Medalon

by Jennifer Fallon

  By the time they rode into the town, Ghari had recovered his wits somewhat. Although hardly talkative, he had lost the wide-eyed look of startled terror that he had worn for most of the day. They drove their wagon slowly through the town, heads lowered. Tarja had discarded his Defender’s uniform gladly and they were dressed as farmhands. He turned the wagon for the docks and looked at Ghari.

  “Do you have many riverboat captains among your sympathisers?”

  “A few. But we’ll be lucky if they’re here. Do you have any money?”

  “Not a rivet.”

  “Then we’ll have trouble. Even our sympathisers won’t take us for love. They must have coin to show their owners at the end of their journey.”

  “We’ll think of something,” Tarja assured his companion, although how, he had no idea. As they drove along the waterfront, he glanced at the dozen or more riverboats tied up at the docks. Which of them, he wondered, could he convince to risk everything in pursuit of a vessel belonging to a foreign envoy, to save a girl who was one of a race that supposedly no longer existed?

  “Here,” Ghari told him, pointing at a swinging tavern sign. The Chain and Anchor was the largest tavern along the wharf, and even from this distance, Tarja could hear the rowdy singing coming from the taproom. He pulled the wagon to a stop and climbed down.

  Ghari followed him, catching his arm. “I have to ask you, Tarja. Was Padric right about the letter? Were you really writing to the Defenders?”

  “We’re not ready for a war, Ghari. I wasn’t trying to betray you, I was trying to protect you.”

  “But what of our people who died after you were captured? How did the Sisterhood learn of them?”

  “You underestimate the depth of Garet Warner’s intelligence network. Joyhinia had those names long before I was captured. She simply held off using them until it would have the most effect.”

  The young man nodded. He jerked his head in the direction of the tavern, the matter apparently now put to rest. “They know me here,” he warned. “And your name isn’t very popular. Keep your head down. I’ll do the talking.” Tarja stood back and let Ghari lead the way.

  The taproom was crowded with sailors. The singing was coming from half a dozen men standing on a table near the door, their arms linked, belting out a chorus about a handsome sailor and a very accommodating mistress. Another sailor accompanied them on an accordion. He seemed to know only about three notes, but he played each one with great enthusiasm, making up in volume what he lacked in talent. Tarja lowered his head as he followed Ghari through the crush of bodies, trying not to draw any attention to himself. Ghari pushed his way through to the bar, leaning forward to catch the eye of the overworked, but extremely prosperous, tavern keeper. Tarja glanced around the room, hoping he would recognise someone, praying no one would recognise him. In the far corner of the room, a figure was hunched miserably over his tankard, his back to the revellers, totally uninvolved in the celebrations. Startled, Tarja tapped Ghari on the arm and pointed. Ghari’s eyes widened in surprise and he abandoned his attempt to catch the tavern keeper’s attention. They pushed their way back through the crowd.

  Ghari sat down opposite the old man and placed a hand on his shoulder. Tarja stood behind him, partly to stop him escaping, and partly because he needed time to dampen the anger he felt at the sight of the old man. This man, this former friend, had handed R’shiel over to the Kariens.

  “Padric?” Ghari said. “Where are the others?”

  Padric raised his head slowly. He was as drunk as a bird that had spent the day feasting on rotten jarafruit. “Murderers,” he mumbled, miserably. “She called us murderers.”

  “Padric!”

  “We shouldn’t have killed him, lad,” Padric continued woefully. “I knew him. He wasn’t a traitor. He explained about the letter. He was trying to save lives, not destroy them. I should have trusted him. And R’shiel. She really was—”

  Ghari looked at Tarja in exasperation. Tarja leaned over the old man and grabbed his collar, pulling him up. “Then it’s a damn good thing I’m still alive, isn’t it?” he said in a low voice.

  Padric turned his red rimmed eyes to Tarja. “Tarja!”

  “Shut up!” Ghari hissed, with a nervous glance around the rowdy taproom. “We have to get a boat. We’re going to get R’shiel back.”

  Padric never questioned Ghari’s change of heart. His anguish was clear for anyone to see and he drunkenly grabbed at the chance to undo his deed.

  “We’ll have to hurry. But you won’t find help among this lot. The word has just come that the Defenders are mobilising. They’re all headed north to Brodenvale to pick up the troops.”

  “Mobilising?” Tarja glanced back over his shoulder. That accounted for the celebration, at least. The sailors cared little for the Sisterhood but there was a lot of money to be made transporting troops. The crews were facing a period of upcoming prosperity. The fact that it would halt virtually all other trade on the river and threaten the livelihood of countless other folk bothered them not at all. “What for?”

  “To destroy us, of course,” Padric mumbled. “Word is out that you are here and heading for the mountains. The entire bloody Corps will be on us in a matter of weeks.”

  The news concerned Tarja. He had arrived in Testra only the day before. For the news to reach the sailors in Testra, Joyhinia must have ordered the mobilisation within hours of learning of their escape from the Grimfield.

  The tavern door swung open and another crew entered the tavern, although they looked less enthusiastic about the celebration than the sailors who were already well into their cups. With a silent prayer to the Harshini gods he didn’t believe in, who he was certain must be looking out for him, he turned back to Ghari.

  “I think we’ve found our boat,” he said. “Get him out of here and meet me at the wagon.”

  Ghari was quickly falling back into the old habit of doing what Tarja ordered. He nodded and stood up, helping the drunken old rebel to his feet. Tarja watched them leave and then turned his attention back to the big Fardohnyan who was pushing his way through the throng to the bar. His brothers waited near the door, looking for an empty table. Tarja waved and pointed to the table that Padric had just vacated. The two men nodded and made their way across the room to him. They had not recognised him, merely taking him for a helpful farmer. Drendik was not far behind them but as he turned to thank Tarja, his brows rose in startled recognition.

  “You!” he exclaimed.

  “I need your help,” he said, not bothering with any preamble. “There is a Harshini girl in trouble. The Karien Envoy has her.”

  If there was one thing Tarja knew that would rile a Fardohnyan it was mentioning the Kariens, whom they hated with something close to religious fervour. To throw in the Harshini, whom they revered with equal passion, was guaranteed to get the riverboat captain’s attention.

  “The Kariens have a Harshini?” the younger sailor demanded. Although they revered them, it was unlikely the Fardohnyans had ever laid eyes on a Harshini. Unlike Padric and the rebels, however, they did not question the continuing existence of the fabled race.

  “Will you help me?”

  “Well it’s damned certain I won’t be ferrying Medalonian troops for the cursed Sisterhood,” Drendik said. The Fardohnyan downed his large tankard in one go and slammed it down on the table. “Well, my rebellious young friend, let us go forth and gain the favour of the gods by saving one of their chosen ones. Do you have any money?”

  Tarja shook his head and the Fardohnyan sighed. “There’s just no profit in being a hero these days.”

  CHAPTER 50

  The Karien Envoy studied R’shiel fearfully as the ship was picked up and pushed south by the current, before he turned to Elfron. R’shiel was still on her hands and knees at Pieter’s feet, trying to push back waves of nausea. The pain from Elfron’s staff had subsided to a vicious aching throb that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.

  “What did you do to her
?”

  “I did nothing,” Elfron said. “It is Xaphista who has spoken through the power of his staff. She is Harshini.”

  “But she’s the First Sister’s daughter! Or at least she was, until Joyhinia disowned her. Do you suppose she knew?”

  “Of course she knew! Have I not been warning you that the Sisterhood is in league with the forces of evil? You are lucky, my Lord, that she did not attempt to entrap you.”

  If she was in league with the forces of evil, it was the first R’shiel had heard about it. Pieter looked at her again, but there was no lust or desire in his eyes. Just loathing.

  “Take her below.”

  “We should tie her to the mast so that all of Medalon can see that we have captured an evil one,” Elfron declared. “We must let it be known that Xaphista cannot be deceived.”

  “Don’t be a fool! You can’t sail through Medalon with one of their women tied to the mast! Do you want to provoke a war?”

  “She is not one of their women, she is a Harshini witch,” he pointed out. “Medalon should rejoice in the knowledge that we have removed a serpent from the breast of their insidious Sisterhood.”

  “The Harshini mean nothing to these people! They are a forgotten race. Only in Karien, where the power of the Overlord protects us from the thrall of the Harshini, do we remember the threat. They will not rejoice in your triumph, Elfron, they will run you through!”

  Elfron conceded the point with ill grace. “Very well then, secure her below. But when we have left the Glass River, when we are safely through the Fardohnyan Gulf and are back in Karien waters, then she will be tied to the mast so that our people, at least, may rejoice in our triumph. My vision was a true one. We shall sail the Ironbrook in glory.”

  With an imperious wave of his arm, Pieter ordered two sailors to drag her below. R’shiel did not resist. She was still shaking and weak as they half-dragged, half-carried her along the deck, and pushed her below, finally locking her in a small storage cabin at the end of a long passage. Light filtered in dimly from the slatted door. Feeling her way along the deck, she found a pile of musty smelling sacks and collapsed onto them.

  Tears spilled onto the dirty sacks as R’shiel gave in to a wave of hopelessness. Her grief over Tarja’s death overwhelmed her for a time, left her hollow and sick. It felt like the perfect side dish to accompany the main course of her pain. She didn’t care what happened now. No suffering anyone could inflict on her could be worse than the suffering she could inflict upon herself by simply thinking of Tarja.

  She dozed for while in the small cabin, as they sailed further south. The cabin grew uncomfortably warm as the day progressed and she woke up feeling thirsty and hungry, but no one came to offer her any sustenance. She looked around the shelves in the gloom and found nothing useful. The closet contained old sacks, lengths of rope and several barrels of foul-smelling pitch, but nothing remotely resembling food or water. Had they forgotten she was down here, or was it their intention to starve her to death? She did not think that likely. Elfron was too enamoured of the idea of sailing up the Ironbrook River with his Harshini prize lashed to the main mast. He would not allow her to die before then and rob him of his triumph.

  With nothing else to do, and her grief over Tarja beginning to settle like grit in a bottle of sour wine, R’shiel finally thought to wonder about Pieter and Elfron and their strange notion that she was Harshini. It seemed so unreal. Brak had told her a great deal about the Harshini on their journey from the Grimfield. He made them sound so charming and elegant that she had almost wished they still lived. His tales had drawn her out of herself, woven a magical web of wonder over her bruised and battered soul. Until now, she had not realised how much Brak had helped her. In the days following her escape from the Grimfield, she had not particularly cared if she lived or died. There had been a fear in her that she could not name; an unwillingness to face what she had done, an inability to even comprehend it. She had told Brak of the mural in her room and from her description, he had been able to tell her what the mural represented. Sanctuary, he called it. A place built by the Harshini to provide a haven of peace. A place where joy and laughter filled the halls and serenity washed over the soul with every breath one took. She wondered how much Brak had known and how much of it he had made up. He should have been a bard.

  But it seemed rather odd that the Harshini, who were long dead and gone, should suddenly loom so large in her life. First Brak had regaled her with stories about them, then Tarja had tried to convince the rebels that she was one, when he would have been much better off telling them something more credible. His folly had likely cost him his life. Now Elfron and Lord Pieter were taking her back to Karien to burn her as a witch because they thought she was one of them, too. Was it possible? Had her unknown father been a Harshini? A lifetime of certainty was threatened by the very notion. She knew her mother had refused to name her father. But the Harshini were dead. The Sisterhood had destroyed them.

  It was long after dark when Elfron finally came for her. The motion of the boat had changed and R’shiel wondered if they had pulled into the riverbank for the night. She knew next to nothing about boats, but suspected the Karien vessel must be a seafaring ship, ill-equipped to deal with the river. It was likely that the Envoy’s captain was not familiar enough with the Glass River to risk sailing it at night.

  She was trying to sleep, in the hope unconsciousness would spare her the pain of her grief, her throbbing shoulder, her dry throat and her rumbling stomach, when she heard a rattle in the lock. She had eaten nothing since dinner at the inn in Testra. The part of her that was still grieving hoped it would not take too long to die of thirst or starvation. The part of her that still lived craved food and water with a passion that almost overcame her grief. A spark of life burned in R’shiel, too bright to be put out by grief or pain.

  Elfron threw open the door and ordered her to stand. She did so slowly, as much from physical weakness as fear. He grabbed her arm as soon as she was standing and pulled her from the cabin. He propelled her forward along the passage to another cabin with elaborately carved double doors. In his left hand, Elfron clutched the Staff of Xaphista. R’shiel glanced at it, knowing her idle boast to herself earlier, that no pain could exceed the pain of losing Tarja, was a hollow one indeed when faced with the staff.

  The cabin was sumptuously furnished. Everything—the bedhead, the chairs, the panelled walls—was inlaid with gold, and everywhere the five-pointed star intersected with a lightning bolt shone out. Even the blue satin quilt on the bed was embroidered with the symbol, beautifully worked in gold thread. The richness of the cabin was overpowering.

  “You stand in the presence of the Overlord’s representative,” Elfron told her. “You are unclean. You will cleanse yourself and dress more appropriately before we begin.” He indicated a jug and washbowl that lay on the table next to a small covered tray. Over the back of one of the chairs was a rough cassock, similar to the one that Elfron wore, which seemed plain and ordinary amid the sumptuousness of the cabin. R’shiel eyed him warily, but Elfron appeared to have no more interest in her than he would in any other animal. R’shiel did as he ordered, turning her back to him as she peeled off her clothes. Elfron continued to watch her as she washed herself with all the concern he might have shown watching a cat lick itself clean. She pulled on the rough, itchy cassock and turned to face him.

  “You may eat,” he told her, indicating the tray.

  R’shiel removed the covering cloth and discovered a loaf of dry black bread and a small pitcher of wine. It was quite the most lavish feast she had ever consumed. She ate the bread hungrily and drank every drop of the watered wine, watching the priest out of the corner of her eye. Elfron continued to ignore her until she had finished. As she wiped the last crumbs of the bread from her mouth with the back of her hand, he nodded with satisfaction.

  “You will now tell me where the Harshini settlement is hidden,” he announced in the same implacable tone as he had ordered he
r to wash and eat.

  R’shiel glanced at the staff warily before she answered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Lying is a sin. You will answer honestly, or suffer the wrath of Xaphista’s staff.”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know. The Harshini are dead. I’m not one of them. I’m as human as you are.”

  “You are not human,” Elfron declared, moving the staff so that he held it in both hands. The lantern light glittered dangerously off the precious stones. “You are the essence of Harshini evil. You wear the body of a whore, designed to tempt the righteous from the true path. Your beauty is contrived and designed solely to beguile pious men. You flaunt your woman’s body and seduce devout souls with your godless magic. The Overlord spoke to me in a vision and demanded your surrender. He will not—cannot—be denied.”

  R’shiel stepped backwards as he ranted. She didn’t know if Elfron was mad, or merely devoted to the point of insanity, and it really didn’t matter. The end result was the same. He stepped forward and brought down the staff sharply across R’shiel’s already tender shoulder. Once again the agony shot through her, forcing a scream of soul-wrenching torment. He held it there as she fell to the floor, chanting under his breath in a slow litany. R’shiel screamed and screamed until her throat was raw and then she screamed again.

  Elfron’s eyes were alight with religious fervour as he watched her, his pleasure almost sexual in its intensity. R’shiel’s cries were incoherent in their terror and agony as fire lanced through her body—she felt as though a white-hot sword slashed her.

  “You fool! You’ll kill her!”

  The agony suddenly eased as Pieter snatched the staff from Elfron’s hand. The priest looked down at R’shiel’s sobbing, twitching body.