Both Tarja and Jenga looked at him in surprise.
“Afraid of him?” Jenga asked.
“Afraid is not the right word, but it pays to be wary of him,” Tarja said. “Garet Warner is the head of Defender Intelligence. And a loyal officer.”
“Loyal to whom, exactly?”
“We’ll find that out soon enough,” Jenga predicted grimly.
CHAPTER 7
Consciousness was a long time coming to R’shiel, but it pulled at her relentlessly, forcing her to acknowledge her existence. She did not want to awaken. She was perfectly content where she was, lost in a warm nothingness where no pain, no misery, no fear could intrude. The silence was complete, the darkness total. Were it not for the annoying, insistent voice calling her name, she could happily have stayed here forever. She had no sense of time in this place, no way to judge how long she had been here. All she knew was that she had no great desire to leave.
Yet the voice called to her and she was unable to resist it.
“Welcome back.”
She stared at the man who spoke for a long time before she remembered who he was. His faded blue eyes were full of concern. And something else. Suspicion, perhaps?
“Brak.”
“No, don’t try to sit up. You’ve been unconscious for quite a while. It’ll take a little time to get your strength back.”
R’shiel let her head flop back onto the pillow, and contented herself with simply moving her head to study her surroundings. The room was large and lit by streaming sunlight; the air was heavy with the scent of wildflowers.
“Where am I?”
“Sanctuary.”
She turned her head to look at him. “How did I get here? I don’t remember anything. We were in Testra, I think…”
“Don’t worry, it’ll come back to you, and sooner than you want. You’ve been very sick, R’shiel. Cheltaran himself had to heal you.”
“Who’s Cheltaran?”
“The God of Healing. You should feel honoured. He doesn’t often interfere directly with anyone, human or Harshini.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, wondering why the knowledge didn’t surprise or frighten her. They seemed to be emotions that for the moment were out of reach.
“Tarja…?”
“He’s fine. He’s up north, on the border.”
Even that news failed to ignite much more than a small sense of relief in her. She wondered if she should feel something more. Perhaps she was simply too lethargic to care. Later, when she gained her strength, she could worry about such things.
“What are you doing here?”
“This is my home, R’shiel. It’s your home too.”
“Is it?”
Brak smiled, as if her vagueness amused him. “Go back to sleep, R’shiel. When you wake up the Harshini will attend you. They are a gentle people, so mind your manners. And try not to scream when you see their eyes. I didn’t bring you all this way so you could embarrass me.”
R’shiel smiled vacantly. “I’ll be a good girl.”
He nodded and moved away from the bed.
“Brak.”
“What?”
“I owe you my life, don’t I?”
“In ways you can’t imagine,” he replied.
When R’shiel woke the next time, she felt much better. The weakness that had gripped her was replaced with a sort of restless energy that did not take well to being bedridden. Her Harshini attendants, who introduced themselves as Boborderen and Janarerek, smiled at her constantly while they firmly refused to let her out of bed. She found it too difficult to pronounce their names, so she called them Bob and Jan, which made them laugh delightedly. Her one attempt to defy them was met with even more smiles, as they simply pushed her back down using magic. R’shiel felt the now-familiar prickle against her skin and could not move a muscle. The Harshini fussed over her and scolded her gently, but they were not to be denied. She gave up and did as she was told.
Brak visited her again the following day, and brought with him a tall Harshini with hair almost as red as her own. He wore a simple white robe, the same as the other Harshini, but his bearing set him apart. He was regal, in a manner that R’shiel had rarely before encountered, and too perfectly handsome to be human—even if his black-on-black eyes had not betrayed his true race.
Freed from the magical bondage of her attendants, who had finally believed her when she agreed to behave, it was all R’shiel could do not to bow in his presence.
“Your Majesty, may I present your cousin, R’shiel té Ortyn,” Brak said with uncharacteristic formality.
So this was the Harshini king. “Your Majesty.”
“It fills my heart with joy to see you recovered, R’shiel,” Korandellan said. He meant it, too. R’shiel had never met any group of people so free of guile; so genuine in their concern for her well-being. “But please, we are cousins. There is no need for such formality. You may call me Korandellan.”
Mindful of her promise to watch her manners, she politely thanked the king. Brak gave her a small nod, and she amused herself with the thought that this was probably the first time in her life she had done something he approved of.
“When you are fully recovered, I will be delighted to show you Sanctuary,” Korandellan added. “And we must see to your education. There is much for you to learn, young cousin. Shananara tells me you have some minor control over your power, but you have missed a great deal being raised among humans.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” R’shiel replied, a little surprised to discover that she really was looking forward to it.
The king smiled at her—these people seemed to smile at everything—then withdrew, leaving Brak and R’shiel alone. Once the door had closed behind him, Brak turned to her.
“See, you can be civil when you try.”
“Why would I be rude to your king? He seems very…nice.”
“He is, so watch yourself. I brought you here to help you R’shiel, but if I think for a moment that you might hurt these people, I’ll throw you out of Sanctuary myself.”
“Why do you always assume the worst about me?”
He shrugged and sat down beside her on the bed. “I’ve seen what you’re capable of. Remember the rebels?”
She remembered, but only just. “I suppose I was rather…difficult. But it all seems so distant. I remember things sometimes that seem like they happened to somebody else. Other times it’s as if I never even existed until I woke up in this place.”
“Sanctuary is a magical place, R’shiel. You’re bound to feel different here. The strangeness will pass.”
It was then that she noticed he was dressed in leather trousers and a linen shirt—human attire rather than the Harshini robe he had worn the last time she saw him. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes. Back out into the big bad world, I’m afraid. Between you and Tarja, you managed to turn the whole damned world on its ear. I have to find out what’s happening.”
The thought of Tarja left R’shiel with a warm glow of affection, but little else. “Will you see Tarja?”
“No, I’m heading south. I want to see what the Fardohnyans are up to.”
“Oh.”
He smiled at her expression. Even Brak smiled in this place. “Is there anything you want?”
“Meat,” she said, without hesitation. “I would kill for a haunch of venison this big, smothered in gravy.”
Brak’s smile faded. “Don’t use that word in Sanctuary, R’shiel.”
“What? Venison?”
“Kill. The Harshini cannot abide violence. Even the thought distresses them. As for the meat, I’ll see what I can do, but don’t go asking for it. The Harshini don’t eat meat and it upsets them to be reminded that humans do. It will also upset them if they think you’re not happy. Besides, it won’t hurt you to eat like a Harshini for a while.”
“They eat like rabbits,” she complained, but her smile took the sting from her words.
“Then you’ll
just have to learn to like rabbit food.”
Another thought occurred to her then. “So if they can’t kill anything, where does all the leather come from?”
“It’s a gift.”
“From whom?”
“The animals who inhabit the mountains. When they die, they allow the Harshini to take their skins.”
“How do the Harshini know that?” she scoffed.
“They are Harshini, R’shiel. They communicate with animals just as easily as they do with humans. In fact they prefer it, I think. Animals haven’t invented war yet.”
“You know, I almost like you here, Brak. Why did you ever leave?”
But he refused to answer her and something about his eyes warned her not to inquire too closely.
CHAPTER 8
“How long has she been like this?” Garet asked.
They had settled in around the fire in the crumbling great hall, Garet in the chair that had been occupied by Mahina the previous evening. Tarja sat on the edge of the hearth near Jenga, who had taken the only other chair.
“Since Testra,” Jenga told him, staring into the flames, not meeting the eye of the other officer.
Damin stood leaning against the mantle, stoking the inadequate fire with an iron poker. Fuel was a major problem on this treeless plain, and a sizeable number of their force had been occupied gathering enough wood to see them through the coming winter. Were it not for the vast number of horses here, many of the camp’s fires would be sorry affairs indeed. It was a small extravagance to burn the wood, but Damin was grateful to be spared the sting of burning dung in the Hall.
“How did it happen?”
“I’m not certain.”
Damin laughed softly at the Lord Defender’s discomfort. “Dacendaran, the God of Thieves, stole her intellect, Commandant. The Lord Defender has some difficulty dealing with the concept.”
“A difficulty I share, my Lord. We do not believe in your gods.”
“Believe in them or not,” Damin shrugged. “It’s the truth. Ask Tarja.”
Garet turned his gaze on the younger man. “Tarja?”
“Somebody told me once that he believed in the gods, he just didn’t know if they were worthy of adoration. That sums it up fairly well, I think. The gods exist, Garet, and they took a hand in our conflict, as Joyhinia’s condition proves.”
“And you’ve been issuing orders in her name ever since?” It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking. He was a master in the art of inscrutability, Damin decided. He would have made a brilliant Fardohnyan merchant.
“Once the Karien Envoy was murdered on Medalon soil, the threat of a Karien invasion moved from a theory to a certainty,” Tarja explained. “Had Jenga returned to the Citadel with Joyhinia, the Quorum would still be in session, arguing about what to do next. At least this way preparations could be made.”
“Did you kill him?” he asked.
“No, but I led the raid. I suppose I’m responsible.”
Garet shook his head wearily and turned his attention back to Jenga. “I’ve known you a long time, Jenga. I’m trying to imagine what finally pushed you into this. By any definition, this is treason.”
The Lord Defender nodded heavily. “We discussed this once, you and I. I asked you what you would do if faced with an order you found morally reprehensible. I recall you said you would refuse it, and the consequences be damned. I find myself in that position now.”
Garet leaned back in his seat and studied the three men before him. “Knowing Joyhinia, I find that easy enough to believe, but how long do you think you can get away with this? The First Sister’s absence from the Citadel is causing a great deal of unrest. And the orders she’s sending are too strange to be accepted without question. You’ve pardoned Tarja. You’ve ordered an end to the Purge and freed half the prisoners in the Grimfield. You’ve ordered troops north. You’re spending money like the treasury is a bottomless pit and you’ve signed a treaty with a Hythrun Warlord. Joyhinia would never be a willing party to any of these actions.”
“The next Gathering is only months away,” Tarja pointed out. “Joyhinia will send a letter to the Quorum announcing her retirement and nominating Mahina in her place. With her vote, and the votes of Jacomina and Louhina, who will automatically vote for anything Joyhinia suggests, we should be safe.”
Garet shook his head. “It will never work, Tarja.”
“It has to work,” he insisted. “The alternative is a civil war, and that would leave us wide open to a Karien invasion.”
“We’re not trying to bring down the Sisterhood, Garet,” Jenga added, a little defensively. “Merely bring some sanity to it.”
“Sanity? That’s a strange word coming from men who think they can fool the world into believing that Joyhinia Tenragan is alive and well, when in fact she’s a babbling idiot.”
Damin listened to the discussion with interest. He was a Warlord and therefore absolute ruler of his province. He never had to justify anything he did to anybody, and it fascinated him, watching the Medalonians trying to convince themselves and each other that their actions were either honourable or necessary, or both.
“The fact is, my friends, you can argue the rights and wrongs of this until you’re old men,” he interjected. “What I’d really like to know is what you are planning to do about it, Commandant?”
Garet Warner looked up at him. “I have two choices that I can see. I can go along with this farce, or I can return to the Citadel and tell the Quorum what’s really going on up here.”
“No, you have one choice, Commandant. You can go along with this farce, or I’ll kill you.”
“Damin!”
“Be realistic, Tarja. If you let him go, he’ll be back here in a month with a full force of Defenders, and you’ll have the very civil war you’re trying so hard to avoid. Killing one Defender now may save you from having to kill a damn sight more of them later on. I’ll do it, if it bothers you.”
Garet stared at the Warlord for a moment. “A pragmatist, I see. Not a quality I expected to find in a heathen who believes in the Primal gods.”
“Then you sorely underestimate me, Commandant,” Damin warned.
“I fear I’ve sorely underestimated a lot of things in my life, but I manage to get by.” He turned back to Tarja, giving no indication that Damin’s threat bothered him. “The Quorum will not accept Joyhinia’s resignation without seeing her. How, in the name of the Founders, do you expect to pull this off?”
“I have no idea, Garet,” Tarja admitted. “But we have to. Somehow.”
“Who else knows of her true condition?”
“The three of us,” Jenga told him. “Draco, of course. Mahina and Affiana know for certain. The Defenders and the heathens who were in Testra when it happened don’t fully comprehend the full extent of her…condition, and we’ve kept up the illusion that she is in command, so far.”
“Who is this Affiana?”
“A friend,” Tarja said. “She takes care of Joyhinia most of the time.”
“I see,” Garet said. He steepled his fingers under his chin and stared into the fire for a long moment. Damin wondered what he was thinking, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. Garet Warner would not leave this room alive if Damin doubted him for a moment. “Let’s put aside the issue of Joyhinia, for the moment. What of the rumours that the Harshini have returned? You’ve made no mention of them.”
“They, at least, are true. We’ve seen a few of them,” Tarja told him. “But not for months. I’ve no idea what they’re planning, or where they are. Believe me, if I could find them, I would have.”
“To what purpose?” Garet asked. “You’ve acquired enough strange allies as it is,” he added, looking pointedly at Damin.
“They have R’shiel,” Tarja explained, his voice remarkably unemotional under the circumstances. “The Harshini believe she is the demon child.”
Even Garet Warner couldn’t hide his surprise at the news. “R’shiel? The demon child? Wh
y in the name of the Founders would they think that?”
“They don’t think she’s the demon child, Commandant, they know she is. If she is still alive, the Harshini have her and I imagine they won’t let her go until she has performed the task for which she was created.”
“What task?”
“They want her to destroy Xaphista,” Tarja said.
“The Karien god?” Garet shook his head in disbelief. “If this is some sort of joke, then you have me, Tarja. I’m afraid I—”
“My Lords?” the urgent voice rang out from the shadows near the door. “I seek Lord Wolfblade.”
“Come in, Almodavar,” Damin called, recognising the voice of his captain. “What is it?”
“You’d better come see, my Lord,” Almodavar said in Hythrun, as he materialised out of the shadows. “The western patrol is bringing in two spies they captured.”
There had been a number of forays across the border by the half-a-thousand knights camped north of the border for most of the summer, although rarely did a knight sully his hands with anything so demeaning as reconnaissance. It was always some hapless page or squire, attempting to breach the border. It was an ambitious undertaking, particularly for city-bred youths who thought Xaphista’s blessing was all the protection they needed on their journey. It had taken Damin quite some time to accept that the forays were genuine, not merely a feint to disguise a more effective attack. He had trouble believing that anybody could be that stupid.
“Can’t you deal with it, Captain?” he asked in Hythrun. It was an advantage, sometimes, speaking a language his allies didn’t understand. Tarja was attempting to learn Hythrun, but he could not follow such a rapid exchange yet.
“They have news, my Lord.”
Damin frowned and turned to the Defenders. “I’d better see to this,” he told them. “I’ll be back in a while.” He followed Almodavar out of the Hall and into the night, to the curious stares of his companions.
The two spies proved to be boys, frightened and defiant. Both had mousy brown hair and freckled skin, and they were enough alike to be brothers. The older of the two wore a sullen expression and the evidence of a beating. The younger was more defiant, angry and belligerent. He wore a pendant with the five-pointed star and lightning bolt of Xaphista, and leapt to his feet when Damin entered the tent. The older brother didn’t rise from the floor. Perhaps he could not. Almodavar was not renowned for his tender interrogation techniques.
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