“I don’t particularly care what you think, old man. I said I would help you and I will, as much as I’m able. But don’t try converting us to your cause or assigning noble motives where there are none. Mandah helped us and we will help her in return. That is all.”
“Spoken like the professional killer he is,” Jarn scoffed. “Why do we need him?”
“Because,” R’shiel answered, her voice steely with determination, “properly organised, you could bring down Joyhinia Tenragan and the Sisters of the Blade.”
Silence descended on the shocked heathens at her words.
It was Ghari who recovered first. “We could even restore Medalon to the old ways.”
Tarja stared at R’shiel. He opened his mouth to object, to deny that he had promised to do anything of the kind. He could show them how to defend themselves. Teach them the laws that defined the Defender’s actions. Warn them of the tactics the Defenders would use against them. But he had not agreed to topple the Sisterhood. He certainly had not agreed to restore Medalon to heathen worship. The expression on R’shiel’s face was savage. She had nursed her anger all through winter, he knew, letting it smoulder while she pretended she didn’t care. These pagans had offered her a chance to even the score, to hurt Joyhinia on an unprecedented scale. She grabbed it with both hands.
“It’s time the First Sister learnt a little about suffering.”
The heathens glanced at each other, taken back by her ferocity. Tarja looked at her with concern. She had no care for the heathens or their cause. R’shiel just wanted to pay back twenty years of lies and manipulation. She wanted revenge.
CHAPTER 19
After Mandah sent them up to help Drendik cast off, Brak went forward to untie the mooring ropes on the prow. This was not the first time Drendik had helped fugitive heathens since Brak had joined his crew. Between that and the smuggling the Fardohnyan indulged in, it was a miracle he had the time or the space for legitimate trade. Nevertheless, these last two who had come on board worried Brak. They were not the usual dispossessed pagans Drendik aided, frightened and grateful for any assistance. This pair was dangerous—the First Sister’s errant offspring with a price on their heads and the entire Defender Corps on their heels. Their mere presence was a threat to them all.
Brak was still hauling in the thick rope, worrying about the new passengers, when the River Goddess suddenly appeared, draped over a bale of Bordertown wool. Her expression, Brak supposed, was meant to be seductive and alluring. Unfortunately, on Maera, it tended to have the opposite effect.
One of the drawbacks of being a god, Brak privately thought, even a Primal God, was that one was inevitably forced to assume the characteristics that one’s worshippers attributed to you. Only the very powerful gods, like Kalianah, the Goddess of Love, Zegarnald, the God of War, Dacendaran, the God of Thieves, or the Sea God, Kaelarn, were strong enough to assume any form they chose. Most were doomed to appear in the aspect their believers wanted to see and Maera was no exception. Consequently, the Goddess of the Glass River was half-woman, half-fish, but not in the elegant manner of a mermaid. Rather, she sprouted a spiny dorsal fin down her back, small unblinking silver eyes, webbed hands and feet, and gills that made her appear to have numerous chins. She smiled her version of a smile at him, rather pleased that she had caught him off guard.
“You were not expecting me, Brakandaran?”
Glancing a little nervously towards the stern where Drendik and his brothers were working, Brak shook his head. Following the direction of his gaze, she laughed. It was a wet, bubbling and thoroughly unpleasant sound. “They cannot see me,” she assured him.
“What are you doing here?” Brak asked. Drendik would have been appalled by his lack of respect, but Brak knew the gods. They rarely made social calls. She was here for a reason and if he didn’t get the reason out of her soon, Maera would probably forget why she came.
“You are not pleased to see me, Brakandaran?”
“I’m beside myself with happiness,” he assured her. “What are you doing here?”
“You’ve been visiting with Kaelarn, haven’t you?” The Sea God was almost as powerful as Kalianah or Zegarnald and far above a mere River Goddess in the general scheme of things.
“I never saw him. And anyway, I left the ocean to return to you,” he reminded her, which seemed to appease her vanity somewhat. “Why are you here, Maera?”
“What? Oh, that! I came to tell you about the child.”
“What child?” Brak made an effort to appear patient. Maera, like the river she held divinity over, was a fickle creature.
“Lorandranek’s child,” she said, as if Brak was just a little bit dense.
“Maera, I’m half-human. I need details. What do you have to tell me about Lorandranek’s child?”
Maera sighed heavily. “I can feel it. I felt it the last time it was on my river but that was ages ago. Zegarnald told me I had to tell someone if I felt it again. So I’m telling you.” She pouted and stroked her scaly skin. “I don’t like Zegarnald. The river bleeds when he’s around.”
Brak’s eyes widened at the revelation. “You’ve felt the child before? Why didn’t you tell someone?”
“I did,” she objected with a frown that made her gills wobble. “I told Zegarnald.”
The War God had kept the information to himself for his own reasons, Brak thought in annoyance. “The demon child is on the boat now?”
“I said that, didn’t I?”
Brak ground his teeth with frustration. “Who is it?”
The goddess shrugged. “I don’t know. All humans look the same to me. They just arrived, though. I only felt it a moment ago.”
A moment to Maera could have been a second or a week, depending on the mood she was in. But if he assumed that she was speaking in human timeframes, that narrowed it down to either Mandah, Tarja or R’shiel. He dismissed the two from the Citadel immediately. Lorandranek had impregnated a mountain girl, not the future First Sister. He thought of Mandah’s placid nature and unswerving faith. She had been a Novice for a while. She had been at the Citadel. She was around the right age. It all fitted perfectly.
“How do I tell for certain?”
“By his blood,” Maera explained, a little annoyed at his inability to comprehend.
“You said ‘his’. Do you mean it’s a man?”
“I don’t know! I told you, all humans feel the same to me.”
He was silent for a moment. “You don’t happen to know anything else about this child, do you?” he asked. “It’s name, perhaps?”
Maera shrugged. “It is té Ortyn. Even you should be able to feel the bond.”
“I can only feel the bond if they draw on their power.”
“Stay with the humans, then,” Maera advised. “You’ll figure it out eventually.”
Before Brak could answer, the Defender patrolling the wharf finally noticed the Fardohnyan boat had slipped its moorings. He yelled at them as the boat floated into the current and was picked up by the river, which grabbed hold of the barge greedily and sent it speeding downstream. Drendik stood in the stern yelling back at the Defender.
“What you say? No speak Medalonian!” he was calling. “NO SPEAK MEDALONIAN!”
By the time the other soldiers had joined the guard on the wharf, signalling the boat to return with wild arm gestures, the barge was safely into the current. Drendik, Gazil and Aber were waving at the Defenders, wearing uncomprehending expressions. Brak followed suit. They kept waving until the boat slipped around the bend of the river and the small Reddingdale dock vanished from sight in the grey dawn. Amused at Drendik’s simple but effective subterfuge, Brak turned back to the goddess, not surprised to find that she had vanished.
With a sigh, he secured the ropes and made his way below. If Maera was to be believed, he was going to have to join the rebels.
They sailed downriver to Testra for the next few days, Brak watching Mandah closely for some sign that she really was the one he sought
. The young woman had a natural serenity about her that reminded him of the Harshini. A sort of trusting innocence that led one easily into trouble if they were not careful. If this was truly Lorandranek’s child, and the gods expected her to face down Xaphista, they were going to be sorely disappointed. Mandah worshipped Jelanna and Kalianah and held life sacred. She appeared to have none of the violent human tendencies that characterised Brak and his ilk. In fact, after watching her closely for several days, the only word he could find to describe her was…nice.
He did not have the same problem finding words to describe the young woman she had brought with her. R’shiel was trouble. Raised in the Citadel, she was intelligent and articulate and could talk the heathens into just about anything she set her mind to. That in itself did not concern him, however, but her fierce determination to destroy Joyhinia did. Since R’shiel had come on board, even old Padric had begun talking like a revolutionary. The runaway Probate had a gift for stirring the passions of her companions. She spoke of restoring religious freedom. She spoke of ending the Purge. She spoke of freeing those sentenced to the Grimfield. But she didn’t believe in the gods and her motives were far from altruistic. She wanted revenge on Joyhinia for crimes Brak could only guess at. He considered her dangerous in the extreme. Tarja was far less complicated. He obviously intended to keep his promise to the rebels, but it irked him. Brak trusted Tarja’s reluctant oath over R’shiel’s savage enthusiasm for rebellion.
Brak sought out Mandah, the night before they reached Testra, to ask if he could join them. If she truly was the demon child, he did not plan to let her out of his sight. The young woman accepted him gladly, not questioning his decision to follow their cause. R’shiel raised a brow at the suggestion, but didn’t object, and neither did Padric and the others. Brak was a member of Drendik’s crew and that was enough for them. Only Tarja looked at him with a questioning frown. Brak could feel his distrust from across the cabin. He didn’t let it bother him. Tarja could do what he damned well pleased. He had found the demon child, he hoped.
All he had to do now was protect her from the foolish bravado of her companions, so that she lived long enough to reach Sanctuary. With R’shiel Tenragan inciting her companions to take up arms against the Sisterhood, Brak had a feeling that wouldn’t be easy.
CHAPTER 20
As spring blossomed into summer, news of the heathen rebellion was the main topic of conversation in every tavern in Medalon. Even Brak had to admit that, with Tarja’s help, the rebels were becoming a real danger. He was a natural leader. People gravitated towards him almost unconsciously. If Tarja issued an order, others obeyed it without thinking. Brak mused that in her worst nightmares, Joyhinia Tenragan could never have imagined that her Purge would prove so costly. She didn’t expect any sort of organised resistance, and certainly not of the calibre Tarja mounted.
No longer did Defenders ride unchallenged into villages to search for evidence of heathen worship. Often, they were turned away with no violence at all. The villagers of Medalon had acquired an astounding knowledge of the law, which they used most effectively in their defence. They began demanding warrants and refusing entry without them. They knew who could sign the warrants and who couldn’t. For a mostly illiterate population, they were suddenly and remarkably well informed about the letter of the law.
Of course demanding warrants and quoting the law did not stop the Defenders, it merely slowed them down a little. It was obvious where the information had come from, but while annoying, it was hardly a reason to be concerned. It simply meant the Defenders had to act within the law. Their staunch determination to do so annoyed Joyhinia intensely, rumour said. Her answer was to present Lord Jenga with a list of officers she wanted transferred and others she wanted promoted. If the officers in the Corps didn’t suit her, she would fill their ranks with men who did. No First Sister had ever interfered so directly with the Defenders before.
It was common knowledge that Jenga was counselling an end to the Purge. By the end of summer news came that Joyhinia considered the Lord Defender’s objections simply proof of his attempts to undermine her authority. She had dismissed his recommendations out of hand and threatened to have him removed if he continued to defy her.
Not long after that, the desertions started.
Never, in its entire history, had the Defenders suffered more than the odd misfit deserting from his unit. Until Tarja, no officer had ever dared such a thing. With the growing strength of the rebellion, a number of troopers simply changed sides mid-battle. The Purge was hurting everyone and the families that were being dispossessed and arrested were sometimes families with sons in the Defenders. Brak had overheard Tarja telling Ghari that more Defenders had deserted this year than had deserted in the previous two centuries.
Joyhinia’s response as was predictable as it was callous. News arrived soon after that she had issued an order decreeing that for every deserter, one of his brothers-in-arms would be hanged in his place. The desertions stopped overnight. Nobody thought Joyhinia was bluffing. The blow to the morale of the Defenders was enormous.
But enough men had joined them now that the rebellion moved from an embarrassing nuisance to a real threat. Disorganised heathens brandishing pitchforks was one thing, but when well trained, battle hardened former Defenders joined the fray, the conflict became deadly. Every day it dragged on, the rebellion became less and less about the heathens and more about the Sisterhood.
There was one bright spot, Brak thought. A rumour had surfaced recently claiming Tarja was the demon child, sent by the long-dead Harshini to liberate the pagans from the Sisterhood. Tarja had been unimpressed when he heard it and R’shiel had laughed at the notion, but more than a few rebels had looked at him speculatively. Some even ventured to call him Divine One, which caused Tarja to explode. Brak found the whole idea quite amusing, which for some reason made Tarja distrust him even more. Still, Brak couldn’t help but wonder what Joyhinia Tenragan’s reaction would be on hearing the news. Being known as the mother of a Divine One was not a situation a First Sister would welcome.
The rebels had set up their headquarters in a deserted vineyard, abandoned by its owners after one too many spring floods had drowned the struggling vines. They had made the farm their headquarters for several reasons. It was close to the Glass River, the lifeblood of Medalon. It was south of Testra, the largest town in central Medalon, but far enough away from it that they were not in danger of accidental discovery, and it was easily defensible against an attack. From here Tarja trained his fledgling army, assisted by the wave of deserters who had joined him in the spring. Of course there were no deserters now—not since Joyhinia had threatened to hang those left behind—but there were enough to make a difference. However, thought Brak, without a lot more resources and men, the best they could hope to do was merely annoy Joyhinia.
R’shiel disagreed. She was the one who constantly urged taking the offensive. And the bellicose young men in their group, like Ghari and his friends, lapped up her rhetoric. There had been several near-disastrous raids, unauthorised by Tarja, that R’shiel had been involved in, either directly or indirectly. When he first met them, Brak had thought Tarja and his sister were close, but they fought more often than not these days. Tarja counselled caution, while R’shiel advocated aggression. Given the chance, Brak thought she might try to tear down the Citadel, stone by stone, with her bare hands. R’shiel’s smouldering rage made him wonder what had been done to the girl to cause such resentment. Today’s argument had merely reinforced his opinion that she was dangerous.
Several rebels had been captured in a raid on a farm north of Testra, and had unaccountably been released within hours. When they returned to the vineyard this morning, they carried a message addressed to Tarja in Joyhinia Tenragan’s own hand. The note was short and to the point.
This has gone on long enough, the letter said. Be at the River’s Rest Tavern in Testra at noon on Fourthday next. Draco has full authority to negotiate on my behalf.
<
br /> The note reeked of duplicity. Had Joyhinia sent Jenga, Tarja argued, he may have been less concerned, but Draco was the First Sister’s tool. He had served three of them and never given one of them a moment’s pause.
The rebels were ecstatic at the news. This was the proof they needed that their resistance was having an effect. Tarja argued against believing anything that came from Joyhinia until his throat was raw, and R’shiel agreed with him, for her own reasons. The rebellion had been a coherent force for less than a year. They were not yet strong or numerous enough to make a real impression. A few slogans splashed on walls and a handful of lucky skirmishes didn’t constitute a significant threat to the Sisterhood, Tarja tried to explain. The rebels argued otherwise. They listed their victories. They insisted that Joyhinia was under pressure from the Quorum to end the Purge.
Tarja had finally won a minor victory by insisting he be allowed to attend the meeting alone, although Ghari and several of his companions planned to enter Testra a day early to ensure the way was clear. Brak had volunteered to accompany him and bear witness to the negotiations, out of curiosity more than anything else. Tarja was not given a choice in the matter.
Since making the decision, the rebels had been in a buoyant mood. Some were talking about going home. Others dreamt of seeing lost family sentenced to the Grimfield. Their confidence was premature, and nothing Tarja said made an impression on them. They were not fighters at heart. They couldn’t see that their optimism was misplaced. All most of them wanted was to be left in peace to worship their gods and reminisce about the old days, when the Harshini roamed the land with their demons and their sorcerer-bred horses. Brak sympathised with the rebels, but he could see Tarja’s point.
The meeting was still in progress in the vast cellars beneath the rundown farmhouse. Brak had excused himself, pleading the need for fresh air. In truth, he escaped to avoid listening to R’shiel speak. Tarja advised caution for sound tactical reasons, but R’shiel wanted this conflict to continue. Her anger still had a lot of fuel to burn and she was not ready to quit the fight. The girl had a gift for saying exactly what the rebels wanted to hear, particularly the young, belligerent ones. Brak wondered if there would ever be an end to it. She seemed to have enough hostility to last a lifetime.
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