Treason Keep

by Jennifer Fallon

  Tarja reined in his mount and turned to face her. “He claims you tried to kill the High Prince of Hythria.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  Tarja shrugged. “I’m just telling you what he told me. He said you hired some boys to do the job, but they killed themselves rather than carry out your orders.”

  Adrina felt her fury rising like a volcano. All her plans to be nice evaporated in the face of such a terrible accusation. “That arrogant, lying…”

  “I take it you have a somewhat different opinion?”

  “How dare that…that…degenerate…even think such a thing! Let me tell you about your pet Warlord, Captain! He’s a savage, unfeeling monster who doesn’t deserve to breathe! I never tried to kill his damned uncle, although I wish I had! I gave those boys my knife to spare them from the twisted lust of a depraved old man.”

  Tarja was taken aback by her fury, but seemed determined to believe his friend’s version rather than hers. “Yet you kept the collars as a souvenir. Why?”

  “To remind myself why his whole damned family should be destroyed!”

  He frowned, then suddenly wheeled his horse around. “Come on, there’s something I want to show you.”

  He led her north toward the battlefield. Adrina urged her horse to follow, wishing for a sorcerer-bred mount, rather than this sturdy, but uninspiring beast. She no longer felt the cold. Her anger warmed her better than any cloak, better than any fire. As they neared the snow-covered mangonels, he veered right, away from the field. The soldiers manning the front paid them little attention as they rode by, their attention focused on what lay north of the border. This was the closest she had come to the border since escaping from Karien and she allowed herself a moment to wonder what Cratyn was doing. He and that damned Hythrun would have made quite a pair.

  Tarja led her east, away from the field until they reached a low stone wall that encircled a large snow covered mound. Adrina looked about in puzzlement.

  “You brought me here to show me this?”

  “It’s a grave.”

  “Whose grave?”

  “Your Fardohnyans. The men who died on the battlefield.”

  Adrina swallowed an uncomfortable lump in her throat. It was so big. Had there been so many? She wiped away bitter tears that suddenly stung her eyes.

  “I thought Medalonians cremated their dead?”

  “We do. Burial is illegal in Medalon but Damin refused to allow the Fardohnyans to be cremated. He had his own men dig the grave. He buried them with their weapons, to honour your War God. Your captain was buried separately because he was of royal blood.”

  “Tristan! Where? Where did they bury him?”

  Tarja pointed to a small rock cairn on the southern side of the mound. Adrina flew from the saddle and ran to it, no longer caring if Tarja saw her crying.

  Tristan! Oh, Tristan!

  Tarja dismounted and followed her slowly, leading her mount with his. He waited patiently as she knelt by the cairn, not caring that her knees were being soaked by the snow, her face in her hands, as she let go of the grief she had so tightly controlled until now. She sobbed until her throat was raw. She sobbed until she had no more tears to shed.

  Finally, she had no idea how long, she sat back on her heels and wiped her eyes, the scabbed over wound of her grief lanced and washed clean by her tears. It was then that she noticed the position of the cairn in relation to the mound. It was facing southwest. Toward Fardohnya.

  “They buried him facing home.”

  “That’s your savage, unfeeling monster for you.”

  She turned and looked at him sharply. “Don’t try to tell me this proves anything! Cratyn is the most devout man that ever lived, but it doesn’t stop him from being a bastard!” She sniffed inelegantly and climbed to her feet. “I’ll grant you I’m surprised, but it hardly makes Wolfblade a saint.”

  “Perhaps not,” he conceded. “But I think you do him an injustice.”

  “I’m the one falsely accused of attempted murder.”

  “Then take it up with Damin, your Highness,” Tarja said wearily. “We should be getting back. Hadly’s waiting for me.”

  He handed her the reins of her borrowed horse before swinging into his own saddle. Adrina stared at the mound for a moment, marking the place in her memory, before mounting the dun gelding.

  “How did my brother die?”

  Tarja hesitated for a moment before he answered. “He died in battle, your Highness. Isn’t that all you need to know?”

  “I want to know who killed him.”

  “To what purpose?”

  Tarja’s reluctance to give her a straight answer made her suspicious. “It was Wolfblade, wasn’t it? That’s why you’re looking so uncomfortable. Damin Wolfblade killed my brother then buried him here as some sort of barbaric boast, so he could come and gloat over his grave.”

  “No,” Tarja replied, looking even more discomforted. “Damin didn’t kill your brother.”

  “How can you be certain?” she demanded. “You said yourself, he died in battle. How do you know this burial mound isn’t some sick Hythrun ritual to mock the dead? How do you—”

  “He died by my hand, Adrina.”

  His admission stunned her into silence. He met her accusing eyes with genuine regret.

  “I’m sorry, Adrina. But this is war and he was trying to kill me at the time. If it’s any comfort, his last thoughts were of you.”

  Tarja gathered up his reins and turned his mount toward the camp. She stared at his retreating back wishing she could somehow take vengeance on this man who had robbed her of her beloved brother. But she had not expected this. Not his confession, nor the pain it had cost him to make it. Confused and troubled, Adrina followed Tarja back to the camp in silence, not even seeing the glorious snow-covered plain.

  When they reached Treason Keep Tarja helped her dismount without a word and turned to lead her horse away.

  “Tarja?”

  He looked at her over his shoulder.

  “Why did you tell me? Why not let me think someone else had killed him?”

  “A Defender is honour-bound to speak the truth, your Highness.”

  “You could have said nothing.”

  “I could have,” he agreed. “But you’re determined to think the worst of Lord Wolfblade. We could have sued for peace weeks ago. Were it up to me or the Lord Defender, you would have been ransomed back to your husband the day we found you. Damin is the only thing standing between you and the husband you seem so determined to desert. It didn’t seem right to let you blame him for that too.”

  Tarja led the horses away and left her standing there. She wondered for a moment why she felt no burning urge to avenge Tristan. The man who killed him was right here, within reach.

  Then the reason came to her. It was not Tarja who was responsible for Tristan’s death. He may have wielded the blade, but it was Cratyn who had killed him. Cratyn and his sick priests.

  Cratyn was the one who would pay.

  CHAPTER 41

  The news that the First Sister was on her way home caused a flurry of activity in the Citadel. Everyone seemed intent on sprucing up their own little patch of the city and even the Defenders were not immune. Loclon found himself facing an empty arena day after day, as the cadets were called away to other duties. Learning swordcraft was all very well, but the First Sister was due and she was bound to insist on an inspection. One had to get one’s priorities right.

  Left to his own devices, Loclon sought amusement in the Blue Bull, but even that worthy establishment was suffering the effects of the First Sister’s impending return. There was nobody drinking in the tavern and the benches were stacked on the tabletops as fresh rushes were laid out. Loclon slammed the door in annoyance and headed back to his rooms.

  When he arrived back at Mistress Longreaves’ Boarding House he discovered a note pinned to his door. He looked around before opening it, but at this time of day, the hall was deserted. I want to see you, t
he note said. It was unsigned, but he needed no name to know who had sent it. He went into his room, threw the note on the fire, and exchanged his red jacket for a nondescript brown one. It would not do to be seen entering Mistress Heaner’s in broad daylight in his uniform.

  Lork opened the door for him and stood back to let him enter. He pointed wordlessly to the hall. Loclon frowned. He didn’t like meeting Mistress Heaner in the basement; did not like to be reminded that he was serving the Overlord.

  When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he discovered Mistress Heaner was not alone. The narrow altar was ablaze, the symbol of Xaphista glittering malignantly in the candlelight. The old woman was on her knees, chanting softly. Beside her was a man wearing a brown cassock, his tonsured head so polished it reflected the candles. How in the name of the Founders had a Karien priest managed to get into the city? He waited as they finished their prayers and the priest helped the old woman to her feet before retrieving his jewelled staff from the altar. Mistress Heaner studied him with predatory eyes and turned to her companion.

  “This is the man I spoke of. Captain Loclon, this is Garanus.”

  Loclon nodded warily in the direction of the priest, then looked at Mistress Heaner. “You said you wanted to see me. I can come back later when you’re not busy.”

  “It was I who sent for you,” the priest said. His voice was accented and oddly rasping, as if his throat had been burned. He laid the staff gently on Loclon’s shoulder, waiting for a moment before withdrawing it with a faint nod of satisfaction. “Mistress Heaner tells me you have something of a history with the demon child.”

  At the mention of R’shiel, Loclon’s doubts vanished. “Do you know where she is?”

  The priest nodded. “She will be here within a day. She accompanies the First Sister.”

  Loclon burned with the heat of his need. “Then I will kill her as soon as she arrives.” Kill her, yes, but slowly and oh- so-painfully—and only after she begs for mercy.

  “You will do no such thing!” the priest snapped.

  “Isn’t she destined to destroy your god? I’d have thought killing her would be the first thing you’d want.”

  “She was created to destroy him, Captain. That’s not the same thing as destiny. The demon child lacks commitment. She has not accepted the task, or she would be heading for Karien, not the Citadel.”

  “So…what…you think you can turn her to your cause?”

  “Xaphista is the one true god,” Mistress Heaner reminded him. “The demon child will become his ally and destroy the Primal Gods. He has decreed that it will be so.”

  Loclon thought it unwise to point out the flaw in her argument. If Xaphista really was the only god, then who had created the demon child? And if the Primal Gods didn’t exist, as the Overlord claimed, what need for someone to destroy them?

  “Your task will be to bring her to us,” Garanus explained. Then he added with a slight frown, “Whole and unharmed, Captain.”

  “I was promised vengeance.”

  “And vengeance you shall have,” the priest assured him. “Once the demon child has embraced the Overlord, she will turn on our enemies, and yours, and destroy them.”

  That wasn’t quite what Loclon had in mind. “What did you want me to do?”

  “You will be taking part in the Founder’s Day Parade, yes?”

  He nodded. Nobody got out of that duty.

  “The First Sister will arrive towards the end of the parade. She has no doubt timed the event to maximise the impact of her return.”

  “The First Sister is fond of making an entrance,” Mistress Heaner added scornfully.

  “You will assign yourself to her party and stay close to her.”

  “Assign myself? You don’t know much about the Defenders, Priest. One doesn’t assign oneself to anything.”

  “If you’re nearby when she arrives, and volunteer for the duty, I am sure you can manage something.”

  “And what about R’shiel?”

  “It is likely you will not recognise her. She may be using a glamour to conceal her identity. But that is not your concern. There is a man with her. A Harshini half-breed named Brakandaran. You must kill him.”

  He shrugged. “And then what?”

  “Once you have brought proof that Brakandaran is dead, we will discuss the best way to handle R’shiel.”

  Loclon was not very happy with the arrangement. “Are you sure you know who you’re dealing with? There is no best way to handle R’shiel. She’s a murderous bitch.”

  “The demon child can be controlled, Captain. Her strength is also her weakness.” He reached inside his cassock and withdrew a thin silver choker with a jewelled clasp in the shape of the star and lightning bolt of the Overlord. “This will ensure her cooperation.”

  “You think she’s going to change sides for that little trinket?” he scoffed.

  “With this ‘little trinket’, as you call it,” the priest informed him with a malicious smile, “the demon child will do anything you want of her. The more she tries to use her power to fight it, the worse it will be for her.”

  Loclon took the choker and examined it thoughtfully.

  “She’ll do anything, you say?”

  The priest nodded. “Anything.”

  Founder’s Day dawned overcast and dull, with low clouds threatening rain and a cold, blustery wind that groped through any gap in clothing with chill fingers. The crowd was thick around Francil’s Hall as the citizens gathered for a glimpse of the returning First Sister, but their mood was subdued. It was too cold to stand around waiting and as the parade passed by; many thoughts were turned to the bonfires and the warm food waiting in the Amphitheatre. If she didn’t arrive soon, hunger was likely to win out over curiosity.

  Loclon had volunteered for crowd duty, rather than riding in the parade. He had managed to get himself placed in command of the guards around the Hall and was well positioned on the steps, just below Sister Harith and the remainder of the Quorum. Thunder rumbled overhead and the clouds seemed low enough to touch. Loclon fretted at the time it was taking the noisy floats to move down the street. There was no sign of the First Sister.

  The last float was rounding the corner of the Administration Hall when the skies opened. The Quorum hurriedly moved back under the shelter of the entrance to the Hall while the crowd dived for whatever cover they could find. Many simply turned and fled, running with cloaks held over their heads to escape the downpour. Loclon stayed at his post, drenched by the icy rain, barely even noticing it in his impatience. Where is she?

  There was a moment of anticipation as the crowd waited, but the rain was a significant deterrent. If the First Sister’s carriage didn’t arrive soon, there would be nobody left to greet her. Loclon watched the crowd thin with dismay. He had hoped to get to the half-breed in the crush, but soon there would be nobody left but him. He glanced at his men who looked desperate to find shelter, warning them with a look, of the consequences should anybody presume to break ranks. Sister Harith and the Quorum were conferring under the meagre eaves of the Hall. With another glance down the street in the direction of the Main Gate, they vanished inside.

  The departure of the Quorum signalled the end of the festivities as far as the rest of the citizens were concerned. Within minutes the street was all but deserted and Loclon no longer had an excuse to keep his men standing in the rain. He muttered a curse and turned to dismiss them as the First Sister’s retinue arrived.

  His men hastily stood to attention as the outriders appeared, followed by a closed carriage with the shutters pulled tight against the downpour. Loclon could feel his heart beating faster as the carriage drew to a halt, waiting to catch sight of her. His hand caressed the hilt of his knife, ready to draw it in an instant to kill the half-breed. He had no fear of the consequences. Once a dead Harshini lay at the First Sister’s feet, he would be a hero.

  “Loclon! What in the name of the Founders are you doing out in this! Get those men out of here!”
/>   He started at the anger in Garet Warner’s voice.

  “We were waiting for the First Sister, sir! To see if we could be of any assistance!”

  The commandant was as sodden as Loclon as he dismounted, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. “Don’t be absurd! The First Sister has her own men. Dismiss your men, Captain.”

  “But sir…”

  “I said, dismiss your men!”

  Loclon did as he was ordered and watched helplessly as Joyhinia’s guard gathered around the carriage to help the First Sister down. One of them held a cloak over her head, to shield her from the rain as another sister disembarked. Although the deluge obscured his vision, Loclon could have sworn it was Mahina Cortanen. He waited for a moment longer, but a dark-haired woman and Lord Draco seemed to be the only other passengers.

  He looked about desperately, but there was no sign of R’shiel, or the half-breed he was supposed to kill. The First Sister was hurried inside and the remainder of the Defenders headed gratefully for the stables with the carriage and the horses.

  Loclon stood in the rain, cursing softly.

  Where is she?

  CHAPTER 42

  Brak and R’shiel waited in the shelter of the gatehouse for the better part of an hour before following the First Sister into the Citadel. Brak had drawn a glamour over them and their horses, so that the guards sheltering from the rain did not notice their presence. It didn’t make them invisible, but the guards’attention slid off them like water off an oiled cape. R’shiel braided and unbraided her reins nervously as the rain hammered down and they waited on Bhren, the God of Storms, to finish the task R’shiel had asked of him.

  Brak had never had much luck communicating with the Storm God. Bhren was a solitary spirit with cares on a global scale. The insignificant problems of humans seldom touched him. But he had come when Lorandranek had called him and had responded just as promptly when his daughter had asked his help. Brak glanced at the water sheeting down from the low clouds, then looked at R’shiel with concern.

  “You did tell him we just wanted a storm, didn’t you, not a global catastrophe?”