Medalon dct-1

by Jennifer Fallon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Point taken. What do you suggest?”

  “Burn them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Voden?”

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

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

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

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just stand back and watch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  chapter 43

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “I’m glad somebody was.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “What happens when we get to Testra?”

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

  “Help?”

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

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

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

  “Look at that!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Nothing but wishful thinking in this case.”

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

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

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

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

  “I suppose.”

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

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

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

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

  “Does it work?”

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

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

  “Just you remember that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  chapter 44

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

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

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

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