Medalon (3 page)

“Ritac!” Leara jumped at Tarja’s sudden shout.

The corporal hurried over to them. “Sir?”

“Go with Mistress Steader and see if anything can be salvaged before we leave.” Ritac’s eyes widened at the anger in Tarja’s voice. He helped the woman to her feet and led her towards the house. Tarja crossed the yard in five angry steps. He grabbed Gawn by his red coat and jerked him out of the saddle.

“What the Founders—” Gawn cried as he hit the ground with a thud, jarring his already wounded shoulder.

“You stupid, miserable, son-of-a-bitch,” Tarja growled, reaching down to pull Gawn to his feet. The captain cried out as his shoulder wound began bleeding afresh. “Verkin sent you out to familiarise yourself with the border farms.” He slammed his fist into Gawn’s abdomen. The younger man stumbled backward with a cry, doubling over with the pain.

“How many more, Gawn?” Tarja punctuated his words with another blow, this one to Gawn’s jaw. The punch lifted the captain off his feet and he landed heavily on his back. Sobbing with pain and outrage, he scuttled backwards along the ground to escape Tarja’s wrath, crying out with every movement of his wounded shoulder. “How many more farmsteaders will die because you decided things were going to change, now that you’ve arrived on the border?” Tarja bent down and hauled Gawn to his feet. “What gives you the right—”

“The right?” Gawn sputtered, stumbling backwards out of Tarja’s reach. “It’s the law! What gives you the right to flaunt it? You’re the one who lets these people off paying their taxes! You’re the one who lets heathens go unpunished! You’re the one—”

Tarja did not wait to find out what else he was guilty of. He smashed his clenched fist into the young captain’s face with all the force he could muster. With an intensely satisfying, bone-crunching thump, Gawn dropped unconscious at his feet. Shaking his hand to ease the sting, Tarja turned back to his men, who had
all suddenly found something else to do. Ritac hurried to him and glanced at the unconscious captain, before looking at Tarja.

“Did you find Haren?”

Ritac shook his head. “Mistress Leara says they threw him into the house before they set it on fire. He’s had his Burning at least.”

Tarja frowned. It was a measure of the Warlord’s anger that they had burned Haren’s corpse. Hythrun considered the Medalonian practice of cremation a barbaric and sacrilegious custom. Wolfblade must have been in a rage, if he ordered a body burned.

“Let’s get out of here then,” Tarja announced, flexing his still-aching fist as he walked back towards the house.

“Er…what about Captain Gawn, sir?” Ritac called after him. “He appears to be unwell.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the corporal. “That arrow wound must be worse than it looks,” Tarja replied calmly. “Tie him to his saddle.”

Ritac didn’t even blink. “Aye. Nasty things, those Hythrun arrows.”

It was another four days before Tarja and his men arrived back in Bordertown. They had taken a detour to deliver Leara to her sister’s farmstead, before heading home.

Gawn regained consciousness and had barely spoken a word to anyone, although he was obviously in pain. He now had a broken nose and two rather impressive black eyes to accompany his arrow wound.

Bordertown was the southernmost town in Medalon, located near the point where the borders of
Fardohnya, Hythria and Medalon met. Their detour meant entering the town by the North Road, past the busy docks on the outskirts of the town.

Harsh shouts, muttered curses and the sharp smell of fish permeated the docks as they rode by. Sailors and traders, riverboat captains and red-coated Defenders swarmed over the wharves that were lapped by the broad silver expanse of the Glass River.

To Tarja, the docks were about the worst thing he had ever smelled in his life and every time he rode past them, he wondered at those who found so much romance on the river.

They rode towards the centre of the town past wagons and polished carriages clattering and clanking along the cobbled street lined by taverns and shops. The buildings were almost all double-storeyed, with red tiled roofs and balconies that overlooked the street below, festooned with washing hung out to dry. Rickety temporary stalls with tattered awning covers were set up in the gaps between the shops which sold a variety of food, copper pots and even exotic Fardohnyan silk scarves. There were beggars too—old, scabby men and pitifully thin young boys, missing an arm, a leg, or an eye. Occasionally, he caught sight of a Fardohnyan merchant with his entourage of slaves and his gloriously exotic
court’esa
dressed in little more than transparent silk and a fortune in gems.

Tarja forgot how much he disliked Bordertown every time he left it, and was surprised that after four years, he had still not grown accustomed to it. He preferred the open plains—even the dangerous game he played with the Hythrun Warlord.

Tarja led his men to the centre of the town where the market was in full swing. There were stalls everywhere selling just about anything Tarja could name and quite a few things he could not. The smells and sounds of the wharf were replaced with more familiar animal things. Raucous chickens stacked in cages, bleating sheep, evil-eyed goats and squealing piglets all vied with each other to attract the most attention. A stand selling exotic colourful birds drew Tarja’s eye, where a large black bird with a tall red crest yelled obscenities at the passersby. Tarja could feel the undercurrent of the town’s heartbeat, like a distant thrumming against his senses.

The town square was dominated by a tall fountain in the shape of a large and highly improbable sculpted marble fish which spewed forth a stream of water into a shallow circular pool. A crowd had gathered to watch as a small man dressed in ragged clothes stood on the rim of the pool. He was yelling in a high pitched, animated voice.

Tarja glanced at the man with a shake of his head then turned to Basel. “I thought old Keela was sent to the Grimfield?”

The sergeant shrugged. “They can’t keep locking him up forever, sir. He’s crazy, not a criminal.”

“The gods seek the demon child!” Keela was yelling fervently. “The gods will strike Medalon asunder for turning from them!”

Tarja grimaced at the lunatic’s words. “He’ll be wishing he was back in the Grimfield if he keeps that nonsense up for much longer.” He turned his horse toward the fountain and the crowd parted eagerly for him, expecting a confrontation.
Hoping
for one.

Keela stopped ranting as Tarja approached and stared at him with his one good eye. The other eye was clouded by a cataract which made the wizened old man seem even crazier than he really was.

“Go home, Keela,” Tarja told the old man. His words brought a disappointed murmur from the crowd. They wanted a fight.

“The gods seek the demon child,” Keela replied in an eminently reasonable tone.

“Well they won’t find him in the Bordertown markets,” Tarja pointed out sternly. “Go home before you get into trouble, old man.”

“Father! What are you doing?” A young woman dressed in poorly made homespun pushed through the crowd, alarmed by the Defenders confronting her father. She glanced at the old man and then hurried over to Tarja and looked up at him desperately. “Please, Captain! You know he’s not right in the head. Don’t arrest him!”

“I wasn’t planning to, Daana,” Tarja assured the young woman. “But I suggest you take him home before someone takes exception to his public speaking.”

“I will, Captain,” she promised. “And thank you.”

Daana hurried over to the old man and pulled him down from the fountain. As she dragged him without resistance past Tarja he looked up and grinned crookedly.

“You’ve been touched by the demon child, Captain,” Keela told him with an insane chuckle. “I can see it in your aura.”

Tarja shook his head at the old man. “Well, I’ll be sure to give the demon child your regards when I see him.”

“Mock me all you want,” Keela chuckled. “The demon child is coming!”

Daana managed to drag her father away as the disappointed crowd dispersed. Tarja turned his horse towards the Headquarters on the other side of the square.

The Defenders’ Headquarters were located in a tall, red-brick building. It boasted a rather grand arched entrance that led into a courtyard in the hollow centre of the building. Another troop was preparing to depart as they rode through the archway. The captain, Nikal Janeson, waved to them as they entered. He finished his discussion with the Quartermaster then walked over to Tarja as he reined in his mount. The Quartermaster raised a laconic hand in greeting before disappearing inside the building. It was hard to believe he was the Lord Defender’s brother. Verkin claimed he tolerated him because he would rather have Dayan Jenga cheating the local merchants on behalf of the Defenders, than have him cheating the Defenders on behalf of the local merchants.

“Let me guess. Festival of Jelanna?” Nikal asked, taking in the various bandages and slings Tarja’s troop wore. It was Nikal who had made Tarja learn the Hythrun calendar when he first arrived in Bordertown four years ago.

“And thanks to Gawn, they got away,” he told Nikal as he dismounted. Ritac stepped forward and took Tarja’s reins, leading his mount through the crowded courtyard to the stables. “You heading out along the Border Stream?”

Nikal nodded. “The week after next is the Festival of Bhren, the God of Storms. Damned if I know how
they get anything done in Hythria. They seem to spend an inordinate amount of time stuffing their faces in honour of their gods.”

Tarja smiled briefly, then his expression grew serious. “While you’re out there, you might want to reassure the farmsteaders that they won’t be taxed if they’re raided. It seems our young captain took it upon himself to instigate a few changes while he was out on his own.”

Nikal glanced at Gawn. “Damned fool.”

Gawn had dismounted and approached the two captains. His bearing was stiff and unyielding as he nodded to Nikal politely before turning to Tarja.

“I must inform you, sir, that I intend to make a full report to Commandant Verkin regarding your reprehensible actions. I imagine he will want to see you as soon as I have made my report.”

“Reprehensible?” Nikal asked with a grin.

“For your information, sir, Captain Tenragan attacked me viciously for no reason!” With that, the young captain turned on his heel and strode towards the main building.

“Your mistake, my friend,” Nikal said as he watched him leave, “was letting the stupid bastard live.”

“Don’t think I wasn’t tempted.”

“Well, he’s right about one thing, Verkin does want to see you.” Nikal gathered up his reins and swung into his saddle. “There’s been quite a few changes since you left. Trayla’s dead, for one thing.”

“Dead? How?”

“Murdered by a heathen, from what I hear.” Nikal glanced over his shoulder at his troop to assure
himself they were ready to depart. “I’ll let Verkin fill you in. I have to get going.” He leaned down and shook Tarja’s hand warmly. “It’s been good having you here, Tarja. I shall miss you.”

“You’ll not be gone for that long.”

“No, but you will. You’ve been recalled to the Citadel, my friend.”

R’shiel hurried along the broad walkway to the Citadel’s Lesser Hall, buttoning the collar of her green Novice’s tunic as she half-walked, half-ran along the vine-covered brick path. She was late for Joyhinia’s reception and her tardiness was among the many unforgivable sins her mother frequently criticised her for.

R’shiel did not want to be at the reception for Sister Jacomina, the new Mistress of Enlightenment. She was not looking forward to an evening of standing around in the Lesser Hall being accosted by her mother’s followers, who would ask her interminable questions about subjects she had no wish to discuss in public.

R’shiel was firmly convinced that Joyhinia had no friends, only followers. She hated being the daughter of a Quorum member. She often wished she had been born a boy. Then she could have joined the Defenders. It would be nice to be free from the shadow of her mother’s overweening ambition.

She reached the entrance to the Lesser Hall just as the Citadel’s walls began the Dimming. Some of the
younger Novices whispered that it was magic that made the walls of the Citadel brighten slowly at the dawn of each new day and dim to darkness with the setting of the sun. The Probates simply considered it a unique architectural feature that was beyond the understanding of the Novices. R’shiel thought this a much more likely explanation. The Sisters preferred not to discuss it at all. Tarja told her it was because hundreds of years ago the Citadel had been a complex of heathen Temples. Whatever the reason, the glowing walls flooded even the deepest recesses of the huge white fortress with its hundred halls, both grand and humble, with soft white light. It also reminded R’shiel that she was late.

The faint sound of massed voices reached her ears as she eased open the heavy door to the Lesser Hall. Novices and Probates were required to gather each evening in the Great Hall, led by the senior Sisters, to give thanks to Sister Param and the Founding Sisters for their deliverance from the bonds of pagan worship. R’shiel had learnt to recite the Daily Affirmation as a small child, and knew well the punishment for not joining in enthusiastically. Harith’s cane was accurate and painful. The only benefit of being ordered to attend this reception that R’shiel could think of was that she had been exempted from attending the Affirmation.

The Lesser Hall was lit with hundreds of candles against the inevitable Dimming, although the walls had only just begun to lose their radiance. It was about half the size of the Great Hall, which meant it could still accommodate five hundred people comfortably. The domed ceiling, supported by tall,
elegantly fluted columns, was painted a stark white—no doubt to cover the licentious heathen artwork underneath. The walls were white, like all the walls in the Citadel, and were made of the strange, impervious material that glowed and dimmed, with the reliability of a Defender’s Oath. R’shiel glanced around and spied Joyhinia talking to Sister Jacomina and the Karien Envoy on the far side of the Hall as she edged her way along the wall. With luck, she would be able to convince her mother she had been here on time. R’shiel rarely defied her mother openly—she was not that foolish—but she was adept at walking the fine line between compliance and defiance.

Joyhinia looked up and caught sight of her with a frown. R’shiel gave up trying to hide and decided to brazen it out. She squared her shoulders and walked purposefully through the gathered Sisters and Defenders to greet her mother.

“Mother,” R’shiel said with a respectful curtsy as she reached Joyhinia and her companions. “Please forgive me for being so late. I was helping one of my classmates with her studies. I fear I lost track of time.”

Better that, than Joyhinia learn she was late because Georj Drake had been teaching her the finer points of knife throwing. R’shiel couldn’t ever imagine having a need to use such a skill, but it was such an unladylike pastime that she couldn’t resist the offer to learn. R’shiel sometimes worried about her tendency to do things that would deliberately provoke Joyhinia.

Her mother saw through the lie, but accepted it. “I hope your classmate appreciated your sacrifice.”
R’shiel knew that slightly sarcastic tone from long experience. Her mother turned to the Envoy and said, “Sir Pieter, I would like to introduce my daughter, R’shiel.”

R’shiel dutifully curtsied to the Envoy. He was a solid man with lazy brown eyes and the weary air of a jaded aristocrat. He took her hand in his, kissing the air above it. His ceremonial armour creaked metallically as he bowed to her.

“A charming child,” he said, looking her up and down, making her feel rather uncomfortable. “And a noteworthy student, so your mother informs me.”

“I try my hardest to honour my mother’s faith in me, my Lord,” she replied, thinking that was almost as big a lie as her excuse for being late.

“Respectful and charming,” Lord Pieter said with an approving nod. “No doubt she will follow in your footsteps one day, Sister Joyhinia. The Quorum will soon benefit from two generations of Tenragan women, I suspect.”

“R’shiel will choose her own path, my Lord. I want nothing more for my daughter than her happiness.”

R’shiel didn’t bother to contradict her. She had less say in her future than the average Hythrun slave, who at least had the advantage of
knowing
he was a slave.

“You must be gratified to know that you have such dedicated students awaiting you in your new post,” the Envoy remarked to Jacomina.

The new Mistress of Enlightenment nodded sombrely, although the look she gave R’shiel was far from enthusiastic. Jacomina might use many words to
describe R’shiel, but “dedicated” was unlikely to be one of them.

R’shiel had thought it odd that her mother had taken Mahina’s promotion to First Sister so well, until she learnt who had been appointed to fill the vacancy left by Trayla’s death and Mahina’s elevation. Jacomina was her mother’s creature. She probably didn’t have a thought in her head that Joyhinia hadn’t put there.

For R’shiel, Jacomina’s promotion was bound to prove awkward. As Mistress of Enlightenment, Jacomina would report even her most minor infractions to her mother, a situation that could only get worse when she graduated to the rank of Probate a few weeks hence.

A blonde Probate approached them bearing a tray of delicate crystal goblets filled with fine red wine, and Lord Pieter’s attention was thankfully diverted to the ample cleavage of this new arrival. The Probate offered the wine with a polite curtsy, giving R’shiel a look of pure venom as the younger girl accepted a glass. Selected Probates had been ordered to serve at Joyhinia’s soiree, but R’shiel, a mere Novice, was here as a guest. She would probably return to a room that had been overturned, or to find all her clothes had been dunked in the garderobe. Being Joyhinia’s daughter might get her invited to social functions, but it didn’t save her from the pecking order in the dormitories.

R’shiel sipped her wine and remained politely silent while Joyhinia and Lord Pieter resumed their conversation. The room gradually filled with the upper echelon of Citadel society. Lord Pieter answered
in monosyllables, apparently more interested in eyeing the young women present. The man had an appalling reputation, particularly for one from a country that was so puritan it was rumoured that even thinking impure thoughts was a sin.

Blue-gowned Sisters outnumbered the red-coated Defenders in the Hall, who, to a man, looked stiff and uncomfortable in their high-necked dress uniforms. They didn’t like these formal occasions. The Sisters of the Blade ordered them to attend so they could flaunt their superiority. At least that was what Georj claimed. R’shiel thought it more likely that they just didn’t like all the bother it took to get dressed. A speck of dust, or a boot you couldn’t use as a shaving mirror, would catch the attention of the Lord Defender faster than a man could blink.

A raucous, high-pitched laugh caught R’shiel’s attention and she turned towards the source. Crisabelle Cortanen was Mahina’s daughter-in-law—a chubby, crass woman who had married Mahina’s son Wilem when she was sixteen and had not managed to age mentally since that day. Crisabelle wore a frilly yellow dress that emphasised, rather than concealed, her bulk. Commandant Cortanen stood beside her, his expression one of long-suffering embarrassment. Refused a place in the Sisterhood as a child, Crisabelle was beside herself with glee now that her mother-in-law was the First Sister.

The main door was thrown open and Lord Draco, the Spear of the First Sister, entered the Hall, followed by Mahina. Draco was tall, dark and stern. To R’shiel, he epitomised the rank he held, but she found it hard to think of Mahina as the First Sister.
She still looked more like a peasant than an autocrat, even in her beautifully tailored white silk dress with its seed-pearl bodice. Mahina accepted the bows and curtsies of her subjects with a maternal wave and approached Joyhinia, Lord Pieter and Jacomina.

“My Lord. Joyhinia. Congratulations on your appointment, Jacomina. You honour us with your presence in the Quorum.”

Jacomina replied with some inane comment that R’shiel didn’t catch. She had managed to step back out of the circle of people surrounding her mother and closer to the tall stained glass doors that led onto the balcony, which had been opened to take advantage of the balmy evening. She was wondering what her chances of being able to slip outside and escape were, when the door opened and Lord Jenga, accompanied by a number of his officers, arrived.

As the men stepped into the room, R’shiel was stunned and delighted to see her brother among the officers walking behind the Lord Defender. Every eye in the room was on him and the Lord Defender as they walked through the Hall towards the First Sister. The Senior Probates stopped serving and stared at him openly. The others in the room gaped for a moment and then quickly looked away. R’shiel could almost see their ears straining to catch what was about to be said.

Tarja had been banished to the border by Trayla more than four years ago, although the reasons why had never been clear to R’shiel. When he was sent away, all Joyhinia had told her, in a cold and angry tone, was that he had offended the First Sister. Judging from the startled looks of the gathered
Sisters, he had done more than just offend her. Even Mahina, who had always had a fondness for her brother, looked shocked to see him, which meant it was obviously not she who had recalled him. R’shiel wondered if her appeal to Jenga had been the reason for Tarja’s recall, then decided it wasn’t. Jenga was not the sort of man to be swayed by a smile and a heartfelt plea.

“Your Grace,” said Jenga with a bow to the First Sister. “Lord Pieter. Sisters.”

“Lord Defender,” Mahina replied. She turned her attention to Tarja and gave him a long look. R’shiel glanced at her mother and was not surprised at her thunderous expression. Joyhinia was not pleased to see her son.

“Welcome home, Tarja,” Mahina said.

“Thank you, your Grace,” Tarja replied with a bow, then he turned to Joyhinia. “Mother.”

“I wasn’t aware that you’d been recalled, Tarjanian,” she remarked coolly. “I trust your time on the border has taught you something useful.”

“More than you could imagine,” Tarja assured her. He caught sight of R’shiel and his eyes widened with surprise.

“This is your son, Sister?” Pieter asked Joyhinia, as he took Tarja’s measure. “You’ve never mentioned him before.”

Joyhinia’s expression didn’t change. “Tarja has been fighting on the southern border these past four years.”

“Killing Hythrun, eh?” Pieter chuckled. “A worthy cause, Captain. And just how many did you dispose of?”

“More than I care to count,” Tarja replied glibly. “Now, if you will excuse me, my Lord, I see that my sister is anxious to welcome me home. First Sister. Lord Jenga. Lord Draco. Sisters.” Tarja walked through the small gathering to R’shiel, took her arm none too gently, and led her away. He didn’t stop until they were through the stained glass doors and standing on the balcony. As soon as they were out of the hearing of the gathering inside, Tarja let her go. “Founders, I was glad to see you! I don’t think I could have stood being surrounded by those vipers for a moment longer.”

“I can’t believe you had the nerve to show up here tonight. Mother looks ready to burst something,” she laughed. R’shiel was rather pleased at the disturbance his appearance had caused. Although it hadn’t occurred to her when she’d asked Jenga to recall him, she realised now that with Tarja back, Joyhinia would have another focus for her disapproval. She stepped back and looked him up and down, thinking that his time on the border had obviously taught him some restraint. A few years ago, he would have started fighting with Joyhinia the moment he laid eyes on her. “When did you get back?”

“Yesterday. You know, I almost didn’t recognise you. You’re all grown up.”

R’shiel pulled a face. “Hardly. I’m not even a Probate yet.”

“Being a Probate is not what I would use as a benchmark for maturity,” he laughed. “I suppose this means Joyhinia is still trying to mould you into the perfect little Sister of the Blade?”

R’shiel sighed. “I think she’s starting to wonder if
it’s a lost cause. Somehow I get the feeling I’m not turning out quite the way she intended.”

“I don’t think either of us have turned out quite what Joyhinia intended.”

R’shiel had always been close to her half-brother, despite the fact that he was ten years older than her and already a Cadet in the Defenders when she arrived at the Citadel as a baby. Joyhinia forbade her to socialise with him, but it had been a futile effort on her mother’s part. As a child she had been spanked, on more than one occasion, for hanging around Tarja and the Cadets.

“Why do I get the feeling things are going to get rather interesting now that you’re back?”

“Because he’s a troublemaker,” a voice joked from behind. Startled, R’shiel spun around and found Georj Drake, Tarja’s best friend and her recent knife-throwing instructor, standing behind her. The young captain’s hazel eyes were full of laughter. “You should banish him again before he can do any damage.”

“Now there’s a tempting thought,” she mused. “Where shall we send him, Georj? Back to the southern border? Or maybe the Grimfield?”