Medalon

by Jennifer Fallon

  “By all means,” Joyhinia agreed, her expression stony. “I’d be interested to see what you call ‘correction’. He seems in remarkably good shape for someone allegedly tortured for a week or more.”

  Jenga faced Tarja with an unreadable expression. Did he wonder why Tarja was not more battered and broken? Taking advantage of the fact that he was unable to retaliate, Loclon had beaten Tarja savagely several times. He plainly bore the evidence of those beatings, but of the torture he had suffered, there was no trace. Did Jenga suspect something was amiss? He had not visited Tarja during his incarceration. Perhaps he had not wanted to see the results of his orders. Tarja was glad he had not.

  “I am disappointed in you, Tarjanian,” he said. “You had such promise.”

  “At least I won’t end up like you. Licking the boots of the Sisterhood.”

  Jenga hit him squarely on the jaw with his gauntleted fist. Tarja slumped, semiconscious, to the floor of the dock. The Lord Defender stared at the inert body and flexed his fist absently.

  “That is because you are not fit to lick their boots.” He turned to Joyhinia, his expression doubtful. “Your Grace, I do hope you know what you’re doing. This is a very dangerous course you have embarked upon.”

  “When I want your opinion, Lord Jenga,” the First Sister said frostily, “I’ll ask for it.”

  Tarja was still rubbing his jaw gingerly as he slumped into one of the chairs normally occupied by the Sisters of the Quorum in the First Sister’s office. They were alone. This was the first time he had been alone with his mother in years. He was still chained, however. Joyhinia wasn’t that sure of herself.

  “That was quite a performance in court this morning,” he remarked as Joyhinia went to stand by the window, her back turned to him.

  “That was no performance, Tarja. I have the names here of two hundred and twenty-eight known pagan rebels. It has taken us a year to compile the list, and while far from complete, it will do.”

  Tarja felt his palms beginning to sweat. “Do for what?”

  She turned to look at him. “According to the court records, your life was spared because you betrayed the rebellion. As soon as I am certain the last of your cohorts are rooted out of the Defenders, I will begin executing the men on this list. You are already under suspicion. The assumption will be that you really did betray the heathens. I won’t even have to kill you. Your friends in the rebellion will do that for me, I imagine.”

  Tarja stared at his mother, not sure what frightened him most: her ruthlessness or the fact that he could almost admire the web she had woven around him.

  “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

  “Because I want you to understand how completely I have defeated you,” she hissed. “I want you to die at the hands of your treasonous friends knowing it was me who brought you down! How dare you defy me! How dare you humiliate me!”

  “And R’shiel?” he asked, suddenly seeing Joyhinia as nothing more than a bitter old woman, terrified of losing her authority. It somehow lessened her power over him. “What has she done to incur your wrath? All she ever wanted was to be loved by you.”

  “That ungrateful little cow! Like you, she is paying the price for betraying me!”

  “You ruthless, unfeeling bitch.” Tarja stood up, towering over his mother, his chains rattling metallically as he trembled with rage. “I’ll destroy you. If it’s the last thing I do.”

  “You’ll not have the chance, Tarja,” she replied. “Your death sentence has already been passed. It merely amuses me to let your friends be the ones who carry it out.”

  The jolting of the wagon dragged his attention back to the present. Unable to bear the sight of the fortress any longer, he turned around. R’shiel was watching him from the wagon in front. He met her gaze for a moment then looked away.

  CHAPTER 31

  They passed through Kordale an hour or so later then began to descend out of the highlands towards the river valley and Brodenvale. At dusk Loclon called a halt and they made camp in a copse of native poplars. The prisoners were allowed out of the wagons to eat and then loaded back in for the night. As there wasn’t room to stretch out, R’shiel made herself as comfortable as possible in the corner of the wagon with the other women. The Defenders were posted around the camp and nervously alert. A rescue attempt was almost a certainty. Even the rumour that Tarja had finally betrayed the rebellion wasn’t expected to reduce the risk. On the contrary, the rebels would probably want him even more.

  Despite the Defenders’ fears, the night passed uneventfully, if uncomfortably, for the prisoners. The expected attack never eventuated. R’shiel thought that some of the Defenders looked a little disappointed. By first light they were back on the road, jolting miserably in the bitter chill. The day passed in a blur of misery as the countryside began to alter subtly. Brown began to turn to green and herds of red spotted cows grazed in the cold fields, their breath hanging in the still air like milky clouds as they watched apathetically as the human caravan passed by.

  Brodenvale came into view near dusk. They were driven straight to the Town Garrison where the prisoners were given a cold meal and the relative luxury of a straw-covered cell. The Defenders were quartered in the Garrison and on full alert, but there was no sign of the expected rebel attack. The general feeling among the prisoners was that either the heathens knew the route they were taking and would attack later, or they had finally given up on Tarja. R’shiel suspected the former was the case. She knew the rebels.

  The next morning, the prisoners were marched through the town to the river docks. Crowds lined the street to catch a glimpse of the famed rebel but the Defenders kept them pressed close between the horses, so most of the townsfolk were disappointed. The mood of the crowd was strangely subdued. Every one of the prisoners heaved a sigh of relief when they reached the docks.

  The Defenders halted the prisoners and arrayed themselves across the entrance to the dock. The boat was a freight barge, its name Melissa, in faded whitewash on the prow. They were herded forward by the soldiers and pushed up the narrow gangplank. As R’shiel stepped onto the deck a hand reached for her and she was pushed into a group with the other prisoners. The horses belonging to the ten Defenders who were to accompany them to the Grimfield were brought on board, although it took some time. Finally Loclon strode up the gangway and the captain gave the order to cast off.

  Had it been left to Loclon, the prisoners wouldn’t have emerged at all from the hold. Loclon was all for locking the door and forgetting about his charges until they docked. The boat’s captain exploded when he heard the suggestion, his voice carrying easily to the prisoners locked in the freezing hold.

  “Leave them there?” his deep voice boomed. “Be damned if you will!”

  The prisoners gathered near the flimsy wooden door to listen to the exchange. Loclon’s reply was inaudible, but the riverboat captain could probably be heard back in the Citadel.

  “I don’t care if they’re a bunch of bloodthirsty mass murders! Do you know what that hold will smell like after a few days? I want them out! Every day! And not just for an hour or so! I have to carry other cargo, you know! It’s bad enough your horses are stinking up my deck without making the rest of my boat uninhabitable as well!”

  A few moments of silence ensued, as Loclon presumably pleaded his case, but the captain was adamant. “I want them out, do you hear? If you don’t like it, I will put into the bank, offload the whole troublesome lot of you and you can wave down the next passing boat!”

  A door slammed angrily, followed by silence. Guessing that the entertainment was over, the prisoners wandered back to their hammocks.

  The convicts had unconsciously sorted themselves into three distinct groups. The men had gathered themselves nearest the entrance. The women had taken possession of the opposite side of the hold in a cluster of hammocks. Stuck somewhere in the middle was Tarja—a group of one that nobody wanted to associate with, either through fear of him or disgust that he had
betrayed his compatriots.

  Sunny had taken R’shiel under her wing and had introduced her around to the other women. The tall, dark-haired one was called Marielle. She was on her way to the Grimfield for assaulting a Sister. Marielle’s husband was serving time in the Grimfield for theft. She had walked from Brodenvale, over the Cliffwall to the Grimfield, only to be turned back when she reached the prison town. Furious, she had walked all the way back to Caldow where she had hurled a fresh cowpat at the first Sister she saw. She was now quite contentedly on her way to where she wanted to be in the first place.

  Danka was only a year or so older than R’shiel. A slender blonde with a lazy eye that had a disconcerting habit of looking in a different direction from the other, her crime was selling her favours in an unlicensed brothel.

  Tella and Warril were sisters; both convicted of murdering a man they had been arguing over. The sisters were sentenced to five years, although Harith had informed them sternly that it was more for their irresponsible behaviour than the fact they had actually killed the poor man. The sisters were now the best of friends, having decided that no man would ever drive them apart again.

  The sixth female prisoner was an older woman named Bek, sour-faced and wrinkled, who offered no information regarding herself or her crime. Sunny had whispered to R’shiel that she was an arsonist who had set so many fires in the Citadel, it was a wonder it wasn’t black with soot, instead of the pristine white it usually was. R’shiel wasn’t sure if she believed Sunny, but she noticed the old woman staring at the shielded lantern-flame for hours at a time, as if it held some secret fascination for her.

  As for Sunny, she was, she explained soberly to R’shiel, a businesswoman. Her unfortunate involvement in Tarja’s escape attempt was purely accidental. She was a patriotic citizen of Medalon. This whole thing was simply a mistake, which would be cleared up as soon as she reached the Grimfield and found an officer who would listen to her.

  Not long after the argument between the riverboat captain and Loclon, a rattle at the lock in the door had all the prisoners jumping to their feet with anticipation. A sailor pushed the door open and stood back to let two red-coated Defenders step through. They were carrying a number of leg irons in each hand.

  “Cap’n says you’re to go up on deck where we can keep an eye on you,” the corporal announced. “I want you lined up, one at a time.”

  The sailor remained in the doorway. “And just how do you suppose they’re going to get up top with those things on?”

  The corporal frowned. “The Cap’n ordered it.”

  “And I’m sure the Cap’n is quite a wonderful chap, but they’ll never get up those companionways wearing leg irons.”

  “But what if they try to escape?”

  “Then you can club them into submission with the chains.” The sailor was teasing him, but the soldier didn’t seem to realise it.

  The corporal considered his advice for a moment, before nodding. “All right. But they go on as soon as we get on deck.”

  “A wise move, Corporal. You’ll go far in the Corps, I’m sure.”

  The corporal stood back and ordered the prisoners out of the hold. They shuffled into a line and R’shiel found herself standing next to Tarja. She glanced at him for a moment, but they had no chance to speak. He looked a little better today. The bruise over his eye was fading although the one on his jaw looked the colour of rotting fruit. As she bent to walk through the doorway, the sailor winked at her and she silently thanked him and his captain for sparing them from both the confines of the hold and the leg irons.

  The sunlight stung R’shiel’s eyes as she emerged onto the deck. Although cold, the wind was a refreshing change. Once they were assembled, the corporal didn’t seem to know what to do with them and Loclon was nowhere to be found. With a shrug, he dumped the leg irons at the top of the steps and turned to face his charges.

  “A bit of exercise will tire them out,” the sailor suggested helpfully as he followed the Defenders up onto the main deck. “Make them much easier to handle.”

  The corporal nodded. “All right you lot! Move about! You’re up here for exercise!”

  The prisoners dutifully began moving about. Expecting to be called back, R’shiel headed forward. In the bow, heading swiftly south with the current, a chill breeze swept over her. She sank down behind the temporary corral where the horses were tethered and began to run her fingers through her hair in a futile attempt to tidy it. She had not had a proper bath since the day she had been arrested. She tugged at the tangles as best she could and slowly re-braided her long hair, wondering if she smelt as bad as everyone else did.

  “What are you doing?” Sunny asked, lowering her voluptuous frame down beside R’shiel.

  R’shiel shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “That sailor surely has Hurly’s mark,” she chuckled. For a moment, R’shiel was not sure what the court’esa meant, then realised she must be speaking of the easily-outwitted corporal. She agreed with a non-committal shrug. Sunny waited for her to contribute something more substantial to the conversation. When R’shiel showed no inclination to add anything further, she took up the challenge herself. “So, where d’you think we’ll dock?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You reckon the rebels will try to free Tarja?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The court’esa seemed to mistake her reticence for interest. “I reckon they will. I reckon they’re just waiting for a chance at a clear run. Bet they hang him soon as look at him, too.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Because he squealed on them.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “’Course he did,” Sunny assured her confidently. “The Sisterhood would’ve have hung him, otherwise. Anyway, the rebels won’t try anything while we’re on the river.”

  “Hurly!” Loclon’s angry yell cut through the still morning like a scythe. “What the hell are these prisoners doing roaming around the deck like this? It’s not a bloody pleasure cruise!”

  Sunny sighed loudly. “Well, there goes our few moments of glorious freedom. Ol’ Wick-’em-an’-Whack-’em Loclon is on the warpath again.”

  R’shiel glanced at Sunny as the Defenders began rounding everyone up to clamp on the leg irons. Hidden in the bow, she figured they had a moment or two yet before they were discovered.

  “Why do you call him that?” she asked.

  “Our Loclon likes a bit of fisticuffs,” Sunny told her knowingly. “You ask any of the girls in the Houses back at the Citadel. He pays good, but he likes to feel like a big man. Know what I mean?”

  “He likes to hit people?” R’shiel suggested, not entirely sure she understood Sunny’s odd turn of phrase.

  “He likes to hit women,” Sunny corrected. “Give’s him a real hard-on. I bet he isn’t near as brave fighting men.”

  Hurly found them before R’shiel could answer.

  It was late that night before R’shiel finally got a chance to speak to Tarja. After a meal of thin gruel she lay awake in the darkness, listening to the creaking of the boat, the soft rasping of swinging hammocks and the nasal snores of her fellow prisoners. She waited for a long time, until she was certain they were all asleep, before slipping out of her hammock. Feeling her way in the absolute darkness, she relied only on her memory of where she thought Tarja might be sleeping to find him, trying not to bump into the others as she felt her way through the hold. The boat had anchored for the night and the sound of the river gently slapping against the wooden hull seemed unnaturally loud.

  “Tarja?” she whispered, reaching out to touch his face. A vice-like grip snatched at her wrist and she had to force herself not to cry out with the sudden pain. “It’s me!” she hissed.

  The pain eased as he released her. “What’s wrong?” he said, so softly she had to lean forward until she could feel his breath on her face.

  “Can we talk?”

  She felt rather than saw him nod in the darkness and stood b
ack as he swung out of the hammock. He took her hand and led her toward the aft end of the hold. A glimmer of light trickled in from a loose board high on the bulkhead. Tarja sank down onto the hard deck and pulled R’shiel, shivering in her thin shift, down beside him. He put his arm around her and she leaned into the solid warmth of his chest.

  “What happened? Why didn’t they hang you?” she whispered. Although the sleeping prisoners were on the other side of the hold, it was not a large boat and even normal voices would probably wake them. “Everyone says you betrayed the rebels.”

  “This is Joyhinia’s idea of revenge. She’s hoping the rebels will kill me for her.”

  “But if you explained to them—”

  She could feel him shaking his head in the darkness. “You know them as well as I, R’shiel. I doubt I’ll be given the chance. But we’re still alive, that’s something. Maybe I can find a way out of this yet.”

  “You can rescue me any time you want, Tarja. Anywhere between here and the Grimfield will do just nicely. I’ll die if I have to spend an hour as a court’esa, let alone ten years.”

  “Is that what Harith sentenced you to?”

  She nodded. A part of her wanted him to explode with fury and kick a hole in the bulkhead so that they could swim to freedom. Another part of her knew that he was as helpless as she was.

  “Well,” she sighed. “Whatever happens, I’m glad Joyhinia didn’t hang you.”

  “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

  “For what?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Oh! At the Citadel, you mean? I was just surprised, that’s all. Everyone was saying you’d been tortured.” He did not confirm or deny the rumour. He just held her close. She could hear the steady beat of his heart against her ear. “You should have listened to me, you know. I warned you the meeting in Testra was a trap.”

  “You also suggested we ambush Draco and kill every Defender in the town,” he reminded her.

  “We wouldn’t be here now, if we had,” she retorted, but her rhetoric had lost the passion that once consumed her.