Medalon (12 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“R’shiel!”

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

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

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

“That was weeks ago. Hella!”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, so you noticed?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Your Defenders do us proud, my Lord,” she said.

“They are
your
Defenders, your Grace,” he replied, with genuine respect for the old woman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Garet didn’t even smile. “Actually, you are. Can you get away from here without attracting notice?”

“Whose notice in particular?” Jenga asked.

“Joyhinia Tenragan’s,” Garet replied.

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

Garet did not flinch from Jenga’s disapproving gaze.

“Tarja’s back.”

Jenga had to force himself not to run.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do you intend to do, Tarja?”

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

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

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

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

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

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