Medalon

by Jennifer Fallon

  “I’m sorry, R’shiel.” He stood up and walked back to the guard on the door, issuing orders to see her mounted and ready to leave as soon as he had dealt with Tarja. The guard came forward, untied the ropes that held her and pulled her to her feet. She tried to follow Padric’s slight form as he disappeared into the house, but the guard drew her away, bringing up a small dun mare.

  “What did he mean about dealing with Tarja?” she asked. The rebel was a balding middle-aged man with an air of weary resignation.

  “They’re going to hang him,” he told her, as he lifted her into the saddle. R’shiel looked around and discovered a number of men standing under a large tree on the other side of the yard. One of them was swinging a rope gently, aiming it for the large branch that spread out over the yard. He threw the rope and on his second attempt, it looped over the branch. Another man reached for the loose end and pulled it down. R’shiel turned to her guard.

  “But he never betrayed you!”

  “Aye, it’s hard to credit,” the rebel agreed. “But he convicted himself with his own hand. Had a letter in his pocket to the Defenders, he did.” He frowned at the shock on R’shiel’s face at the news. “He betrayed us, right enough, lass. You, as much as the rest of us. Don’t waste your sympathy on him. He’s nothing but a bastard.” R’shiel realised this man was not a hothead like Ghari. This man was truly saddened by the thought that Tarja might have betrayed him, prepared to believe otherwise until he had been confronted by incontrovertible proof of Tarja’s treachery.

  “I don’t believe you,” R’shiel insisted stubbornly.

  “Then more fool you, girl.”

  Padric emerged from the house in the company of Mandah, who avoided meeting R’shiel’s eye. He remounted, followed by two other rebels then walked his horse forward and took the lead rein from the rebel holding her horse. His eyes were sad as he looked at her.

  “It’ll be best if we leave now, lass,” he said. “You’ll not want to see what’s coming next.”

  R’shiel glared at him. “You’re murderers! That’s all you are! Miserable, cold-blooded murderers. You’re going to murder Tarja and you’re going to murder me!”

  Padric pulled her horse closer to his. “Tarja has betrayed us both, R’shiel. His death is deserved. Yours will be unfortunate, but I’ve fought too long to stop now.” He kicked his horse forward, jerking her mare with him and they galloped out of the yard. R’shiel looked back over her shoulder, but there was no sign of Tarja. Within moments, they were out of sight of the old vineyard.

  They galloped at a nightmare pace along a track that was barely visible in the darkness. R’shiel was an experienced horsewoman, but her horse was being led, so she could do little but cling grimly with aching thighs and hope that she didn’t fall off. A fall at this breakneck pace would kill her. Of course, she was riding helter-skelter to a fate worse than death in any case, so it really didn’t matter if she broke her neck in a fall. It was almost enticing.

  They rode along the edge of the river as the sky lightened into morning and R’shiel could make out a small jetty where the elaborately decorated ship was moored. It was three times the size of the Maera’s Daughter or the Melissa and looked cumbersome and top-heavy, even to her inexperienced eye. Padric brought his small party to a halt and walked his horse forward onto the jetty.

  Lord Pieter, dressed in decorative Karien armour, stepped onto the gangway and walked down the jetty to greet Padric. Following him was Elfron, wearing a simple brown cassock. He carried his glorious golden staff, which glittered in the dawn light. R’shiel dared hope a little at the sight of the priest. Pieter would not be able to indulge in anything remotely sinful with him on board.

  “You have her?” the knight asked Padric, looking past the old rebel and straight at R’shiel.

  “Aye.”

  “Bring her here,” the knight ordered. “Elfron? What do you think?”

  The priest walked down the jetty until he reached R’shiel’s horse. He studied her intently for a moment before laying the staff gently on her shoulder.

  R’shiel screamed as intense pain shot through her like a white-hot lance. In agony, she fell from the horse and landed heavily on the ground. Excitedly, Elfron touched the staff to her shoulder again and R’shiel screamed anew, certain her body would explode under the torment. He withdrew the staff and turned back to the knight.

  “This is magic!” he declared in astonishment, as if he had never truly expected to see the affect of his staff on another living being. “The heathen magicians cannot fight the Staff of Xaphista. My vision was true! She is one of them!” He reached down and jerked R’shiel to her feet. She was sobbing uncontrollably, pain radiating from her shoulder. As she looked up, the Karien knight took a step backwards.

  “You have done well,” the Envoy told Padric, then he turned to Elfron and added, “Get her on the boat, quickly!”

  Padric looked stunned and more than a little guilty as the priest dragged R’shiel away.

  “What will you do with the girl?” Padric asked.

  “The Staff of Xaphista is infallible! You have brought us proof that the Sisterhood harbours the Harshini. You can be assured that we will be forever grateful for your assistance. As for the girl, she will be burned on the altar of Xaphista in the Temple at Yarnarrow, as the Overlord showed us in Elfron’s vision.”

  “Just you be sure to keep your side of the bargain.”

  Pieter handed a heavy purse to the rebel, somewhat disdainfully. “I have given you my pledge, sir!”

  The Envoy followed the priest onto the boat and gave the order to push off. R’shiel collapsed to her knees and knelt on the deck, watching the old rebel through tear-filled eyes, as the boat moved out into the swift current. The old man stared at her, his expression distraught. A fine time to have an attack of guilt, R’shiel thought.

  The agony subsided a little as the figures of the rebels on the wharf grew smaller and smaller in the distance. R’shiel cursed them all, fervently hoping that Padric lived a long, long time and suffered the guilt of his betrayal for the rest of his miserable life.

  CHAPTER 47

  Jenga delivered the news of the escape from the Grimfield personally. Hearing Tarja had escaped with R’shiel was bad enough, but the news that Mahina was with them was of far greater concern. Reports from the Grimfield suggested Mahina was a hostage, but Joyhinia didn’t believe that for a moment. She ordered him to face the Quorum and explain how such a thing could have occurred.

  The rebellion had hurt Joyhinia more than she cared to admit, both personally and politically. Lord Pieter had been back on his annual visit, insisting that she allow the Kariens to deal with the ongoing problem of the heathen rebels. Her Purge, which had sounded so reasonable when she had removed Mahina, had brought nothing but scorn from the Envoy. He had all but accused Joyhinia of being in league with the heathens.

  “How in the Founders’ name did Mahina get mixed up in this?” Harith demanded, almost before the Quorum had taken their seats. It was rare that Jenga was invited to the meetings these days. Usually, he must rely on Draco’s terse reports. The Spear of the First Sister stood behind the First Sister’s desk by the wall, his expression implacable. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

  “Tarja’s friendship with Mahina was no secret. He may have called on that friendship to aid in his escape,” Francil suggested. “Did it occur to anyone, when we decided to send him there, that Mahina was also at the Grimfield?”

  The women all looked at Joyhinia accusingly.

  “Do you have any idea of the damage she could do if she decides to throw her lot in with the rebels?” Louhina added.

  “Mahina won’t betray us. She may have been misguided, but she wouldn’t turn on her own kind.”

  “That’s not what you said when we threw her out,” Harith pointed out. “In fact, the word ‘betrayal’ featured rather prominently in your impassioned campaign to have her removed. Could it be that you might have made
an error in judgement, First Sister?”

  “I think you are overreacting, Harith. You forget that Mahina is an old woman. Tarja and R’shiel are heading for the Sanctuary Mountains. I suspect they will dump her somewhere along the way so she doesn’t slow them down. They may even kill her, which would be convenient.”

  Jenga was appalled by her remark. None of the Quorum blinked.

  “We need to take decisive action,” Joyhinia continued. “We must have troops in place to recapture the fugitives as soon as they are located.”

  Joyhinia’s political survival depended on giving the impression that victory was certain. Troop movements would go a long way to convincing the Kariens that she was firm in her resolve to destroy the heathens and if that meant mobilising the entire Corps, she didn’t seem to care. And it would keep everyone’s thoughts occupied, Jenga thought, resenting her use of the Defenders in such a manner.

  “Of course, I will announce publicly that we will spare no effort in rescuing Mahina from the rebels.” She turned to Jenga, acknowledging his presence for the first time. “I want the Defenders sent downriver to Testra immediately, as many as you can muster. It’s the most logical place to stage any offensive on the Sanctuary Mountains and that appears to be where they are headed.” She glanced at the Sisters, before adding, “I need not add, my Lord Defender, that Mahina’s rescue is not the overriding concern in this campaign.”

  “Your Grace?” Jenga asked, not at all certain he believed what she had just ordered him to do.

  “Is there a problem, my Lord?”

  “Such an order might be misinterpreted, your Grace. In my opinion—”

  “Your opinion is not required, my Lord. Merely that you do as you are ordered.”

  “Mahina was very popular among the Defenders, even before she became First Sister,” Jenga persisted. He couldn’t take this order without objecting. Joyhinia was very close to pushing him too far. “Such an order will be…difficult to enforce.”

  “He has a point,” Harith agreed. “Can you claim to own the same level of respect, Joyhinia?”

  The First Sister glared at the Mistress of the Sisterhood. “The Defenders will honour their oath to the Sisters of the Blade. Of that I am sure. Is that not so, my Lord?”

  Jenga hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yes, your Grace. That is so.”

  Later that evening, Lord Jenga carefully folded the letter he was reading and rose from his chair as his visitor entered his office.

  “You’ve heard the news?” he asked Garet.

  The commandant nodded. “I warned you something like this would happen. You have always underestimated Tarja.”

  “Now is not the time to apportion blame. I doubt we could have prevented this, no matter what we did. Any news on how that officer…what’s his name?”

  “Loclon.”

  “Any news on how he is faring?”

  “He’ll live.”

  “Has he been able to tell what happened?”

  “Cortanen says he was muttering some gibberish about R’shiel and Harshini magic.”

  “Harshini magic? Founders! That’s all I need! I want you to question him personally when he gets back to the Citadel.”

  “I’ll see to it, sir. He should be fit to travel in a week or so. Was that all?”

  The Lord Defender studied the commandant for a moment, then with a wave of his hand, indicated that he should sit. He remained standing.

  “What I am about to reveal to you is highly confidential,” Jenga warned. Highly confidential and possibly treasonous, he added to himself. But he no longer felt able to bear the burden alone.

  “I understand,” Garet said, although it was patently obvious that he didn’t. He might have even been a little offended that Jenga felt the need to warn him to secrecy.

  “I have been ordered to ensure that if we find Mahina Cortanen alive, to see she doesn’t stay that way.”

  “I don’t believe that even Joyhinia would go that far.”

  “Believe it or not, it’s the truth.”

  “But Mahina is no threat to the First Sister. What possible reason could she have for demanding such a thing?”

  “Because Mahina is still dangerous. Mahina commanded more respect from the Defenders than any other First Sister before or since. Her involvement in this escape has taken the Sisterhood by surprise. Before the Karien Envoy left he was threatening invasion, if the First Sister does not gain a measure of control over the situation.”

  “And what of the heathens?”

  Jenga shrugged. “Numerically, I doubt they’re a genuine threat, but we can’t afford to have troops tied up routing out heathens if the Kariens appear on our northern border.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Follow my orders,” Jenga told him. “Most of them, anyway. But I promise you this: no Defender will take any action to harm Mahina, even if it means defying the current First Sister.”

  Garet flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his jacket before he looked up, his expression grim. “You are talking treason.”

  “Am I?” Jenga sat down heavily. “Is it treason to refuse to carry out an order that you find morally reprehensible? If the First Sister ordered you to kill every prisoner in the Grimfield, would you do it?”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “Then you, sir,” Jenga said, “would be committing treason.”

  Garet nodded. “Are you sure you understood your orders? Is it not possible that you misread her intentions?”

  “No, I understood the First Sister well enough.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “It is quite disturbing, after all this time to think that Tarja may have been right.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find Tarja,” Jenga said. “Before Joyhinia does.”

  “It will cost money,” Garet warned. “Informants put a high price on their loyalty.”

  “Do whatever you have to,” Jenga agreed.

  Garet nodded. “And in the meantime?”

  “In the meantime, we uphold our oath.”

  “To defend and serve the Sisters of the Blade for the protection of Medalon,” Garet quoted, an edge to his voice.

  “Mahina is a Sister of the Blade and the Defenders will defend her with the same vigour as any other Sister.”

  “Even if it means defying Joyhinia?”

  Jenga nodded slowly. “Aye. Even if it means that.”

  Jenga took a walk among his troops later that evening. The barracks were alive with the sounds of men preparing to move out. They would leave at first light. The jingle of tack, and the whine of swords being sharpened on oilstone overlaid the sound of voices talking excitedly at the prospect of action. He moved quietly between the buildings, not wishing to give his men the idea he was checking on them. A good commander always knew what his troops were feeling. A good officer could gauge the mood of his men and know whether they needed bullying or mothering. If these men were going into action, he needed to know, before they left the Citadel, if he had a fighting force or a liability at his back.

  “Are you sure it’s Tarja we’re going after?”

  Jenga stopped in the shadow of the Officer’s Barracks. He recognised the voice. It was Osbon, newly promoted to captain and itching for excitement.

  “I heard a rumour it was the Harshini,” another voice added. Jenga thought it sounded like Nheal. He had been in Tarja’s class as a Cadet. He had failed to apprehend Tarja at Reddingdale and was the officer who took it into his head to conduct a snap inspection of the cell guards the morning of Tarja’s abortive escape attempt. Jenga was still not convinced it was a coincidence.

  “The Harshini are a fairy tale,” a third voice scoffed. “It’s the Kariens we’re after. Their Envoy left recently and he didn’t look happy.” Jenga wasn’t sure who the third man was, but he sounded older than the other two.

  “Tarja said the Kariens were the real danger to Medalon,” Nheal said.

  “And what good did it
do him?” the third man asked.

  “He’s escaped from the Grimfield. It’s bound to be him we’re after. Do you think they’ll hang him this time?”

  “They should have hanged him the last time,” the other man pointed out. “I heard a rumour that he didn’t really desert, you know. That the whole thing was just a cover that he and Garet Warner worked out so that he could join the rebels and expose them.”

  “Makes sense,” Osbon replied thoughtfully. “That would explain a lot of things. He’s got more guts than I have, let me tell you. I wouldn’t throw everything away…”

  Jenga moved off, frowning in the darkness. Even publicly condemned, Tarja’s influence was still felt in the Defenders. He wished, not for the first time, that he had found the chance to speak with him alone. Not in the interrogation cells or in the company of the guards, but man to man.

  Jenga was an honourable man and his pride in the Defenders had sustained him for most of his life. He truly believed that they had a solemn duty to protect Medalon and the Sisters of the Blade. But he was finding it hard to reconcile his duty with his oath. For a while, when Mahina had been First Sister, he had positively relished his position, as he watched her trying to bring about some genuine change. Her reign had been all too brief.

  Satisfied that the Defenders would be ready to move out in the morning, Jenga made his way back to his quarters. He picked up the letter on his desk and read it again. It was from Verkin on the southern border. Jenga had read it so often in the past few days, he knew its contents by heart.

  My Lord Defender

  It is with great sorrow that I must inform you of the death of your brother, Captain Dayan Jenga. Although his death was from a fever, brought on by contact with an unclean court’esa, he nonetheless served this garrison with dedication for more than twenty years.

  Faithfully

  Kraith Verkin

  So Dayan was dead. The manner did not surprise him, only that it had not happened sooner. He grieved for his brother, but his death finally freed him from his debt to Joyhinia. He read the letter again, then threw it on the fire and watched the flames consume it. When it was nothing more than white ash he dug out a bottle of illegally distilled potato spirit and for the first time in twenty years, drank himself into insensibility.