Treason Keep (29 page)

The news that the First Sister was on her way home caused a flurry of activity in the Citadel. Everyone seemed intent on sprucing up their own little patch of the city and even the Defenders were not immune. Loclon found himself facing an empty arena day after day, as the cadets were called away to other duties. Learning swordcraft was all very well, but the First Sister was due and she was bound to insist on an inspection. One had to get one’s priorities right.

Left to his own devices, Loclon sought amusement in the Blue Bull, but even that worthy establishment was suffering the effects of the First Sister’s impending return. There was nobody drinking in the tavern and the benches were stacked on the tabletops as fresh rushes were laid out. Loclon slammed the door in annoyance and headed back to his rooms.

When he arrived back at Mistress Longreaves’ Boarding House he discovered a note pinned to his door. He looked around before opening it, but at this time of day, the hall was deserted.
I want to see you
, the note said. It was unsigned, but he needed no name to know who had sent it. He went into his
room, threw the note on the fire, and exchanged his red jacket for a nondescript brown one. It would not do to be seen entering Mistress Heaner’s in broad daylight in his uniform.

Lork opened the door for him and stood back to let him enter. He pointed wordlessly to the hall. Loclon frowned. He didn’t like meeting Mistress Heaner in the basement; did not like to be reminded that he was serving the Overlord.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he discovered Mistress Heaner was not alone. The narrow altar was ablaze, the symbol of Xaphista glittering malignantly in the candlelight. The old woman was on her knees, chanting softly. Beside her was a man wearing a brown cassock, his tonsured head so polished it reflected the candles.
How in the name of the Founders had a Karien priest managed to get into the city?
He waited as they finished their prayers and the priest helped the old woman to her feet before retrieving his jewelled staff from the altar. Mistress Heaner studied him with predatory eyes and turned to her companion.

“This is the man I spoke of. Captain Loclon, this is Garanus.”

Loclon nodded warily in the direction of the priest, then looked at Mistress Heaner. “You said you wanted to see me. I can come back later when you’re not busy.”

“It was I who sent for you,” the priest said. His voice was accented and oddly rasping, as if his throat had been burned. He laid the staff gently on Loclon’s shoulder, waiting for a moment before withdrawing it with a faint nod of satisfaction. “Mistress Heaner
tells me you have something of a history with the demon child.”

At the mention of R’shiel, Loclon’s doubts vanished. “Do you know where she is?”

The priest nodded. “She will be here within a day. She accompanies the First Sister.”

Loclon burned with the heat of his need. “Then I will kill her as soon as she arrives.”
Kill her, yes, but slowly and oh- so-painfully—and only after she begs for mercy.

“You will do no such thing!” the priest snapped.

“Isn’t she destined to destroy your god? I’d have thought killing her would be the first thing you’d want.”

“She was
created
to destroy him, Captain. That’s not the same thing as destiny. The demon child lacks commitment. She has not accepted the task, or she would be heading for Karien, not the Citadel.”

“So…what…you think you can turn her to your cause?”

“Xaphista is the one true god,” Mistress Heaner reminded him. “The demon child will become his ally and destroy the Primal Gods. He has decreed that it will be so.”

Loclon thought it unwise to point out the flaw in her argument. If Xaphista really was the only god, then who had created the demon child? And if the Primal Gods didn’t exist, as the Overlord claimed, what need for someone to destroy them?

“Your task will be to bring her to us,” Garanus explained. Then he added with a slight frown, “Whole and unharmed, Captain.”

“I was promised vengeance.”

“And vengeance you shall have,” the priest assured him. “Once the demon child has embraced the Overlord, she will turn on our enemies, and yours, and destroy them.”

That wasn’t quite what Loclon had in mind. “What did you want me to do?”

“You will be taking part in the Founder’s Day Parade, yes?”

He nodded. Nobody got out of
that
duty.

“The First Sister will arrive towards the end of the parade. She has no doubt timed the event to maximise the impact of her return.”

“The First Sister is fond of making an entrance,” Mistress Heaner added scornfully.

“You will assign yourself to her party and stay close to her.”

“Assign myself? You don’t know much about the Defenders, Priest. One doesn’t assign oneself to anything.”

“If you’re nearby when she arrives, and volunteer for the duty, I am sure you can manage something.”

“And what about R’shiel?”

“It is likely you will not recognise her. She may be using a glamour to conceal her identity. But that is not your concern. There is a man with her. A Harshini half-breed named Brakandaran. You must kill him.”

He shrugged. “And then what?”

“Once you have brought proof that Brakandaran is dead, we will discuss the best way to handle R’shiel.”

Loclon was not very happy with the arrangement. “Are you sure you know who you’re dealing with?
There is no
best way
to handle R’shiel. She’s a murderous bitch.”

“The demon child can be controlled, Captain. Her strength is also her weakness.” He reached inside his cassock and withdrew a thin silver choker with a jewelled clasp in the shape of the star and lightning bolt of the Overlord. “This will ensure her cooperation.”

“You think she’s going to change sides for that little trinket?” he scoffed.

“With this ‘little trinket’, as you call it,” the priest informed him with a malicious smile, “the demon child will do anything you want of her. The more she tries to use her power to fight it, the worse it will be for her.”

Loclon took the choker and examined it thoughtfully.

“She’ll do
anything
, you say?”

The priest nodded. “Anything.”

Founder’s Day dawned overcast and dull, with low clouds threatening rain and a cold, blustery wind that groped through any gap in clothing with chill fingers. The crowd was thick around Francil’s Hall as the citizens gathered for a glimpse of the returning First Sister, but their mood was subdued. It was too cold to stand around waiting and as the parade passed by; many thoughts were turned to the bonfires and the warm food waiting in the Amphitheatre. If she didn’t arrive soon, hunger was likely to win out over curiosity.

Loclon had volunteered for crowd duty, rather than riding in the parade. He had managed to get
himself placed in command of the guards around the Hall and was well positioned on the steps, just below Sister Harith and the remainder of the Quorum. Thunder rumbled overhead and the clouds seemed low enough to touch. Loclon fretted at the time it was taking the noisy floats to move down the street. There was no sign of the First Sister.

The last float was rounding the corner of the Administration Hall when the skies opened. The Quorum hurriedly moved back under the shelter of the entrance to the Hall while the crowd dived for whatever cover they could find. Many simply turned and fled, running with cloaks held over their heads to escape the downpour. Loclon stayed at his post, drenched by the icy rain, barely even noticing it in his impatience.
Where is she?

There was a moment of anticipation as the crowd waited, but the rain was a significant deterrent. If the First Sister’s carriage didn’t arrive soon, there would be nobody left to greet her. Loclon watched the crowd thin with dismay. He had hoped to get to the half-breed in the crush, but soon there would be nobody left but him. He glanced at his men who looked desperate to find shelter, warning them with a look, of the consequences should anybody presume to break ranks. Sister Harith and the Quorum were conferring under the meagre eaves of the Hall. With another glance down the street in the direction of the Main Gate, they vanished inside.

The departure of the Quorum signalled the end of the festivities as far as the rest of the citizens were concerned. Within minutes the street was all but
deserted and Loclon no longer had an excuse to keep his men standing in the rain. He muttered a curse and turned to dismiss them as the First Sister’s retinue arrived.

His men hastily stood to attention as the outriders appeared, followed by a closed carriage with the shutters pulled tight against the downpour. Loclon could feel his heart beating faster as the carriage drew to a halt, waiting to catch sight of her. His hand caressed the hilt of his knife, ready to draw it in an instant to kill the half-breed. He had no fear of the consequences. Once a dead Harshini lay at the First Sister’s feet, he would be a hero.

“Loclon! What in the name of the Founders are you doing out in this! Get those men out of here!”

He started at the anger in Garet Warner’s voice.

“We were waiting for the First Sister, sir! To see if we could be of any assistance!”

The commandant was as sodden as Loclon as he dismounted, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. “Don’t be absurd! The First Sister has her own men. Dismiss your men, Captain.”

“But sir…”

“I said, dismiss your men!”

Loclon did as he was ordered and watched helplessly as Joyhinia’s guard gathered around the carriage to help the First Sister down. One of them held a cloak over her head, to shield her from the rain as another sister disembarked. Although the deluge obscured his vision, Loclon could have sworn it was Mahina Cortanen. He waited for a moment longer, but a dark-haired woman and Lord Draco seemed to be the only other passengers.

He looked about desperately, but there was no sign of R’shiel, or the half-breed he was supposed to kill. The First Sister was hurried inside and the remainder of the Defenders headed gratefully for the stables with the carriage and the horses.

Loclon stood in the rain, cursing softly.

Where is she?

Brak and R’shiel waited in the shelter of the gatehouse for the better part of an hour before following the First Sister into the Citadel. Brak had drawn a glamour over them and their horses, so that the guards sheltering from the rain did not notice their presence. It didn’t make them invisible, but the guards’attention slid off them like water off an oiled cape. R’shiel braided and unbraided her reins nervously as the rain hammered down and they waited on Bhren, the God of Storms, to finish the task R’shiel had asked of him.

Brak had never had much luck communicating with the Storm God. Bhren was a solitary spirit with cares on a global scale. The insignificant problems of humans seldom touched him. But he had come when Lorandranek had called him and had responded just as promptly when his daughter had asked his help. Brak glanced at the water sheeting down from the low clouds, then looked at R’shiel with concern.

“You did tell him we just wanted a storm, didn’t you, not a global catastrophe?”

“It’ll stop soon,” she assured him, although she didn’t sound convinced.

The rain had been Lord Draco’s idea, conceived five nights ago in Cauthside while they waited on the ferry to take them across the Glass River. Their method of gaining entrance into the Citadel, without Joyhinia being immediately overwhelmed by the long list of people who required an audience with her, had been a matter for hot debate.

Garet Warner insisted that if Joyhinia was thought to be sneaking back into the Citadel, suspicions would be immediately aroused. She had to enter in a manner befitting her station. It was expected. But they couldn’t risk someone speaking to Joyhinia. Her response was likely to be a childish giggle. And they certainly could not risk her in front of a crowd.

R’shiel had wanted to use the demon meld, but even Dranymire had baulked at that suggestion. The demons had been practising their meld, but it took a lot out of them and the Gathering was still to be faced. Brak had suggested a glamour, but that didn’t solve the problem of Joyhinia being seen publicly. A glamour would conceal her and that brought them back to the problem of sneaking into the Citadel.

It was Draco who had remarked that it was a pity they couldn’t arrange for it to be raining. No matter how important the personage, nobody would hang about, cold and wet, for a glimpse of the First Sister—and neither would they expect the First Sister to stand about waving to them. R’shiel had glanced at Brak with that dangerous light her in eyes that he was coming to associate with the demon child having an idea he knew he wouldn’t like.

“You could ask Bhren.”

“The Storm God is not like Dacendaran, R’shiel. He spends little time worrying about the Harshini, and even less time thinking about humans. The only Harshini I knew who could get any sense out of him was Lorandranek.” He regretted saying it the moment he uttered the words.

“Maybe I could ask him?”

“Ask who, what?” Garet demanded.

“Ask the God of Storms to make it rain the day we arrive at the Citadel.”

Garet stared at her for a moment then shook his head. “I don’t want to know about this.” He rose from the table in the Heart and Hearth tavern and took the stairs to his room two at a time.

Draco watched him go and then turned back to Brak and R’shiel. “He is uncomfortable with your gods.”

“And you’re not?” R’shiel shot back. She didn’t like Draco. Tarja’s father had been Joyhinia’s creature for thirty years. He had ordered the murder of R’shiel’s family and the village where she was born, and he had been quite prepared to put his own son, R’shiel, and three hundred rebels to the sword at Joyhinia’s command. But the man reeked of regret. In many ways he was like Lord Jenga—honourable to the point of foolishness. One mistake had set him on a path so far from his original destination that he was almost completely lost. The man was trying to claw his way back, to somehow make amends, but neither Tarja nor R’shiel was ready to forgive him. Brak trusted him more than Garet Warner. Garet had his own agenda. All Draco wanted was redemption.

“I’ve seen enough to believe your gods exist, R’shiel, although I do not worship them.”

“You’re more adept at turning on your own kind, you mean,” R’shiel snarled. Brak laid a restraining hand on her arm.

“Stop trying to pick a fight, R’shiel.”

Surprisingly, she did as he asked. Deliberately excluding Draco she turned to him questioningly. “How do I speak to Bhren?”

“Very carefully,” Brak had replied, only half jokingly.

“See, I told you it would stop!”

Brak forced his attention back to the present to discover the rain had eased to a light drizzle. “Thank you, Divine One,” he said under his breath, although it was unlikely that Bhren was listening.

“We should get moving,” R’shiel advised, glancing warily at the guards. Brak nodded and followed her into the street, still holding the glamour tightly around them.

It was nearly two hundred years since Brak had been in the Citadel, and the changes wrought in that time depressed him. Once this had been his home, before the Sisterhood had snatched it from the Harshini. As a child, he had played with demons among the vast gardens that were now replaced by cluttered housing. He had gone exploring in the ancient woods surrounding the Citadel that had long been cleared to meet the voracious human appetite for firewood and lumber. Humans had obliterated all the beauty of the Citadel, all the elegant hallmarks of Harshini architecture. Only the
temples and the Halls of Residence remained of the original city, but they too had been corrupted, their artwork painted over, their graceful lines distorted by later additions to their structures. Brak was glad the Harshini couldn’t see the Citadel now. It would bruise their souls to see what had been done to their home.

“I can feel it,” R’shiel breathed in wonder. “I can feel the Citadel.”

“He’s reacting to your presence.”

She frowned, trying to reach out with senses not yet mature enough to identify what she was experiencing. The Citadel was welcoming her home, just as it had watched over her for most of her life. Until now, she had not been aware of the power that enabled her to feel his presence.

“I thought only gods could tell what I am?”

“The spirit of the Citadel is a god,” Brak explained. “An Incidental god, not a Primal god, but a god nonetheless.”

“You mean he’s like Xaphista? He’s a demon that grew powerful enough to call himself a god?”

“No, the Citadel is unique. He came into being as the complex was built. He is the essence of the place. Its soul if you like.”

R’shiel digested the information silently as they approached the Temple of the Gods. Brak didn’t know what the humans called it now, but once it had been the centre of Harshini life—the place where any god, no matter how powerful or insignificant, could be called into being. He had played with gods and demons in that Temple, back in a time when life held a great deal of promise. Back in the days before
he understood what it was to be half-human. Back in the days before he had killed Lorandranek.

“What did Dranymire mean about the Harshini needing access to the Citadel to protect themselves?”

“You can’t kill a Harshini here, R’shiel. The Citadel won’t permit it.”

She looked at him, her violet eyes wide with astonishment. “You’re kidding?”

“No. But don’t get too exited. That protection doesn’t extend to half-bloods. You and I are just as mortal as anybody else, here.”

“So if the Harshini could come back to the Citadel, they would be safe from the Kariens? Even if they cross the border?”

“It’s the only protection they have, other than remaining hidden. Their inability to kill is painfully real, R’shiel. There’s a story I heard once about the First Purge. A mob of humans attacked a Harshini family trying to flee the carnage. They raped the women, butchered the children and then handed the last Harshini standing a sword. They knelt in front of him and offered him their exposed throats, taunting him to kill them. He dropped the sword and threw himself on the ground, hoping they would take his life too. He couldn’t ask them to do it, the prohibition against violence includes suicide.” He didn’t realise how cold his voice had become until R’shiel looked at him with genuine concern.

“It’s not just a story, is it, Brak?” she asked softly.

“No.”

“What happened?”

“We arrived too late to save him. But the humans
who attacked them never lived long enough to gloat about their deeds.”

“You
killed
them? How, if the Harshini can’t kill?”

“There were a lot more half-bloods in those days. Before the Sisterhood, mixed marriages were not that uncommon. We were young and hot-headed and didn’t take the Purge lying down.”

R’shiel thought about that for a moment. “Where are the other half-bloods now?”

“One half-blood was more dangerous to the Sisterhood than a dozen pure Harshini. They made a special effort to eradicate us.” They had ridden past the Hall of the Gods without stopping. Brak was very sorry he had ever mentioned the First Purge. Although centuries old, the memories still burned like acid.

“You’re the only one left.”

“Until you came along.”

R’shiel didn’t ask anything further on the subject, for which Brak was grateful. He glanced at the low, grey sky and realised that R’shiel had been correct in her assertion that rain would force the Gathering indoors and that the Hall was the only other possible venue.

She was still insisting they coerce the Gathering into accepting Joyhinia, but Brak had held off showing her how to do it, until the last possible moment, hoping she would change her mind. He lacked the power himself, to coerce a large group of people, but he knew the technique, although working it left him sick to his stomach. Since her stay at Sanctuary, under the careful guidance of Korandellan
and her Harshini tutors, R’shiel had learnt much about her ability. But she was still a babe-in-arms by Harshini standards. A babe who was acquiring knowledge she lacked the judgment to use wisely, at a frightening rate. So frightening that Brak found himself being very careful about what he did in her presence.

She had come a long way since Shananara had tried to teach her simply how to touch her power. That day by the Glass River, more than a year ago, seemed to be part of a much more distant past.

If the Citadel’s desecration had cut him to the core, then Tavern Street was like rubbing salt into the wound. The whole cluttered street, which had once been a wide, tree-lined avenue, wore an aura of shoddy greed. With the rain, the feast in the Amphitheatre had been washed out and the tables laden with food had been moved to the verandahs outside the taverns. The street was packed with people venturing out into the fading drizzle to avail themselves of the Sisterhood’s generosity. Red coats mingled with grey-robed Probates, green-robed Novices and the more varied colours worn by ordinary people. There were only a few blue Sisters in sight. Most of them had chosen to stay indoors, rather than fight the crush in the rain. Of the white-robed Sisters of the Quorum, there was no sign at all.

“Isn’t there somewhere else we can go?” Brak asked, eyeing the crowd uneasily. They had planned to take rooms in a tavern close to the Hall of the Gods and stay out of sight until the Gathering at sundown.

“But we were supposed to meet Affiana here.”

“She’ll wait for us.”

R’shiel thought for a moment then nodded. “The Amphitheatre will be deserted with the food moved down here. The caverns should be quiet enough.”

R’shiel turned her horse and led the way, although Brak could have found his way blindfolded. The caverns had been stables once, built to house the ancestors of the Hythrun sorcerer-bred horses. They rode into the torch-lit tunnel and dismounted, leading their horses deep into the caverns where they were unlikely to be disturbed. Brak looked around the empty, hollow rooms with a sharp sense of loss.

He shook off the feeling and turned to R’shiel. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“There’s no other way, Brak.” The darkness hid her expression, but it couldn’t hide her excitement. Since returning to the world of humans, the differences between the demon child and mere mortals were more evident each day. Those differences were beginning to make her feel a little too superior for Brak’s comfort. He could remember feeling the same way, when he was her age, and he discovered how much his power set him apart. But that kind of arrogance was dangerous to R’shiel and everyone around her. She needed to be brought down a peg or two, as he had been, and soon.

“What you want to do is wrong, you understand that, don’t you?”

“It is necessary.”

“Are you prepared for the consequences?”

“What consequences?” For the first time, she didn’t sound quite so certain.

“Coercing humans is easy, R’shiel,” he explained. “People do it to each other all the time. They don’t use the same sort of power as we do, but they have other methods which work just as well.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“You remember when you were fighting with the rebellion? I saw you coerce those young hot-heads any number of times and you didn’t know anything about the Harshini power you had access to. Tarja convinced three hundred rebels to attack a full Company of Defenders in Testra with nothing more than rhetoric. Every mother who cajoles her child into eating stewed turnips is using coercion.”

“What’s your point, Brak?”

“The point is that you could bully the heathens into fighting because, deep down, they wanted to. Every rebel who attacked Testra at Tarja’s behest secretly dreamt of victory. Even the child who eventually succumbs to the stewed turnips has hunger giving him a push. Coercing people to act against their will, is an entirely different matter. You have to get past their natural inclinations and then force them to move in a different direction. You are robbing them of any vestige of free will, and free will is something that runs so deep in the human soul it’s like trying to get the Glass River to flow backwards.”

“You think I don’t have the power to do it?” she asked, sounding rather alarmed. “The Karien priests can do it.”