to Tarja’s amazement, the rebels did not hold him responsible for their current predicament. It was far easier to blame a conniving court’esa. Harven sensed that his charge was in no immediate danger, so Tarja had spent the remainder of the night talking with Ghari, Wylbir, and the other rebel lieutenants. The rebels had been less concerned with what had happened in the past than what the future might hold.

Tarja was certain that this time he would not escape the hangman’s noose. His crimes against Joyhinia and the Sisterhood were far too numerous. The remainder of the rebels, he was less certain about. Many of them had been arrested for little more than being out in the streets of Testra after dark, armed with farming implements. Hardly the stuff of dangerous insurgents.

Mahina would probably get nothing more than a scolding, he judged. Even Joyhinia would not attempt to hang a former First Sister. Such an action would set a dangerous precedent. He was more worried for R’shiel. She had been identified as Harshini.

He stood up as she ran to him. He had not slept in two days, but the crushing fatigue he felt was almost banished by the sight of her, alive and well, still wearing those damned Dragon Rider’s leathers.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” she told him, as she hugged him tightly. “They asked me a few questions, but that was all.”

“Me, too. But it will be all right now.”

R’shiel looked him in the eye, clearly seeing the lie for what it was.

“Joyhinia has arrived. I saw them taking a carriage down to the docks to meet her when they brought me in.”

“Then we won’t have much longer to wait.”

As if in answer, the gate swung open noisily. A Company of Defenders entered the temporary compound, spreading out to form a semicircle of red coats and polished steel.

He kissed her. It might be the last time he would ever have the chance. She pulled away and looked up at him. He could see everything she wanted to say in her eyes. Everything she would never have the opportunity to tell him. As the last of the Defenders marched through the gate, Joyhinia walked in, flanked by Jenga and Draco.

Taking her hand they walked forward together to confront the First Sister.

chapter 61

The First Sister saw them as soon as she entered the compound. Jenga stood beside her. He had probably briefed her on the ride to the compound from the docks. Draco was just as silent and withdrawn as always. Tarja worried a little about him. Would he object to anything Joyhinia ordered? It was hard to tell with Draco.

Joyhinia scowled at Tarja and then looked at R’shiel. With the knowledge of her true ancestry, it would be hard to miss her Harshini heritage. She spared a glance for the rebels, who were slowly gathering behind him, silently and expectantly, as they stepped forward. Joyhinia must be wondering what she had to do to discredit him. The thought gave him a measure of satisfaction.

“So this is what you have come to?” she asked scathingly as they stopped before her, hand in hand. “I see you have even stooped to incest.”

“I’d not go down that road if I were you, Joyhinia,” he advised. “If R’shiel is my sister and her father is Harshini, what does that make you?”

Joyhinia’s expression darkened. Had she known the truth about R’shiel? By the look on her face, Tarja doubted it.

“I might have known you would be taken in by a Harshini slut.”

“Better a Harshini slut for a lover than a heartless bitch for a mother,” R’shiel snapped.

“I should have drowned you at birth!” she hissed, low enough that only those closest to her could hear. “Both of you!”

“Why didn’t you, Joyhinia?” Tarja asked. “Didn’t have the heart to, or was it that you hadn’t added murder to your repertoire yet?”

Joyhinia slapped his face, the crack ringing out across the silent compound. His head snapped back at the force of the blow, but when he looked at her, he was smiling.

“Feeling better now?”

Joyhinia was livid as he stood there defying her. With a visible effort, she forced a smile.

“Very much, thank you,” she replied. “I’ve been meaning to do that for a long time.” She glanced back at Jenga, who stood next to Draco watching the exchange with a stony expression. “How many did you capture?”

“Two hundred and eighty-seven in total,” Jenga informed her. “Including the innkeeper who was harboring them and Sister Mahina.”

At the mention of her predecessor, Joyhinia looked back at the gathered rebels. Hearing her name, Mahina stepped forward.

“You are a stain on the honor of the Sisterhood, Mahina. I don’t understand how you can stand there amid these criminals and still call yourself a Sister of the Blade.”

“The Sisterhood’s honor was in trouble the day you rose to power,” Mahina retorted. “No stain I’ve inflicted on the Sisterhood will be noticed against the background of your grubby footprints, Joyhinia.”

Rage threatened to overcome the First Sister. She had not expected to face these defiant and unrepentant agitators. She turned on her heel and walked toward the gate.

“What are your orders regarding the prisoners, your Grace?” Jenga asked.

Joyhinia stopped and looked first at the Lord Defender, then at her son and the daughter she had renounced, then at the old woman she had defeated, who was all but laughing at her. A black rage seemed to fill her whole being. Tarja could see her trembling to hold it in.

“Kill them,” she ordered.

“Your Grace?”

“I said kill them! All of them. Put them to the sword!”

Jenga hesitated longer than he should have. He looked at her for a moment, wavering indecisively. The compound was deathly quiet as three hundred rebels and more than a hundred Defenders waited for the Lord Defender to give the order. The sun was high in the sky and beat down on the gathering relentlessly. Tarja could hear the distant singing of birds among the trees on the other side of the field. Jenga slowly unsheathed his sword and held it before him.

“Kill them all!” she repeated, just to ensure there was no doubt regarding her intentions.

“No.” Jenga’s sword landed in the dirt at her feet with a thud.

Joyhinia stared at the man in disbelief. “You dare question my orders?”

“No, your Grace,” Jenga said. “I refuse. I’ll not put three hundred men to the sword on your whim.”

“They are criminals!” she cried. “Every one of them deserves to die!”

“Then let them be tried and hanged as criminals under the law. I’ll supervise their hanging if they are found guilty, but I’ll not murder them out of hand.”

“What difference does it make, you fool! I am ordering you to pick up your sword and do as I say or, so help me, you will join them!” Joyhinia was screaming, beyond caring.

“Then I will join them,” Jenga said quietly.

“Your brother will pay for your treachery, Jenga!” Joyhinia warned.

The Lord Defender shrugged. “Dayan is dead, your Grace. You cannot use that threat against me any longer.”

Desperately, Joyhinia turned as the sound of another sword hitting the ground distracted her. It was the young captain, Harven, standing near Tarja, his expression serious but defiant. A few more followed hesitantly, then suddenly it seemed all the Defenders were hurling their blades to the earth in support of their commander.

Joyhinia stared at them, aghast at the implications of such treason. Tarja’s expression was one of awe. He couldn’t believe they had chosen to defy her. R’shiel stood close beside him, her body touching his, and she smiled.

Joyhinia turned to Draco frantically. “Draco, I am appointing you Lord Defender. Place Jenga and these other traitors under arrest and carry out my orders.”

Draco hesitated. Tarja watched the man, wondering which way he would jump. Would he follow Jenga’s lead and defy Joyhinia, or would a lifetime of duty override his conscience?

“As you wish, your Grace,” he said finally, in a voice completely devoid of emotion.

“This is murder, Draco,” Jenga told him. “Not justice.”

“I am sworn,” Draco replied.

“Aye,” Jenga scoffed. “Just as you were sworn to celibacy, yet the proof of your oath-breaking stands before us all.”

The Lord Defender pointed at Tarja, and for a moment, he didn’t understand what Jenga was implying. Joyhinia seemed to pale as she glared at Draco. The realization hit Tarja like a blow. It accounted for so much. It accounted for Joyhinia’s inside information, even long before she had joined the Quorum. It accounted for something else, too. Tarja knew now who had ordered the village of Haven put to the sword. He looked at the man who had fathered him and felt nothing but abhorrence.

“How many more oaths have you broken, Draco?” Jenga asked. “How many others have you murdered at Joyhinia’s behest? Was she blackmailing you, too? Or are you just craven?”

Draco unsheathed his sword and held it before him. For a moment, he glanced at the son he had never acknowledged. Tarja stared at him. He had not expected to learn who his father was this day. Nor had he expected his father to be the instrument of his destruction. Draco looked away first, distracted by the thunder of hooves as a red-coated Defender galloped into the yard.

“Lord Jenga!” he cried, throwing himself out of the saddle before his lathered mount had skidded to a halt. “We’re under attack, sir!”

“Attack?” he demanded. “By whom? The rebels?”

Breathing heavily from his desperate ride, the trooper shook his head. “No, my Lord, it looks like the Hythrun.” The news sent a wave of disturbed mutters through the gathering, particularly among those Defenders who had just thrown down their swords in support of Jenga. “They’re coming in from the south. Two full Centuries, at least. I don’t know what they’re riding, but they’re making incredible speed. They must have crossed the river further south. Captain Alcarnen said to tell you they’ll be here within minutes.”

Jenga turned to Joyhinia. Tarja expected her to relent in the face of this unexpected crisis. There was no time now to apportion blame or seek revenge. Not with two hundred Hythrun riding down on them. He wondered how they had come this far into Medalon without being discovered.

Jenga bent down to pick up the sword that lay at Joyhinia’s feet.

“Draco! Carry out my orders! Kill them. Now!”

This time, even Draco balked. “Your Grace, perhaps we should wait...”

“Kill them!” she screamed, her rage driving her beyond all reason.

Tarja was astounded at Joyhinia’s intransigence. “Didn’t you hear him? We’re under attack, Joyhinia. Let the Defenders do their job.”

“It’s a lie! A trick! There is no attack! This is just a plot to save your miserable lives! Kill them, Draco! All of them! Kill every miserable wretch here, including those traitors who threw down their swords. Now! Do it now!”

Draco looked at Joyhinia uncertainly. The woman had stepped over the edge into blind, insane rage, and Draco may have been many things, but he was not a fool. He shook his head. “I’m sorry Joyhinia, not this time.”

Looking first to Draco and then at Tarja, Joyhinia’s fury knew no bounds as she saw the look of quiet triumph on Tarja’s face. She screamed wordlessly, snatching up Jenga’s sword that lay in the dirt at her feet and rushed at him. Her sudden attack seemed to wake the Defenders from their torpor. Tarja was vaguely aware of other shouts, other voices. R’shiel cried out. Joyhinia thrust the heavy blade forward as R’shiel stepped in front of him, taking the blade just below the ribs. Lacking the strength to run the blade all the way through the protective leather, Joyhinia twisted the blade savagely as she was overpowered.

Tarja caught R’shiel as she fell with an agonized scream, clutching at the jagged wound, dark blood rapidly spilling over her hands onto the dusty ground.

chapter 62

Testra’s red roofs came into view midmorning, and the sight raised Brak’s spirits considerably. He was exhausted from the effort of keeping the Hythrun Raiders hidden from view. He had been drawing on his power continuously for weeks now, and the sweetness of it had long moved from intoxicating to nauseating. His eyes burned black and felt as if they had been branded with hot pokers. The trembling that had begun a few days ago was so fierce he had trouble keeping his seat. Damin watched him worriedly but said nothing. The Warlord had agreed to come to his aid, and in return, Brak had agreed to see them safely through Medalon. He had not realized what it would cost him to keep such a foolish promise.

Arriving in Krakandar on the back of an eagle larger than a horse had a gone a long way to convincing the Warlord to follow him. But ever since that day, Brak had suffered through being referred to as Divine One, men falling to their knees as he approached, and women begging him to bless their newborn babies. He accepted it as part of the price he must pay to keep his word to Korandellen.

There was no point now, Brak could see, in trying to pretend the Harshini were extinct, so he made no attempt to hide what he was. Nor had he hesitated to call on the Harshini for help. There were many of them anxious to leave Sanctuary and move openly in the world once more. When they crossed the Glass River it had been over a magical bridge constructed by Shananara and her demon brethren. On his left rode a slender young Harshini named Glenanaran. His efforts had allowed them to maintain an impossible pace. He had linked his mind to the Hythrun’s sorcerer-bred horses, and through that, gave the beasts access to the magical power they were bred to channel – power the breed had been denied for two centuries.

With Testra so close, Brak finally let go of the magic, and two hundred Hythrun Raiders suddenly appeared, as if from nowhere, in the middle of the road. Their pace did not falter. It meant nothing to the Hythrun that they had been hidden from sight. They were invisible to casual observers but not to each other. Brak sagged as the power left him.

“What’s wrong?” Damin asked, as Brak clutched at his pommel to prevent himself from being pitched from the saddle.

“I’ve let go of the glamor. They can see us now.”

Damin nodded, his eyes scanning the countryside, but they were in no danger yet.

They rode on toward the town with the Glass River glittering silver on their right. Brak wondered if they would get there in time. He had no clear idea what Tarja had planned. All he knew was that it was likely to be dangerous. He had not come this far to see R’shiel destroyed. Brak slowed them to a trot as they reached the squatters’ hovels on the edge of the town. Damin looked around with interest. He had never traveled this far north before.

“So this is where we will find the demon child?”

“I hope so.”

“What is she like?”

Brak thought for a moment. “Like me, I suppose.”

“You?”

“It’s not something than can be easily understood by a human.” He was saved from having to explain further by the first sign of the Defenders, although he was a little surprised they had not been noticed sooner. A flash of red and a startled yell, and the Hythrun were reaching for their weapons. “Tell your men to stay their hand, Damin. I don’t want a pitched battle if it can be avoided.”

“If they attack, my men will fight.”

“Well, they haven’t attacked yet, so give the order.”

Damin frowned, but he turned in his saddle and signaled his Raiders to put up their weapons.

They rode into a town that seemed oddly deserted for the middle of the day. Although he had expected the townsfolk to run at the sight of the Hythrun, there were few folk around to notice their passage. It made him uneasy, a feeling that only got worse as they turned toward the main square and spied a fair-haired youth standing in the center of the deserted street, obviously waiting for them.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, riding out to meet the God of Thieves.

“Waiting for you.” Dace looked past Brak at the dark-eyed Harshini and waved brightly. “Hello, Glenanaran.”

“Divine One.”

“You’re heading the wrong way,” Dacendaran informed them “They’re all over on the fields on the western side of town. You’d better hurry, though. I think they’re going to... NO!”

Dace vanished with an anguished cry. Glenanaran looked at Brak.

“Something has happened.”

“What?” Damin demanded. “Who was that child? What’s happened?”

Brak didn’t answer. He urged Cloud Chaser forward at a gallop with Glenanaran close on his heels. Damin and his troop were a little slower to react, but soon the sharp clack of hooves against the cobbles sounded in his wake. Brak tried not to think the worst, but only something that touched the consciousness of a god, on a level neither he, nor even Glenanaran could feel, would cause him to retreat like that.

Brak found the compound easily enough and ignored the Defenders who tried to block his way. He galloped into the enclosure with Glenanaran at his side and skidded to a halt as the shocked Defenders suddenly realized there were two hundred Hythrun Raiders riding into their midst.

Brak flew from his saddle toward a cluster of rebels and Defenders, pushing them out of his way. His fears seemed to solidify into a core of molten lead that burned through his chest. Tarja knelt on the ground nursing R’shiel. He was covered in blood. R’shiel’s blood.

“What have you done?” he demanded of the gathered humans.

No one answered him. R’shiel was unconscious, her skin waxy and pale, her breathing labored. Glenanaran pushed through to kneel beside her, and Brak felt his skin prickle as the Harshini drew on his power. The labored breathing halted and then stopped completely.

“I’ve stopped time around her, but it’s a temporary measure only,” the Harshini explained. “She needs healing beyond even our power.”

They knelt in the circle of stunned Defenders and rebels. Brak looked up and saw two rebels holding back a woman whose eyes burned with hatred. Joyhinia Tenragan, he guessed. Her white gown was splattered with blood. On the other side of the circle stood the Lord Defender. Even if his braided uniform had not given him away, Brak thought he would know him simply by his air of command. At the appearance of the Hythrun, Jenga had began yelling orders. Defenders were scooping up blades that inexplicably lay on the ground in front of them. As soon as they moved for their swords, the Hythrun reacted. Short recurved bows quivered as the Raiders waited for the order to loose their arrows into the closely packed Defenders and rebels.

“Damin! No!” Brak called, as the Warlord raised his arm to give the signal. Brak turned to Jenga urgently. “My Lord, tell your men to put up their swords!”

“Who are you to give such orders!”

“I am the only hope this girl has! Put up your swords!”

Jenga made no move to comply. Damin Wolfblade had but to drop his arm and there would be a massacre.

“Dacendaran!”

The god appeared almost instantly, which surprised Brak a little.

“There’s no need to yell, Brakandaran.”

“Do something about these weapons. Please.”

The boy god’s face lit up with glee. In the blink of an eye, every sword, every knife, every arrow, every table dagger in the compound vanished, leaving their owners slack-jawed with surprise.

“What trickery is this!” Jenga bellowed.

“It’s not trickery, it’s divine intervention. Lord Defender, meet Dacendaran, the God of Thieves. If I ask him nicely, he may even give your weapons back, but don’t count on it.”

Jenga clearly did not believe the evidence of his own eyes, but Damin Wolfblade and his Hythrun looked to be in the throes of religious ecstasy. They would be no trouble for the time being. Brak turned back to Glenanaran. “How long do we have?”

“Not long at all, I fear.”

“Let her die!” Joyhinia screamed. “I warned you! Didn’t I warn you the heathens were still a threat! This is the price of your treachery, Jenga!”

“Who is that woman?” Dace asked.

“The First Sister.”

“Really?” Dace walked toward Joyhinia, who fell thankfully silent, her eyes wide with fear as the god approached.

Brak wasted no more time worrying about her. He knelt down beside R’shiel. Tarja still held her as if he could hold her life in, simply by refusing to let go. While she was held in Glenanaran’s spell she had not deteriorated, but his magic could not save her, merely postpone the inevitable.

“Will Cheltaran come if we call?” he asked the Harshini.

“He will come if I tell him to.”

His head jerked up as the newcomer approached. Brak glanced around and discovered the humans in the compound frozen in a moment between time. Only he, Glenanaran, and Dace were free of it. Zegarnald towered over everything, even the mounted Hythrun, dressed in a glorious golden breastplate and a silver plumed helm. He carried a jeweled sword taller than a man and a shield that glinted so brightly it hurt to gaze upon it.

“Zegarnald.”

“You were supposed to bring the demon child to us, Brakandaran,” the War God said. “Would it have been too much to expect you to deliver her alive?”

Brak stood and looked up at the god. “You’ve known all along where she was, Zegarnald. You, Dacendaran, and Kalianah. Maera knew. Kaelarn must have been in on it,” he added, thinking of the blue-finned arlen catch that had set him on this path. “Even Xaphista knows of her. You didn’t need me. Why?”

“No weapon is ready for battle until it has been tempered.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“The demon child must face a god, Brakandaran. For that she must be fearless. She must have ridden through the fires of adversity and out the other side. Otherwise, she will not prevail.”

“The fact that your tempering has probably started a war doesn’t hurt a bit either, I suppose?”

The War God shrugged. “I can’t help it if circumstances conspire in my favor every now and then.”

Brak shook his head in disgust and glanced down at R’shiel. She might be better off if she didn’t survive.

“What will you do?”

“I have no need to explain myself.” Brak glared at the god. He was in no mood for Zegarnald’s arrogance. “You have been... useful... however, so I will indulge you. I will take her to Sanctuary. Cheltaran will heal her. Then the tempering can continue.”

“Continue! Hasn’t she been through enough?” Haven’t we all, he added silently.

“She knows what she is but does not accept it. The tempering will be complete when she acknowledges her destiny.”

“Well, I hope she’s inherited her father’s longevity,” Brak snapped. “I’ve a feeling you’ll be waiting a long while for that day.”

“Your disrespect is refreshing, Brakandaran, but it tries my patience. Give her to me.” There was no point in refusing. Zegarnald would see R’shiel safe, if only to ensure she lived to face Xaphista. Glenanaran hurried to comply, lifting R’shiel clear of Tarja, whose face was frozen in an expression of despair. The War God bent down and gathered R’shiel to him with surprising gentleness.

“You must ally the Hythrun with the Medalonians and move north,” Zegarnald ordered. “Xaphista knows who destroyed the staff. The Overlord can use the power of the demon child as readily as we can, should he find her before she is prepared. His attempts to bring her to him by stealth have failed. His next attempt will not be nearly as subtle, and your human friends have given him the perfect excuse. So, Brakandaran, it seems you must serve me again, however reluctantly.”

“Don’t be such a bully, Zeggie.”

Kalianah appeared beside the War God in her most adorable aspect, although she barely reached his knee. An eternity of trying had not convinced her that Zegarnald would not come around eventually and love her as everyone else did.

“This is none of your concern, Kalianah. Go back to your matchmaking. You have interfered too much already.”

“I’ve interfered! Look who’s talking! You’re the one doing all the interfering. If I didn’t—”

“Hey!” Dacendaran cut in. “R’shiel is dying, while you two stand there arguing,” The gods stared at him in surprise. Without a word, Zegarnald vanished with R’shiel. Kalianah followed with a dramatic sigh. Brak turned to Dace in surprise. The boy-god grinned. “It’s not often I get a chance to put those two in their place.”

Brak had no chance to reply. With the departure of the gods, the humans woke from their torpor. Tarja leaped to his feet, searching for R’shiel. To him, it would have seemed as if she had simply disappeared between one moment and the next.

Tarja glared at him suspiciously. “Where’s R’shiel? What have you done with her?”

“She’s safe. I’ll explain later.”

“What is happening here?” Jenga demanded.

“I am wondering the same thing,” Damin said, moving his horse forward. “What happened to the girl?”

Brak took a deep breath. This was going to take some explaining. “My Lord, I am Brakandaran té Cam of the Harshini. This is Lord Glenanaran té Daylin. And this is Damin Wolfblade, the Warlord of Krakandar. I believe you and Lord Wolfblade already know each other, Tarja.”

“We’ve not been formally introduced,” the Warlord said. “But we know each other well enough. Who harmed the demon child? Point me to her assailant, and I will make him suffer for an eternity.”

“Thanks, but I plan to take care of that myself,” Tarja said.

“Tarja,” Jenga began. “What is—”

Tarja held up his hand to halt Jenga’s questions and turned to Brak. “Is attacking us with the Hythrun your idea of helping?”

“Attacking? Captain, you woefully misunderstand our intentions!” Damin objected. “We are here to offer you assistance. Lord Brakandaran informs me there is an invasion of Medalon impending. If the Kariens get through you, then Hythria is next, specifically, my province of Krakandar, which borders Medalon. I’d far rather stop the bastards on your border, than on mine.”

Tarja turned to look at Jenga. “My Lord?”

Things were happening far too quickly for Jenga. Brak looked around him, at the Defenders poised for action, the nervously alert Hythrun. Tarja standing by the Warlord, waiting for his answer. He saw Draco, his expression bewildered, standing beside Joyhinia. The First Sister stared into the sky, her face a portrait of wonder. There was something very odd about the way she smiled. Something childlike and innocent and so totally unexpected, that it made Brak uneasy. Dacendaran stood beside her, tossing a glowing ball in his hand, grinning mischievously.

“First Sister?”

Joyhinia did not respond. She seemed totally absorbed in watching the sky.

“Sister Joyhinia?”

“She can’t hear you,” the boy told them. “Well, no that’s not true. She can hear you; she just doesn’t care.”

“What have you done, Dacendaran?” Brak asked sternly.

“I stole this,” he announced, tossing the glowing ball over the heads of Tarja and Jenga. Brak snatched the ball out of the air and examined it curiously.

“What is it?”

“It’s her intellect.”

Jenga stared at the boy uncomprehendingly as Tarja took the glowing sphere from Brak. “What do you mean, her intellect?”

The god shrugged, as if it hardly needed an explanation. “It’s all the bits that go into making her what she is. I couldn’t steal it all; that would kill her, and I’m not allowed to do that. But I took all the icky bits. Now she’s just like a little child.”

“What happens if this is destroyed?” Tarja asked, holding the ball up to the light. “Will it kill her?”

“No. She’ll just stay like this. It’s pretty clever, don’t you think?”

Tarja did not answer. He simply dropped the ball to the ground, crushed it beneath the heel of his boot, and then looked at Jenga.

“My Lord, the First Sister appears to be incapacitated,” he said, as if she had come down with a cold. “We have an offer of an alliance to discuss. Would you be so kind as to act in lieu of a member of the Quorum?”

Jenga barely hesitated as he finally crossed the line into treason. He glanced at Tarja before he turned to the Warlord.

“We must talk,” he said to Damin.

Out of the corner of his eye, Brak saw Mahina leading Joyhinia away. Mahina nodded patiently as Joyhinia said something to her and then giggled. She sounded like a five-year-old child. As he turned back, Brak caught sight of Draco approaching Tarja cautiously. Tarja deliberately turned his back on him and walked away. All around them, the rebels, the Defenders, and the Hythrun wore expressions of complete bewilderment.

“You’re going to have to do something about the rest of the Sisterhood,” Damin said as he swung a leg over his saddle and jumped to the ground. “You can’t fight the Kariens effectively with one arm tied behind your back.”

“I must reluctantly agree,” Glenanaran added. “This moment, while historic, is only just the beginning.”

“Aye,” Jenga agreed heavily.

Brak was saddened by the expression on Jenga’s face. The weight of his treason pressed on him, as it would for the rest of his days. For this to be resolved now he would have to do more than defy the Sisterhood; he might well have to destroy it. Dace sidled up to Brak, looking rather pleased with himself.

“Well, it looks like it will all work out for the best, after all.”

Brak shook his head. “That depends on how you look at it, Dace. Zegarnald has his war and Kalianah has been able to impose her idea of order on a few hapless souls, but I’m not sure R’shiel would agree with you. Or any of the Medalonians for that matter.”

“You worry too much, Brak.”

“And you should stay out of things that don’t concern you. That goes for the other gods, too.” Dacendaran did not deign to answer, but as Brak walked away from him, the god called him back.

“Brakandaran!”

“What now, Dace?”

“Do I have to give their weapons back?”