“The threat of the Karien zealots is real,” she continued. “I have seen their evil with my own eyes. You once revered the Harshini. The time has come for you to step forward to defend them.” R’shiel could feel Dace in the background as the intoxicating sweetness of the Harshini magic washed over her. She recognised it for what it was now, and was startled to realise that not only could Dace touch it, he did so with a finesse that made Shananara’s touch feel clumsy and ham-fisted.
Suddenly the torch flared brightly, savagely, in her hand as Dace released the magic into the flame, lighting the yard as if a thousand torches had suddenly exploded into life. Her skin prickled as she felt the power, minute that it was. The circle widened as the rebels took a step backward, astounded by her display.
Tarja grabbed the moment and called out to the rebels. “Do we face this threat to our people and the Harshini, or crawl home like frightened children? I say we fight!”
Someone in the crowd started chanting “Fight! Fight!” and it was quickly taken up by the mob. Tarja sat and watched them as they yelled, although he hardly looked pleased. R’shiel lowered the torch which sputtered and died in her hand.
“You’ve won!” she said, so that only he could hear. “I thought you’d be pleased.”
“I’ve got a chanting mob, excited by a parlour trick. There’s barely a man among them who would follow me in the cold light of day because he believed in what I said.”
Dace rode up on the other side of Tarja. “Then let’s get this done before the sun rises,” he suggested with a grin.
Tarja shook his head at the boy’s enthusiasm and rode forward to speak with Ghari and several other rebel lieutenants as the chanting subsided slowly. R’shiel leaned forward and grabbed Dace’s bridle before he could follow.
“Who are you, Dace?” she asked him curiously. “That wasn’t me, just now, it was you.”
“Actually, it wasn’t really me,” Dace told her with a sly smile. “I stole the flames from Jashia, the God of Fire. But he won’t mind.”
“What do you mean, you stole it?”
“That’s what I do, R’shiel. It’s who I am.”
R’shiel studied the boy in the torchlight. “You’re Harshini, aren’t you?”
“Of course not, silly. I am Dacendaran.”
Seeing that it meant nothing to her he leaned across and took her hand in his. The feeling that washed over her at his touch left her weak and trembling. “I am Dacendaran, the God of Thieves.”
R’shiel shook her head in denial. “You can’t be. I don’t believe in gods.”
“That’s what makes you so much fun!” He let her go and turned his horse towards the gate. “I have to be going now, though. The others will be mad at me if I get mixed up in what’s going to happen next.”
“The others?”
“The rest of the gods you don’t believe in. You be careful now. They’ll be rather put out if you go and get yourself killed.”
Dace clucked his horse forward and vanished into the darkness. She opened her mouth to call him back, but he had literally vanished from sight. Dumbfounded, Ghari had to call her name twice before she even noticed he was speaking to her.
“R’shiel?”
She turned to look down at him. “What?”
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Before we go the men want…well, they want your blessing.”
“My blessing?”
“You are the demon child,” he said with an apologetic shrug.
R’shiel looked up and suddenly noticed the sea of expectant faces, staring at her with a mixture of awe and fear and perhaps a little distrust.
Mandah walked forward to stand beside Ghari. “R’shiel, every one of us here has known the demon child would come one day, though I’m not sure we’re pleased to discover it is you. But most likely some of these men will die this night. Would you withhold your blessing?”
“But I don’t know what to say.”
“Just tell them that the gods are with them,” the young woman advised. “That is all they want to hear.”
R’shiel nodded doubtfully and moved her horse forward to face the heathens. Tell them the gods are with them, she said. The only thing R’shiel knew for certain about the gods was that they were going to be rather “put out” if she got herself killed.
CHAPTER 59
Only about half of Tarja’s ragtag band of rebels were mounted. The rest had come in wagons or on foot to the rendezvous. Nor were they particularly well armed. Their weapons ranged from knives, rusty swords and halberds to pitchforks, scythes, and other farm implements. R’shiel thought they looked pitiful, but Tarja assured her that the attack on the Defenders would be by stealth, rather than open confrontation.
They set out for Testra last, with the mounted men who formed the rear of the attack party. Tarja had sent his infantry ahead several hours ago. He had timed his own arrival for closer to midnight, to meet Sunny on the road outside Testra and give his final orders, based on the intelligence she provided. R’shiel watched as Tarja ordered his men with a quiet confidence she suspected he didn’t feel. He had fewer men than he hoped for, poorly armed, and ill-trained. Any one of them was liable to break ranks, either through fear or misguided bravery. She could tell he wished for even a handful of the superbly trained Defenders he had once commanded. The rebels were fractious, independent and barely convinced that Tarja was not leading them into a trap. Only her faith in him let her believe that they had any chance of winning.
They reached the outskirts of Testra just before midnight. The night was dark, the moon hidden behind a bank of low clouds. The heat of the day had not been able to escape and the night was uncomfortably warm. Sunny waved as they drew near. They dismounted and walked off the road a way.
“I found Lord Jenga. He’s at an inn called the Bondsman’s Friend.”
Ghari nodded. “I know where it is. It’s at the end of a cul-de-sac near the docks.”
Tarja frowned. “A dead end? Trust Jenga to pick a place that’s easy to defend. How many men are with him?”
“No more than a dozen,” Sunny assured him. “Just a few officers and scribes and the like. The rest are camped on the western side of town in the fields.”
Tarja nodded and turned back to Ghari and his men. R’shiel pulled Sunny aside and looked at her closely. “Is something wrong?”
Sunny shook her head. “I’m fine. All this talk of heathens and Harshini makes me a bit nervous, that’s all.”
“You’re still my friend, Sunny. I haven’t changed.”
Sunny shrugged uncomfortably. “I’d best be getting back.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“You can count on it,” Sunny promised.
Testra was quiet as they rode into the town. The taverns were mostly closed for the night, and decent people were well abed. Tarja sent the bulk of his troops to the field on the town’s west side where the Defenders were camped, under the leadership of a tall, thin, but capable-looking man called Wylbir. A former sergeant in the Defenders, he was the closest thing to a military trained officer that Tarja had. Tarja, Ghari, R’shiel and a dozen more hand-picked men were to move on the Bondsman’s Friend. If things were as Sunny claimed, they could be in and out before the Defenders knew what had happened.
They dismounted a block or more from the inn and made their way on foot, hugging the shadows and jumping at every sound. R’shiel followed Tarja closely. He waved his men forward with hand signals as they turned into the cul-de-sac, then stopped them abruptly.
Darkened shops, obviously catering to the wealthier clientele of Testra, flanked the street. Small, discreet signs hung over several of the shops. Some of them were so exclusive, no signs were displayed at all. The Bondsman’s Friend was a tall, double-storeyed building of red brick, with two rather imposing columns flanking the entrance. A circular driveway surrounded a small fountain in the centre of the yard, which splashed softly in the still night. He stud
ied the deserted street for a long time, before turning back to flatten himself against the wall.
“What’s wrong?” R’shiel whispered.
“There are no guards.”
“Is that bad?” She knew nothing about tactics, but it didn’t seem unreasonable that Jenga might think himself safe in an inn in the middle of Medalon.
“It’s not like Jenga.”
“Maybe it’s the wrong inn?” one of the others suggested.
“Maybe it’s not,” Tarja muttered. He glanced across the street at Ghari who was flattened against the opposite wall with the rest of the men. Tarja wavered for a moment—but before he could act on his uneasiness, Ghari broke cover and moved forward toward the inn. Cursing the boy’s recklessness under his breath, Tarja beckoned the others forward. There was no going back now.
They were almost at the fountain when the rattle of hooves and tack sounded behind them. R’shiel jumped at the unexpected noise and turned as light flared from a score of torches. The darkened inn was suddenly alive with soldiers. Squinting in the unexpected light, she counted more than a hundred red-coated Defenders, swords drawn, ringing the courtyard. Their retreat was cut off by a dozen or more mounted Defenders at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. She glanced at Tarja, waiting for him to charge, to fight his way to freedom, or die trying. But Tarja was not looking at her. He was looking at the tall, grey-haired man emerging from the inn and the short plump woman who walked beside him. R’shiel stood frozen in shock as the Lord Defender and his companion walked into the light of the flaring torches.
“Don’t make me kill you, Tarja,” Jenga said as he stopped a pace from the rebel leader. “There is no need for bloodshed.”
Tarja met the Lord Defender’s eye for a tense moment, then threw down his sword and waved to his men to do the same. The rebels complied, hurling their weapons to the ground in a furious clatter of metal against the cobblestones. The atmosphere in the yard relaxed almost visibly as the Defenders realised Tarja didn’t plan to make a fight of it.
“See, I told you they’d come,” the woman said. R’shiel stared at her. “Do I get paid now?”
“A hundred gold rivets and a pardon. As agreed.”
“Sunny?” R’shiel said, finally finding her voice. She was numb with shock. “What have you done?”
“What have I done?” she asked. “I have done my duty to the Sisterhood, nothing more.”
“But you were my friend!” R’shiel was suddenly afraid that she was going to cry.
“I’m no friend to any heathen. Particularly one who’s not even human.” She spat on the ground in front of R’shiel.
R’shiel raised her arm and punched the court’esa in the face with all the force she could muster. Sunny staggered backwards under the blow, crying out in pain. She cowered on the ground, whimpering as R’shiel raised her arm to hit her again. Neither Jenga nor the Defenders made to interfere. If R’shiel could have figured out how to burn Sunny to ashes where she stood, she would have done it gladly, but she was too angry to call on her magic.
“R’shiel, no!” Tarja cried, stepping quickly between her and Sunny. He caught her wrist above her head and held it there, as she prepared to strike again. R’shiel glared at him, struggling against his hold, but he was stronger than her anger.
“Let me go! I’m going to kill her!”
“No you’re not,” he told her firmly, then added in a low voice meant only for her, “Look around you, R’shiel. Kill her and you’ll be dead before she hits the ground. There will be another time.”
“Oh? I don’t know,” Ghari called as a Defender grabbed him and pulled him back from the fracas between the two women. “Sounds like a grand idea to me. Let her at it, Tarja. Give the girl her head!”
“Shut up, fool,” Jenga snapped, but he made no other attempt to interfere.
Still struggling against Tarja’s grip, R’shiel tried to remember what Shananara had taught her about touching her magic. She couldn’t break free of Tarja without it, but neither could she risk harming him by mistake. Besides, she wasn’t angry with Tarja; it was Sunny she wanted to kill. His knuckles were white and the veins along his arm stood out with the strain.
“But you don’t understand…” she whispered. The depth of Sunny’s betrayal was beyond comprehension. She wished more than anything, at that moment, that she had stayed with the Harshini. That she had never come back to discover how easily she had been duped. She slowly lowered her arm. Tarja held her for a fleeting moment before she was pulled away by two Defenders.
Sunny had struggled to her feet and approached R’shiel with a murderous look, blood dripping from her broken nose. She slapped R’shiel’s face with stinging force, but the pain was almost a relief compared to the knowledge of the woman’s treachery.
“Harshini bitch!”
Sunny stormed back toward the inn as R’shiel was dragged away by the Defenders. Her last sight of Tarja was of him being bound securely with heavy chains and led away to await his fate with the other captured rebels.
CHAPTER 60
Tarja was separated from the other rebels and taken into the inn. He was escorted into a small dining room that held a polished circular table surrounded by elegant, high-backed chairs and ordered to sit by the Defender who had charge of him. Tarja recognised the man. He had been a cadet the last time Tarja had seen him, now he was a captain. He suddenly felt very old.
“Harven, isn’t it?” he asked the young captain.
“I told you to sit down.”
Tarja shrugged, indicating the chains that bound him. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to stand.”
“Suit yourself.” The captain looked away, as if afraid to meet his eyes. That suited Tarja just fine. He had no wish to suffer the accusing glare of the young man. He was far too busy accusing himself.
He should have known Sunny was too much of an opportunist to be trusted. A hundred gold rivets was more than she could earn in a lifetime as a court’esa. In a way, he couldn’t blame her for choosing the reward. A fortune in gold and a pardon from the Sisterhood undoubtedly appeared a much safer option than a dubious alliance with the heathen rebels. But even had he suspected her unexpected allegiance to the Sisterhood, the fact that he had walked into a trap, while every sense he owned screamed at him that something was amiss, was unforgivable. He should have acted on his first impulse to withdraw. Thanks entirely to his stupidity, R’shiel was in the hands of the Sisterhood and they knew that she was Harshini. The rebels had been captured, almost to a man. He had led them all to their peril while arrogantly assuming that he could win against a superior force with a motley collection of rebellious farmers armed with pitchforks. He was a bloody fool.
Harven snapped to attention as the door opened and Lord Jenga entered the room. His expression was grim. He seemed to take no joy in his victory.
“Unchain him,” he ordered Harven. The captain did as he was told, then returned to his post by the door.
Tarja shed the chains gladly and this time took the seat that Jenga offered him. Jenga pushed the glass-shaded lantern on the table aside so that he could see the younger man more clearly. The shadows lent him an air of deep melancholy.
“You will talk to me this time, Tarja,” the Lord Defender said. “There will be no torture. No threats. I simply want the truth. On your honour as a captain of the Defenders.”
“That’s a strange oath to ask me to honour, Jenga. I broke that trust a long time ago.”
“Why did you come back? Why attempt such a foolish thing?” Jenga appeared more concerned by Tarja’s tactical error than his desertion.
“Because the Karien Envoy is dead. We face invasion from the north and Joyhinia is moving you away from the border.”
“So you attacked me? You never used to be so stupid, Tarja.”
“No. The attack was just a diversion so that I could warn you before Joyhinia got here. I hoped you’d listen to reason.” How ludicrous his plan seemed now. How grandiose and improbable. Jeng
a was right. He never used to be so stupid.
“Did you think I would turn the Defenders around against the express orders of the First Sister to face an invasion that I’ve heard nothing of?”
“You’ll hear about it soon enough, my Lord.”
“And R’shiel?” Jenga asked. “How is she involved in this? The court’esa says she now claims to be Harshini.”
Tarja was very tempted to lie. By denying Sunny’s story he might be able to save R’shiel…from what? They would both be hanged as soon as Joyhinia arrived. She would not suffer either of them to live any longer.
“The Harshini are no threat to Medalon,” Tarja said, shaking his head. “Quite the opposite.”
“I always wondered about who she really was,” Jenga said, staring at his hands, then he looked up, the Lord Defender to the core. “I assume you found them, then? The Harshini who are still in hiding? You have the location of their settlement?”
“Jenga, forget the Harshini!” Tarja pleaded. “They are not the threat the Sisterhood claims!”
“Where are they hiding? Or have you changed sides again, Tarja? Have the Harshini sorcerers addled your wits? It would account for your actions tonight, at least.”
“I don’t know where they are. I only met a couple of them.”
“And based on this meeting with two representatives of their race, you have determined that they are no threat to us?” Jenga asked sceptically. “A sound military assessment if ever I heard one.”
“The Harshini are not warriors. They are peaceful.”
“Do you think me a fool? The Hythrun follow the gods of the Harshini and are the most warlike nation in the world. The Fardohnyans keep a standing army that outnumbers our entire population! These are the followers of your peaceful Harshini, Tarja. Every Hythrun warlord sacrifices living things to your Harshini gods.”
Tarja wished he knew more. He wished he knew how to explain what he knew in his heart to be true.
“You’re wrong, Jenga,” Tarja insisted, although he lacked the words to make the old man believe him.
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