“Let me guess. You’d like to build a schoolhouse for them, while we’re here.”
Davydd smiled. “Actually, I thought perhaps a morning room, facing east, with a vine covered trellis, and maybe a solarium on the west wing”
Tarja shook his head. “Tell me Lieutenant, just exactly how are we going to explain the presence of these heathens to our superiors? Or the fact that we did nothing to evict them?”
“Heathens, sir? I’ve seen no altars, or sacrifices, or other signs of pagan worship. They are orphans in the care of a retired Sister, aren’t they?” Davydd had conveniently forgotten about the acorn amulet Bereth wore.
“You could be right. Besides, the keep is of no strategic value.” He leaned against the crumbling wall and studied the young man curiously. “I’m not sure what surprises me most, Lieutenant, your willingness to overlook this irregularity or the fact that every man here seems bent on aiding these children.”
The younger man shrugged. “Garet Warner’s first rule is to assess any situation according to the seriousness of the threat. A handful of orphans and a bitter old woman hardly constitute a danger to Medalon’s security, sir. As for the men, most of them have children of their own. There’s nothing sinister or treasonous in their reaction to the children’s plight.”
“There’s that word treason again. You seem to use it a lot, Lieutenant.”
“It’s this fort, I think. It has that effect on people.”
“I know what you mean. Perhaps we should name this place Treason Keep?”
Davydd smiled. “I imagine you’ll have some explaining to do if you put that in your report to Commandant Warner, sir.”
Tarja smiled thinly at the thought and looked back towards the border as a flash of sunlight reflecting off metal caught his eye. He scanned the horizon curiously until he saw it again. A cloud of dust hanging in the still air of the cool morning approached the keep, although it was yet several leagues away.
“What do you suppose that is?” he asked, pointing in the direction of the dust cloud.
The lieutenant moved to Tarja’s side and studied the plain for a moment. “Horses. Quite a few of them, I’d say. Coming in from the north, which means they’re coming from Karien. It could be a trading caravan.”
“Wearing armour?” Tarja asked, as the sunlight flashed like an irregular signal in the distance. “Still, it’s too small to be an invasion force.”
“A delegation, perhaps?”
“Possibly.” Tarja rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Lord Pieter prefers to travel by water. He doesn’t like the idea of overland travel.”
“But it’s also the long way round. Maybe time is more important than impressing a few Medalonian peasants with his big boat. The Fardohnyans might be making things difficult, too. King Hablet enjoys reminding King Jasnoff that Fardohnya controls Karien’s access to the only decent port in the north.”
“That’s assuming it is Lord Pieter.”
“It almost has to be,” Davydd told him. “No knight is permitted to leave Karien for fear of them being corrupted by the godless mores of the south—unless they’re at war, or have a special dispensation from the Church of Xaphista. Pieter is the only knight with a standing dispensation, due to his role as King Jasnoff’s Envoy to the Citadel.”
Tarja looked at Davydd. “You appear remarkably well informed about the Kariens, Lieutenant.”
“I’m an intelligence officer, sir. It’s my job,” the young man shrugged.
He nodded, willing to accept the lieutenant’s quiet confidence. “Get the men together, then. Tell Nork to take the second packhorse as a spare mount and head for the Citadel. He’s not to stop for anything. He must let them know what’s coming.”
“Do we know what’s coming?” Davydd asked curiously.
“Trouble,” Tarja told him with certainty. “Find the banner. It should be packed among the gear somewhere.”
“We’re going to meet them?”
Tarja nodded, glancing back at the advancing Kariens. “I want to know what they’re doing out here. I would also rather they avoided this keep. Besides, if they are trying to surprise us, imagine how annoyed they’re going to be to find themselves being met by an official guard of honour.”
Davydd saluted sharply and hurried down the perilous steps to carry out his orders. Tarja turned back to watching the Kariens uneasily, wondering what trouble their unexpected appearance heralded.
A single rider cantered forward to meet them as Tarja and his men rode to confront the interlopers. His initial instinct was confirmed as he noticed pennants being hastily unfurled and the party forming into some sort of official order as the Defenders approached. The rider wore a full suit of elaborately gilded armour, his helmet topped by an impressive plume of blue feathers. His breastplate was adorned with a golden star intersected by a silver lightning bolt. The symbol of Xaphista, the Overlord.
“Halt and identify yourselves,” the armoured knight demanded as he neared them. His lance was topped with a blue pennant that snapped loudly in the cold wind.
“Identify yourself,” Tarja called back. “You are on Medalonian soil now.”
The knight slowed his horse and raised his faceplate to look at them. “I am Lord Pieter, Envoy of the Karien King, His Majesty Jasnoff the Third.”
Tarja bowed in his saddle. “Lord Pieter. I am Captain Tenragan. I believe we met at the Citadel on your last visit.”
The knight rode closer and studied Tarja for a moment, before breaking into a relieved smile. “Joyhinia’s son! Of course! You gave me quite a start there, young man. For a moment, I thought word of my visit had preceded me. It really wasn’t necessary for your mother to send an escort, although I appreciate her gesture. It augurs well for our future negotiations.”
“Time and discretion are of the essence, my Lord,” he replied, trying to give the impression he knew what Pieter was referring to. “We are here to ensure your safe and timely arrival.”
“Excellent!” Lord Pieter declared. “Let’s head for that ruin behind you and have some lunch, shall we?”
“That would be inadvisable, my Lord,” Tarja advised. “The ruin is in a dangerous state of repair, and I would rather forgo an elaborate meal for the chance to expedite your journey.”
Pieter sighed, but nodded in agreement. “You are right, of course. Your prudence does you credit, Captain. We shall place ourselves in your care.”
The remainder of Lord Pieter’s caravan had now reached them. It consisted of two heavily laden wagons, twenty men-at-arms and, to Tarja’s surprise, a number of veiled women riding side-saddle in front of the lead wagon. But the figure that caught his attention was a small, tonsured man, who glared at the Defenders suspiciously. Pieter turned as his party reached them and waved the priest to him. “Elfron! Come here! Joyhinia has sent her son to guide us to the Citadel.”
The priest rode forward and stared at the Defenders for a moment, before raising his staff and laying it expectantly on Tarja’s shoulder. When nothing happened, he withdrew the staff.
“He is who he claims to be,” the priest announced with satisfaction.
Tarja looked at the priest curiously. “Was there any doubt that I was not?”
Elfron’s expression darkened. “Only through eternal vigilance can the light of the Overlord be allowed to shine in its full splendour, Captain. The wicked glamours of the Harshini can be used to disguise one’s true nature. Had you been an agent of evil, you would be writhing in unbearable agony by now. Such is the power of the Overlord.”
“The Harshini are extinct. How do you know the staff works?” It was a dangerous thing to say. Xaphista’s priests were notoriously fanatical but he could not resist baiting him.
“You do not believe in the power of the Overlord?” the priest asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.
“Medalonians believe in no gods,” Tarja reminded him. “Not your god, nor the dead Harshini gods, nor anyone else’s. Loyalty to the state first is our creed, as wel
l you know. I ask merely out of scientific curiosity.”
“Yes, yes,” Lord Pieter snapped. “Enough theology for now. You can convert him along the way, Elfron. We must keep moving. Tell me, Captain, how far is it to the nearest village?”
“If we make good time we can be in Lilyvale by this evening, my Lord.”
“Does this village have a decent inn? I am heartily sick of roughing it out here in the wilderness.”
“It’s small, but adequate,” Tarja assured him. With the prospect of sleeping in a bed tonight, Pieter would lose all interest in stopping at the keep. “I suggest we get moving, if we are to reach it by nightfall.”
“Yes, yes,” Pieter agreed. “By all means. Will you ride with me, Captain?” Pieter glanced meaningfully at the priest for a moment. “I find myself in need of some secular conversation.”
“I would be honoured, my Lord.”
Elfron wheeled his mount around so hard that Tarja winced in sympathy for the poor beast’s mouth. He turned his own mount and fell in beside Pieter as the caravan moved off, leading them on a wide route to avoid Treason Keep. Davydd and the Defenders waited until the wagons had passed, and then joined the caravan at the end of the line.
Once Elfron was out of earshot, Pieter leaned across to Tarja. “I would give my life for the Overlord, but I wonder at his choice in ministers, sometimes. I am sure Elfron has been set on me as some sort of test.”
“He seems very dedicated,” Tarja agreed, forcing himself not to smile. It was a relief that not all Kariens were as dedicated to the Overlord as Elfron. On the other hand, Pieter was Jasnoff’s Envoy. He was just as dedicated to the pursuit of power and territory as Elfron was to his god. It made the knight more dangerous than he appeared. At least the priest made no secret of his ambitions.
“Dedicated!” Pieter scoffed. “He’s a raving fanatic! It must come from such an unnatural upbringing. They all come from the same island, you know. The Isle of Slarn in the Gulf. It’s a godforsaken lump of rock and I’m sure it does something to their minds. If I hear one more word about sin on this journey, I shall go mad.”
“I have no experience with the concept of sin, my Lord, so I promise not to raise the subject,” Tarja assured him.
Pieter looked at him thoughtfully. “No experience with sin, eh? In that case,” he added, lowering his voice, although none of the party following them would be likely to overhear their conversation. “When we get to this inn, do you think you could arrange some…company, for me?”
“Company?” Tarja asked innocently.
“Don’t be obtuse man. You know what I mean!”
Tarja glanced over his shoulder. “Isn’t the company you have with you sufficiently entertaining?”
“They are nuns, Captain,” the Envoy complained. “Dry old virgins, every one of them. Sworn to the Overlord. I’d get more satisfaction out of a knothole in a tree stump! I need something young and plump and alive!”
“Lilyvale is a small village, my Lord,” Tarja warned. “There may not be any professional company available.”
“Find me an innkeeper’s daughter then, man! Somebody like that young Probate at the Citadel who was so willing on my last visit. She was most enthusiastic.”
Tarja remembered Pieter cornering one of the Probates at Joyhinia’s reception, but he hadn’t realised the man had actually bedded the girl. The thought made him cringe. The man was old enough to be her grandfather.
“I’ll see what I can do, my Lord,” Tarja promised, a little uneasily. He was a captain of the Defenders, not a panderer. He had no wish to find himself procuring women for this man all the way to the Citadel.
“I know you’ll do your best, Captain,” the Envoy said confidently. “I trust your presence here means that your mother intends to keep her promise.”
Tarja glanced at the Envoy, hoping his ignorance didn’t show.
“Perhaps Joyhinia has not shared our agreement with you?”
The honour of the Defenders prevented Tarja from lying outright, but there was the truth—and there was the truth.
“I hold a special place in my mother’s heart, my Lord,” he assured the Envoy with complete honesty. No need to mention that Joyhinia did not actually have a heart. “I wouldn’t be here, otherwise.”
“Of course,” Pieter agreed. “I meant no offence. I’m just a little surprised she so willingly gave me what I asked for. Or that you appear unperturbed by the arrangement. But then, you Medalonians do look at the world differently from the rest of us.”
What? Tarja wanted to scream impatiently. What had Joyhinia offered this man?
“I mean,” the Envoy continued, oblivious to Tarja’s frustration, “when the Sisters themselves pop out bastards by the score, one can hardly expect the same sort of familial attachment as we in Karien hold dear. I can recount to you my family’s history for the past thirty-five generations. Most of you Medalonians don’t even know who your fathers are. You’re a bastard, I believe?”
“Legitimacy is determined by one’s mother in Medalon,” Tarja pointed out. “Her marital status is irrelevant.”
“A convenient policy. It accounts for your complacency. Although, there is such a difference in your ages, one could hardly expect you to feel much attachment to the girl.”
Tarja’s stomach lurched as he thought he understood what Pieter had meant about his complacency, his lack of family ties. He gripped his reins until his knuckles were white, to stop himself from reaching for the Envoy and pulling him to the ground in a metallic clatter to beat the truth out of him.
“You speak of my sister?” Tarja inquired as calmly as possible. My sister, who isn’t my sister, he thought. The child for whom a whole village was destroyed to protect Joyhinia’s lies.
“Delightful girl,” Pieter agreed with an enthusiastic nod. “Met her the last time I was at the Citadel. Not my type, of course, much too skinny for my taste, but who am I to question the Overlord? Still, I think your mother should be quite satisfied with her bargain.”
“I’m sure she will be,” Tarja agreed with an equanimity he didn’t feel. “Provided you keep your end of the deal.”
Pieter was offended by the mere suggestion. “Captain, I can assure you, I will do as I promised. I will stand before the Quorum and denounce Mahina’s handling of the heathens. King Jasnoff takes the whole issue of the treaty most seriously and Mahina’s inability to suppress the heathens is of great concern to him. If the Sisterhood does not gain some measure of control over the situation, we will be forced to take the matter into our own hands. Fortunately, your mother seems aware of this, which is why we are prepared to support her as First Sister.”
“If you are so firmly behind my mother, I wonder that you need R’shiel to sweeten the deal,” he remarked, holding back his rage by sheer force of will. His horse sidestepped nervously, as if he could feel his rider’s fury. Why? Why does he want R’shiel? As a hostage to ensure Joyhinia’s cooperation?
“I don’t want the girl, Captain, the Overlord does. Why do you think I suffer a priest on this journey? Elfron had a vision or something, probably the result of too much self-flagellation, I suspect, but one does not question a priest when he’s on a mission from Xaphista. If the Overlord wants your sister, then he shall have her.” He looked at Tarja closely. “Perhaps you are not as comfortable with this arrangement as you first appeared, Captain?”
Tarja forced himself to shrug. “As you said, my Lord, we Medalonians have a different view of the world. You might do well to remember that, when dealing with my mother.”
The Envoy nodded in agreement and they rode on in silence for a time. The keep and its desperate occupants slowly disappeared from view. Tarja kept his anger tightly under control. Lord Pieter’s agreement with his mother was too awful to comprehend. Joyhinia was planning to impeach Mahina and was prepared to sell R’shiel to the Kariens to do it. Yesterday, he might have considered such a plan beyond even her, but in light of what Bereth had told him, he didn’t doubt it
at all. R’shiel was not even her child. Which brought to mind another disturbing question. Whose child was she?
Tarja glanced back down the column wondering where Davydd and the others were. When they got to Lilyvale this evening, maybe he could invent an excuse to send the lieutenant on ahead. He had to warn Mahina that the instrument of her downfall was riding towards the Citadel while she unsuspectingly made plans for the future. He had to warn R’shiel that Joyhinia had traded her for the First Sister’s mantle.
And he had to find out why the Kariens wanted R’shiel so badly they were prepared to unseat the First Sister just to get their hands on her.
CHAPTER 11
It was another week before Gwenell declared R’shiel was fit enough to return to her mother’s apartments. She was discharged with strict instructions regarding her diet, how much weight she was expected to gain and the herbal infusions she was required to take daily to regain her strength. R’shiel grimaced when she saw the list. Gwenell was one of those physics who thought the worse something tasted, the better it was for you.
It was late in the morning and Joyhinia was not home when R’shiel knocked on the door of her mother’s apartment. Old Hella opened it, pushed back a strand of wiry grey hair and sighed mournfully when she saw R’shiel.
“Come in, then,” she said. “Your mother told me you’d be arrivin’ today. It’s not as if I don’t have enough to do, without nursin’ an invalid.”
“I don’t like this any more than you do, Hella. I won’t be in the way.”
“Easy for you to say, girl,” the old woman grumbled. “I’ve already wasted a whole mornin’ airin’ your room out. I’ve sent the wall hangin’s to be cleaned, so you’ll have to suffer the heathen creatures on the walls, till they get back. I don’t know what your mother was thinkin’, letting you come here. It’s not as if I don’t have anythin’ to do round here.”
Hella enjoyed being a martyr, a handy attribute when one worked for Joyhinia. R’shiel let her grumble on without interruption and carried her bag through to the room she had occupied as a child. She pushed open the door and looked around in astonishment.
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