Medalon (21 page)

R’shiel had been raised to believe that tears were a sign of weakness. She had not cried as child. Not when she was whipped for being defiant. She never shed a tear when Joyhinia had her pony put down after she caught R’shiel trying to run away, rather than join the Novices when she was twelve. She didn’t cry over anything, not even when Georj was killed. But as she fled Tarja in the darkness, tears she had bottled up for years burst forth, determined to undo her.

She ran blindly through the vineyard for a time until she reached the marshy ground on the edge of the river. Sinking to her knees on the damp ground, she sobbed like a child. The worst of it was that she didn’t even know why she was crying. It couldn’t have been the argument—she and Tarja had so many these days. And it wasn’t because he kissed her. She had long ago stopped thinking of him as her brother and was envious enough of Mandah to recognise jealousy when she felt it. Perhaps it was because he didn’t want to kiss her, that he had done it against his better judgement. His expression when he
finally let her go was enough to tell her that he regretted it.

“Why are you crying?”

R’shiel had turned at the voice, startled to find a little girl watching her curiously. The child had bare feet and wore a flimsy shift, yet she appeared unperturbed by the cool night. R’shiel had not seen the girl before. No doubt she belonged to one of the many heathen families who sought refuge at the vineyard. R’shiel’s instinctive reaction to snap at the child and send her on her way suddenly dissipated as the child stepped closer.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, wiping her eyes.

“Is it because you fought with Tarja?” the child asked.

“How do you know I fought with Tarja?”

“You don’t have to worry about him,” the child assured her. “He loves you. He’ll only ever love you. Kalianah has made sure of that.”

“Your legendary Goddess of Love? I don’t think so. And anyway, how would you know?” R’shiel couldn’t understand why she was bothering with this child. She should just order her back to the house. It must be well past her bedtime.

“I am named for the goddess,” the child said. “She and I are very…close.”

“Well, next time you see her, tell her to mind her own damned business,” R’shiel said, climbing to her feet and wringing out her sodden skirts. She wiped away the last of her tears and sniffed inelegantly.

“I know why you’re crying.”

“Really?”

“It’s because Tarja’s mad at you.”

“Mad at me?” she scoffed. “He thinks I’m a monster.”

“Why?”

R’shiel looked at the child irritably. “Because he thinks I’m just in this to get back at Joyhinia!”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“I’m your friend,” the little girl told her. “And I think you need to get over Joyhinia. You’ve much more important things to do.”

“You don’t know anything about me, you impudent little brat! Go back to your family. You shouldn’t be out this late anyway!”

The child looked rather put out. “Nobody has ever called me a brat before!”

“Well, it won’t be the last time, I’ll wager. Now, go away and leave me alone!” R’shiel turned her back on the child and stared out over the black surface of the Glass River.

“You’re the spoilt brat,” the child retorted loftily. “You’ve spent your whole life as a privileged member of a ruling class and now you want to punish them for making you suffer. If you want my opinion, you’ve got a chip on your shoulder the size of the Seeing Stone and the sooner you deal with it the better. I thought if somebody loved you, you’d be much more amenable! I don’t know why I bothered!”

Startled by the child’s very unchildish outburst, R’shiel spun around, but she was alone. There was no sign of the girl. Not even footprints in the soft ground. There was nothing but a small acorn tied with white feathers where the child had been standing. R’shiel picked up the amulet and studied it
for a moment before hurling it into the dark waters of the Glass River.

More than six weeks later, as the white spires of the Citadel loomed in the distance, R’shiel was still wondering what the child meant.

She had been right about one thing, though, and so had Tarja. Her anger was directed at Joyhinia, and until she dealt with it, it would fester like a gangrenous wound, eating away at her until nothing was left but a hard bitter shell. So she had gone back to the cellars, gathered her few meagre belongings, and set out on foot for Testra. She had told no one of her intentions. She didn’t want to explain herself to Tarja and she doubted if anybody else really cared.

On reaching Testra, R’shiel had traded her silver hand mirror for passage on the ferry to Vanahiem on the other side of the river and begun heading on foot to the Citadel. During her second day on the road she was fortunate enough to hitch a lift with a stout couple from Vanahiem delivering furniture for their newly married son in Reddingdale. Their names were Holdarn and Preena Carpenter. She told them she was a Probate on her way back to the Citadel after her mother had died in the Mountains. It was barely even a lie. The couple had been so considerate, so solicitous of her comfort, that she almost regretted her deception. When they reached Reddingdale, Holdarn paid for passage on a freight barge to Brodenvale for her, claiming a Probate shouldn’t have to walk all that way. R’shiel tried to refuse their generosity, but they would hear nothing of it. So she had reached Brodenvale far sooner than she expected,
and from there undertook the relatively short overland trek to the Citadel.

The road was busy, filled with oxen-drawn wagons, Defenders on horseback, farmers pulling handcarts laden with vegetables and people either heading for, or away from, the Citadel on business R’shiel didn’t care about. She did worry that somebody might recognise her. Although it was unlikely she was known to any of the enlisted men, there were many officers in the Defenders who knew her by sight. Fortunately, the weather was cool and her simple homespun cloak had a deep hood that shadowed her face. She stooped a little as she pushed through the gate, but the Defenders ignored her. A lone woman was hardly worthy of notice, amid the traffic heading into the Citadel.

That hurdle successfully negotiated, she breathed a sigh of relief, although she still had no clear idea of what she planned to do. Her impulsive decision to confront the source of her anger and pain had not really manifested itself in a plan of action. There were ten thousand things she wanted to say to Joyhinia, but she could hardly just walk up the steps of the Great Hall and announce herself. Nor was there anybody in the Citadel she really trusted not to betray her presence. Certainly none of her former roommates in the Dormitories. She was sure of only one thing: that she would be arrested on sight if she was recognised. That fact presented a dilemma which she had still not resolved, even after six weeks of considering the problem.

R’shiel walked toward the centre of the city, head bowed, looking neither right nor left for fear of meeting
a familiar eye. Consequently, she didn’t notice at first the crowd gathering on the roadside. It was hearing Tarja’s name that finally alerted her. It rippled through the street like a whisper of excitement. She was caught up in the crowd as she neared the Great Hall and found herself well placed to watch the progress of the small army that escorted Tarja to justice.

And a small army it was. There must have been two hundred Defenders in their smart, silver-buttoned short red jackets, all mounted on sturdy, broad-chested horses. Tarja rode at the centre of his escort, his mount on a lead rein, his hands tied behind his back.

Her mouth went dry as she watched him. R’shiel felt no pleasure in discovering that she had been right regarding the meeting with Draco. She had known it would be a trap. Tarja probably knew it, too. He sat tall in the saddle, but his dark hair was unkempt among his closely cropped guard. He had been beaten, that much was obvious, but that he was still alive at all was a feat in itself. He was dressed in leather breeches and a bloodstained white shirt. He was the stuff rebel heroes were made of, she thought with a despairing shake of her head, despite the black eyes and swollen lips. Handsome, strong and defiant. It was not hard to see why he had so much sympathy among the heathens and a lot of atheists who should know better.

As they reached the Great Hall he looked around him at the thousands of Sisters, Novices, Probates, Defenders, servants and visitors to the Citadel who were lining every balcony and roadway of the city to watch him brought in. R’shiel thought that Tarja did
not look like a defeated man—angry perhaps, but not defeated. He rode as if his escort was a guard of honour. He even wore the same slightly mocking, vaguely patronising expression that he did when he was teasing her.

“The poor man,” someone in front of her whispered. “How humiliating for him.”

How hard was it to ride back into the heart of the Citadel, having deserted the Corps?
she wondered.
Is he dying a little inside?

“He’s so brave,” a female voice sighed wistfully.

“He’s a traitor,” someone else added.

“They said he was going to be the next Lord Defender.”

“He’s going to be a corpse, now,” another wit pointed out, which brought a chuckle from a few, and a sorrowful sigh from the others.

The column came to an impressive, synchronised halt in the centre of the street. The Lord Defender, with Garet Warner, came down from the shadowed steps of the Great Hall, or rather Francil’s Hall, as it was now known, to confront them. R’shiel thought it strange that the Sisterhood was allowing the Defenders to deal with Tarja and not taking a direct hand in his arrest. She half-expected to see the entire Quorum standing there, ready to condemn the traitor. But Tarja had been a Captain of the Defenders and was a deserter, in addition to his other crimes. Maybe Joyhinia thought the Defenders would exact a more fitting punishment. Draco wheeled his horse around to speak to the Lord Defender.

“I wish we could hear what they’re saying,” someone whispered. The crowd was strangely quiet,
straining to catch a few words of the exchange. Anticipation charged the air like a summer storm. It seemed the entire Citadel was holding its breath. R’shiel watched and listened as the voices floated across the street on the preternaturally silent air.

“It is my pleasure to hand over the deserter Tarjanian Tenragan, my Lord,” Draco announced, obviously aware of the huge audience he was playing to. It was not often the Spear of the First Sister took a direct hand in any action and Draco had achieved the impossible. He had done what Jenga had been unable to. He had captured Tarja.

“Has he been any trouble?” the Lord Defender asked, glancing at Tarja.

“Once he realised he was overwhelmed, he came quietly enough.”

“And the rest of his rebels?”

“He came alone,” Draco said. “Bearing in mind that the First Sister ordered him taken alive, I thought it better to leave his interrogation to you.”

“Just as well, I suppose,” The Lord Defender grunted. “He probably would have died before he told you anything. Bring him here.”

Tarja must have heard the exchange as he swung his leg over the saddle and jumped nimbly to the ground before anyone could reach him. He bounded up the steps and bowed to the Lord Defender, unhampered by the binding which held his hands behind his back.

“Good morning, my Lord, Commandant,” Tarja said pleasantly. “Lovely morning for a hanging, don’t you think?”

“Tarjanian, don’t you think you could act just a little repentant?” Lord Draco asked.

“And disappoint all these lovely ladies?” he asked, glancing up at the crowded balconies. “I think not. How is Mother, by the way? I thought she might be here to welcome her wanton son home.”

“The First Sister is probably signing the warrant for your hanging as we speak. Escort the criminal to the cells,” the Lord Defender ordered Garet. “And search him.”

“I have searched him already, my Lord,” Draco said.

“Do it again,” Jenga told Garet, making R’shiel wonder at the exchange. Jenga didn’t look pleased that it was Draco who had brought Tarja home.

“My Lord,” the commandant replied with a salute. A brisk wave of his hand brought more guards rushing forward, but Tarja shook them off and marched past the Lords towards the huge bronze doors of Francil’s Hall. Just before he disappeared into the shadows, he turned and bowed mockingly to the assembled crowd, then vanished inside.

As R’shiel watched him go, she decided it no longer mattered if she confronted Joyhinia or not. Six weeks of silently rehearsed conversations were suddenly unimportant. Her anger no longer seemed important. The energy it took to sustain it could be better directed elsewhere. That odd child by the river had been right. It was time to get over it. She had much more important things to do.

And the first thing was finding a way to rescue Tarja.

Pain was an interesting area of study, Tarja decided. He was close to becoming an expert in the field. He’d had plenty of opportunity to reflect on the matter over the past few days. To experiment on how much the human body could withstand, how much it could take before blessed unconsciousness pulled him down into the blackness where the pain no longer existed. The annoying part was that he kept waking up again and the pain was always there, waiting for him.

He’d stopped trying to count his injuries. His fingers were broken on both hands and burns scarred his forearms. He had several loose teeth and so many bruises he must look like a chimney sweep. His right shoulder felt as if it had been dislocated and the soles of his feet were blistered and weeping. There was not a single pore on his skin that didn’t cry out when he moved, not a hair on his head that did not hurt. The cold cell made him shiver, and even that slight movement was agony.

But despite the pain, Tarja found himself in surprisingly good spirits. Perhaps it was the unimaginative torture of his interrogators that gave
him something to focus on. Perhaps it was the fact that he had not uttered a word about the rebellion. He had betrayed nobody, said nothing. Mostly, Tarja suspected, it was because he knew that Joyhinia had ordered this punishment. It made everything he had done seem right, somehow.

He shifted gingerly on the low pallet that served as his bed and listened to the sounds of the night, wondering how long it would be before Joyhinia decided to hang him. There would be a trial of course, a farcical affair to satisfy the forms of law, with a gallows waiting at the end of it. The thought was oddly reassuring. It gave him comfort to know that when news of his hanging reached Mandah, Padric, Ghari and the others, they would know that Draco had lied. Tarja knew they had escaped in Testra. He had heard it from Nheal during the voyage upriver.

Of course, he did have one regret. He was sorry he wouldn’t have the chance to find Brak. Words were insufficient to describe what Tarja would like to have done to the sailor for deserting him in the River’s Rest. He had watched him enter the tavern, certain of his support, but when he arrived only moments later, Brak was nowhere to be seen. What had the miserable bastard done? Simply walked out through another door? Tarja cursed himself for not trusting his instincts more. For not insisting on some sort of proof that Brak was truly on their side. That he could think of nothing that would have satisfied him did little to appease his anger. Tarja hoped the pagans were right about reincarnation. Maybe one’s spirit did get an opportunity to return to this world again
and again. If that was the case, he very much wanted to come back as a flea so that he could find Brak and keep biting him until he went mad with the itching and killed himself.

His images of Brak writhing insanely in agony were disturbed by a noise in the guardroom outside his cell. Tarja wondered vaguely at the noise, but it didn’t concern him unduly. His world was defined by pain now and the noises from the other room were not part of that world.

He passed out for a time, though he had no way of determining how long. It was night, he thought. He was unsure what had woken him, or if it was merely the pain that had dragged him back. He turned his head fractionally and discovered a silhouetted shape moving toward him, small enough to be a child.

“Tarja?” the voice was hesitant, female and very young.

“Who are you?” It took a moment for him to realise that the rasping voice was his.

“Oh my! What have they done to you?” she asked as she glided to his side. “You don’t look very well, at all. Does it hurt?”

“You could say that.” His mind was sluggish, but Tarja could not imagine who the child was, or how she had found her way into his cell. She moved closer and he tried to push her away, to warn her not to touch him, but the words wouldn’t come. Every movement sent black waves of agony through him.

“Shall I make you better?” the child asked.

“By all means,” he gasped.

The little girl studied him thoughtfully. “I’ll get in trouble if I do. Healing people is Cheltaran’s job.
He gets really annoyed when anybody else does it. I suppose I could ask him, though. I mean, I can’t have you dying on me. Not now.”

Tarja realised that he must be dreaming. He didn’t know who the child was, but the name Cheltaran was familiar. He was the pagan’s God of Healing. Mandah had prayed to him often, so often that she placed more faith in his power than more practical healing methods. Tarja thought it much more useful to actually do something to stop a wounded man bleeding to death than to pray over him and beg divine intervention. His mind wandered for a moment, the blackness beckoning him down with welcoming arms, but he fought to stay conscious, even though he knew he was asleep. Perhaps the pain had unhinged his mind. Why else would he try to remain awake inside a dream filled with pagan gods who were a figment of someone else’s imagination?

The child reached out gently and pushed the hair back from his forehead. He wondered how bad he looked. He knew one eye was swollen shut because he couldn’t see out of it and his lips felt twice their normal size. Every muscle he owned ached, every joint creaked with pain when he moved. The worst of it was that he knew none of his injuries were fatal. His interrogators wanted him alive for the gallows. They were too smart to hurt him seriously. But you could cause an amazing amount of pain without taking a life. Tarja knew that for a fact.

“Who are you?” he groaned as her cool fingers brushed his forehead.

“I’m your friend,” she said. “And you have to love me.”

“Whatever,” he said.

“Say it properly! Say ‘I love you, Kalianah’ and you’d better mean it or I won’t help you!”

“I love you, Kalianah and you’d better mean it or I won’t help you,” he repeated dutifully.

The child slapped him for his temerity and he cried out with the pain. He could never remember a dream with such clarity, such detail. “You are the most impossible human! I should just leave you there to suffer! I should let you die!”

“The sooner the better. I’ll never hold a sword again. If I live, I’ll be unemployed.”

“You’re not taking this seriously!”

“I don’t have to take it seriously, I’m only dreaming,” he told her.

“Cheltaran!”

Tarja was not certain what happened next. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw another figure suddenly appear. A cool hand was laid on his forehead and pain seared his whole body. A bolt of agony ripped through him, worse than anything he had suffered before. It was as if all his days of torture had been condensed into one moment of blinding torment. He cried out as he lost consciousness, falling into a blackness that seemed deeper and blacker than ever before.

He plunged into it helplessly, wondering if he had finally died.