Medalon (15 page)

The silence was so loud following Harith’s proposal that R’shiel could hear the blood pumping in her ears. She waited, unconsciously holding her breath, even though she knew that Jacomina would step forward. It seemed an eternity before she did. An eternity in which Mahina visibly paled and Lord
Jenga’s expression grew bleak. Garet and Tarja behind him exchanged a glance, but did nothing. There was nothing they could do. This was a matter for the Sisterhood.

“I second the proposal,” Jacomina announced loudly as she stepped forward. “I too cannot bear the thought of Medalon being plunged into war.”

The crowd muttered softly, oddly subdued in the face of such an extraordinary situation.

“You need the whole Quorum to agree, Harith,” Mahina pointed out. “I have no doubt Joyhinia shares your sentiments, but you have not polled Francil yet.”

All eyes turned to the oldest member of the Quorum. Francil had managed to stand aloof from the vicious politics of her Sisters for thirty years. She now seemed rather uncomfortable to be the focus of so much attention. She avoided looking at Mahina, instead focusing her eyes at a point somewhere above the heads of the crowd.

“I stand with Harith,” she said, her voice only reaching those in the front ranks. The message was passed along with a murmur, like a wave of astonishment washing over the Gathering.

“The Quorum stands united,” Harith announced. “Do you have anything to say in your defence, Sister Mahina, before I ask the Blue Sisters for their vote?”

R’shiel had never seen Mahina so angry, but she forcibly pushed away her fury to address the Sisters. If ever her lack of charisma worked against her it was now.

“Think well before you vote on this issue, Sisters. Do not let the clever words of ambition cloud your
judgement. Think what is best for Medalon! A Purge will do nothing but make our people suffer for no better reason than to appease the fanatics in the Karien Church. We have freed ourselves from the chains of religion. Don’t let them bind us again!”

The Gathering heard her out, but R’shiel could tell they were in no mood to heed her words. Had it just been Harith or Joyhinia who had rebelled against the First Sister, they would have shrugged it off as the political games played among the Quorum members. But Francil’s defection carried enormous weight. She had survived three administrations without a whiff of scandal or a moment of disloyalty. Her support of Joyhinia was fatal to Mahina’s cause.

“How do you speak, Sisters?” Harith called. “Do you say ‘yea’ to my proposal?”

The “yea” that thundered through the Great Hall was deafening.

“Those of you who support Mahina?” Harith knew they had won. She didn’t even bother with the title of Sister. The silence that followed Harith’s question was like a death knell. Harith waited, letting the significance of the silence sink in before she continued.

“Then I declare Joyhinia Tenragan the Interim First Sister,” Harith announced. “Long Live First Sister Joyhinia Tenragan!”

“Long Live First Sister Joyhinia Tenragan!” the Gathering cheered. “Long Live First Sister Joyhinia Tenragan!”

“Sisters!” Joyhinia held up her hand. “Please! This is no time to rejoice! This is a time of grave peril for Medalon and I will do my utmost to be worthy of the trust you have placed in me.” That brought another
cheer from the crowd, as Joyhinia knew it would. “We face a crisis which must be dealt with immediately. My Lord Defender, will you swear the allegiance of the Defenders to me?”

Jenga hesitated for a fraction of a second before he stepped forward, a fact that did not escape the new First Sister. Together, the Lord Defender and his aides stepped forward to stand before the podium. Jenga unsheathed his sword and laid it at Joyhinia’s feet and then knelt on one knee. Garet also knelt, as tradition demanded.

Tarja remained standing defiantly.

Joyhinia looked at him, her expression betraying nothing of the anger she must be feeling as her son defied her so openly.

“Did you have something to say, Captain?” she asked, her voice remarkably pleasant under the circumstances.

Tarja’s back was turned to R’shiel, so she couldn’t see the expression on his face, but she could tell by the stiff set of his shoulders that he was furious beyond words.

“What did you pay Francil for her support, mother?” he asked, loud enough to be heard throughout the Hall.

“Kneel with your commander and take the oath, Captain.” R’shiel was astounded that she was able to keep her temper so well.

“Afraid to answer my question?” he taunted. “Should I tell the good Sisters what you offered in return for Lord Pieter’s support? Your own daughter? Ah, but then I forgot. She’s not your daughter, is she? You lied about that, too.”

“Kneel with your commander and take the oath, Captain!” Joyhinia cried, her anger finally surfacing in the face of his dreadful charges. The Gathering murmured worriedly, wondering if there was any truth to Tarja’s accusations.

Tarja met her anger with a rage that matched it, breath for breath. “Never!”

Pale and shaking with fury, Joyhinia suddenly turned to the Lord Defender. “I will take your oath now, my Lord.”

Still on one knee before Joyhinia, Jenga turned and glanced over his shoulder at Tarja. “Kneel, Captain,” he said, his tone as close to begging as it was ever likely to get. “Take the oath.”

“Not if it costs me my life,” Tarja said.

“The oath, my Lord,” Joyhinia reminded him frostily.

“Why doesn’t she order him arrested?” R’shiel whispered to Davydd. “Why is she insisting Jenga take the oath?”

“She can’t order Jenga to do anything until he does,” he whispered.

“A moment, your Grace,” Jenga said, rising to his feet. He turned to Tarja. “You have brought disgrace on the Defenders, Captain. To take this oath with you present, whilst you defy the First Sister, is unconscionable. You will leave this Gathering and place yourself under house arrest until I can deal with your disobedience.”

Tarja stood in front of the Lord Defender for a moment, before saluting sharply. He then turned on his heel and strode towards the doors at the back of the Great Hall, his back stiff and unrelenting.
The crowd parted for him and then closed again in his wake. R’shiel watched him leave in a cloud of anger and humiliation. She had not expected Jenga to turn on him so readily. She looked back at Joyhinia and felt such a surge of hatred that she trembled with it. At the front of the Hall, Jenga once more knelt and his voice rang out clear and strong as he repeated the Oath of Allegiance to the new First Sister. The doors boomed shut, like a gong announcing Tarja’s impending doom.

“Tarja’s in a lot of trouble, isn’t he?” she said, glancing at the young lieutenant.

“He surely is,” Davydd agreed. “If they can catch him.”

“What do you mean?” she whispered.

“By ordering him out of the Hall, before he took the oath, Jenga’s given Tarja time to get away.” He pushed himself backwards and rose to a crouch. “Come on, we’d better get out of here, too.”

R’shiel followed Davydd back the way they had come, wondering at his words. Had Jenga really ordered Tarja out, to give him a chance to escape Joyhinia’s wrath? And if he had, would Tarja be smart enough to take the opportunity Jenga offered him, or would he stay to face the consequences of his rebellion? Knowing Tarja, it was quite likely he would choose the latter course out of sheer bloody-mindedness.

Then again, maybe he wouldn’t.

Maybe he would take the chance for freedom, take the chance to escape the Citadel and be forever free of Joyhinia’s manipulation and ambition.

The Question suddenly loomed in her mind, and the nothingness beyond it.
Forever free of Joyhinia’s manipulation and ambition…

“We can’t go that way, we’ll be blown off the ledge.” The storm had reached the Citadel and rain lashed furiously at the windows.

“I have to get out of here!” she hissed.

“We’ll have to wait, R’shiel. No one is likely to come up here until the meeting is over.”

“No!”

Davydd looked at her determined expression and shook his head. “If I get killed doing this, I’ll be very annoyed with you.”

“You’re a Defender! You’re supposed to enjoy this sort of thing,” she said, easing open the balcony door. The rain struck her like cold, sharp needles, but she didn’t care.
Forever free of Joyhinia’s manipulation and ambition
. The phrase repeated itself over and over in her mind. She still had not answered The Question, but for the first time she saw something beyond the emptiness, and no storm, no treacherous ledge, and no amount of commonsense, was going to stand in her way.

Winter’s bite could be felt in the brisk wind that swept across the border from Medalon into Hythria. Although it never snowed this far south, it didn’t stop the chill wind, which blew off the snowcapped Sanctuary Mountains, cutting through everything with icy fingers. The sky was overcast and leaden and smelled of rain.

Brak sat on his sorcerer-bred horse overlooking a shallow ford that marked the line between Medalon and Hythria. It was a long time since he had been home. If he rode across the border and just kept heading northwest to the mountains, eventually he would reach the peace and tranquillity of Sanctuary. He could feel it calling to him. He could feel the pull, the closer he came to Medalon. The ache niggled at him constantly, tempting him to weaken. He pushed it away and looked north.

“They call it the Border Stream,” Damin told him, mistaking the direction of his gaze. “The gods alone know why. You’d think somebody would have given it a grander name, considering its strategic importance.”

Brak glanced at the Warlord and nodded politely. The High Arrion had arranged for him to travel with her brother, the Warlord of Krakandar. Damin Wolfblade was anxious to be gone from Greenharbour and it seemed logical that they should travel together. So Kalan had claimed. Brak had a bad feeling she was using him. Korandellen’s appearance in the Seeing Stone might place Damin in immediate danger, but it did no harm at all to his long-term claim on the Hythrun throne. Nor would escorting a Divine One north on a sacred mission. Of course, he had not told the High Arrion what he was doing, just as he continued to deny his right to the title of Divine One, but that didn’t stop her using it. Or making the most of his presence. Damin Wolfblade had at least been more amenable in that respect. Brak had asked simply to be called by his name, and the Warlord had agreed, quite unperturbed about the whole issue. He even went so far as to apologise for his sister.

Brak had learnt much in the month he had spent in the young Warlord’s company on their journey to Krakandar Province and the Medalon border. He had known that Damin’s mother was Lernen’s younger sister, but he had not realised that she had gone through five husbands and her extended family included three children of her own and another seven stepchildren. Every one of them was carefully placed in a position of power. Kalan was High Arrion. Narvell, Kalan’s twin brother and the issue of Marla’s second marriage, was the Warlord of Elasapine. Luciena, her stepdaughter from her marriage to a wealthy shipping magnate, owned a third of Hythrun’s trading ships. Damin’s youngest
stepbrother, at the tender age of nineteen, was training in the Hythrun Assassin’s Guild.

Marla had known her brother would never produce an heir. She had used her considerable wealth and influence to raise her entire brood with one purpose in mind: securing the throne for her eldest son. Considering Damin couldn’t be much past thirty, it was astounding that she had achieved so much, so soon. Brak also found the loyalty among Marla’s clan quite remarkable. Damin seemed certain of the support of each and every one of his siblings, a rare thing among humans, he thought cynically. Brak had only met Marla once, when she was but a child of seven and he could remember nothing about her that hinted at her strength of purpose in years to come. Brak’s fears for Hythria were allayed a little. Damin seemed an intelligent and astute young man. On the other hand, with the exception of Narvell, the other Warlords in Hythria were not terribly happy about the situation. It would be much better if old Lernen just kept on living.

“Am I boring you, Brak?”

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”

Damin laughed. “I was boasting of my many battles at this very site,” he said. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that such heroics don’t interest you. I do miss Tarja, though.”

“Tarja?”

“Captain Tarja Tenragan,” Damin explained. “One of the Defender’s finest. The son-of-a-bitch could read me like a book. Damned if I know how he did it. He was recalled to the Citadel a few months ago, right after Trayla died.” Damin frowned, his
expression miserable. “The idiot they sent to replace him hardly makes it worth the effort anymore.”

“How disappointing for you,” Brak remarked dryly. The news that there was a new First Sister surprised him. It reminded him sharply of how long he had been away.

“No doubt the God of War had him recalled as some sort of punishment,” Damin added. “He probably thought I was having too much fun.”

“Zegarnald is like that,” Brak agreed.

Damin stared at him, awestruck. “You have spoken with the God of War?”

Brak nodded reluctantly, wishing he had kept his mouth shut. Damin Wolfblade was a reasonable fellow, but like all Hythrun and Fardohnyans, he was in awe of the gods. Brak tended to take them much less seriously. Anyone who spent time in the gods’ company usually did. They were immortal, it was true, and powerful, but they were fickle and self-absorbed and generally a nuisance, as far as Brak was concerned. His present mission was proof of that. He often thought humans would be much better off without them.

“You said you had contacts in Bordertown,” Brak said, deciding a change of subject was in order. Damin would be calling him Divine One soon.

Damin nodded, taking the hint, although he was obviously dying to ask Brak more. “When you get to Bordertown, seek out a Fardohnyan sailor named Drendik. He has a barge that trades between Talabar in the Gulf and the Medalonian ports on the Glass River. At this time of year, he’ll be getting ready to sail north to Brodenvale so he can catch the spring
floods on his way home. If you mention my name, he’ll give you passage. If you mention that you know Maera, the Goddess of the River, he’ll probably carry you there on his back.”

“How is it you have Fardohnyan allies? I thought Hythria and Fardohnya were enemies.”

“We are,” Damin agreed. “When it suits us. At least we were when I left Greenharbour. That may have changed by now.”

“You mean Princess Adrina was in Greenharbour to broker peace?” Brak asked.

Damin shrugged. “Who knows? With some difficulty, I managed to avoid meeting Her Serene Highness, thank the gods. By all accounts, she’s an obnoxious and demanding spoilt brat. I hear that Hablet can’t even bribe anyone to marry her.”

Brak smiled, thinking that the young woman must be a harridan indeed if everyone, from the citizens in Greenharbour to the Warlord of a distant foreign province, knew her reputation. Damin reached down and patted the neck of his own sorcerer-bred stallion. Lacking any magical ability to communicate with the beast, Damin and his raiders controlled their mounts by nothing more than superb horsemanship. The Warlord glanced at Brak, his smile fading.

“One thing unites Hythria and Fardohnya, Brak: the Sisterhood’s persecution of pagans. Drendik has saved many lives in his time. For that, I can forgive him a lot. Even being Fardohnyan.”

Brak dismounted, lifting his pack off Cloud Chaser’s back. He would miss the stallion, but would not risk such a valuable animal in Medalon. It was
unlikely anyone in Medalon would recognise the breed, but the horse’s unmistakable nobility would cause comment. He preferred to remain anonymous.

“If there is anything else I can do for you,” Damin offered as he took Cloud Chaser’s reins. “You only have to ask.”

“You could try not starting a civil war while I’m away,” Brak said.

“Speak to the gods then,” Damin suggested. “They have more control over that than I do.”

Brak shook Damin’s hand. He genuinely liked the young Warlord, but that didn’t mean he thought he would listen to him.

“Trust your own judgement, Damin,” he advised. “Don’t leave it to the gods. They have their own agenda.”

Damin’s expression grew serious. “As do the Harshini.”

Brak did not deny the accusation. For a moment the silence was heavy between them.

“You seek the demon child, don’t you?” Damin asked quietly, although there was nobody within earshot who could overhear them. The troops who had escorted them to the border were well back behind the tree line.

“Who told you that?”

“Call it an educated guess,” Damin shrugged. “The rumours have been around for as long as I can recall. It is the only thing I can think of that would cause the Harshini to break their silence after all this time. Do you plan to kill him?”

Brak was a little taken aback by the blunt question. “I don’t know.”

“Well, before you do, answer one question for me,” Damin said.

“If I can.”

“If this child is truly Lorandranek’s child, then it will be like you, won’t it? Harshini, but not constrained against violence? If that’s the case then he could kill a god, couldn’t he? Is that why Lorandranek withdrew all the Harshini to Sanctuary? To wait until a child was born who could destroy Xaphista?”

Brak wondered how the Warlord had been able to piece together so much from so little. But his sister was the High Arrion. The Sorcerer’s Collective knew much to which the general population was not privy. His question made a frightening amount of sense. It would explain why the gods were anxious to ensure that the demon child lived. Was Xaphista finally so powerful that the Primal Gods would countenance the existence of the demon child? Brak shuddered and turned his attention back to Damin.

“One question, you said,” he snapped. “That was five questions.”

“So I can’t count.”

“And I can’t answer any of them,” Brak admitted.

“You
won’t
answer them,” the Warlord accused.

“I can’t,” Brak replied with a shake of his head, “because I simply don’t know.”

Bordertown had changed a lot since the last time Brak had seen it. It had grown considerably—new red-bricked houses bordered the western edge of the town and there were more taverns than he remembered. There were more soldiers too. More red coats than he could ever remember seeing. The
Defenders had changed since their rather inauspicious beginnings. They were no longer eager young men with more enthusiasm than skill. They were hard, well trained and deserving of their reputation as the most disciplined warriors in the world. But their presence caused an indefinable tension in the town. People looked over their shoulder before they spoke. Even the talkative market stallholders seemed less garrulous than usual.

It had taken Brak almost two weeks on foot to reach the town. Discretion, rather than time, was of the essence. He had traded his sailor’s clothes for leather trousers, a linen shirt and a nondescript but warm cloak provided by Damin Wolfblade. But for his golden tanned skin and unusual height, he looked as Medalonian as the next man. His father had been a Medalonian human, and besides inheriting his blue eyes, Brak inherited his temper. Although raised among the Harshini, his temper had been his constant enemy. Even the peace that permeated the Harshini settlements had never been able to quell completely his occasional violent outbursts. It was ironic, he sometimes thought, that twenty years of self-imposed exile among humans had taught him more self-control than the centuries he had spent at Sanctuary.

Captain Drendik proved to be a huge blonde-bearded Fardohnyan, an unusual feature in a race that tended towards swarthy dark-haired people. There was Hythrun blood in him, Brak guessed, which perhaps explained his willingness to aid the Warlord. His boat was crewed by his two brothers, who were almost as large and blonde as Drendik, although not nearly as broad around the girth. Brak
introduced himself as a friend of the Warlord’s and Drendik seemed happy to take him at his word. He was not running a charity, however, he explained. He could work off his passage north or pay the going rate for a berth. Brak chose to work. Drendik was rather impressed with his seafaring experience so it proved to be a satisfactory arrangement on both sides. The Fardohnyan had no inkling of Brak’s true heritage, or his reason for wanting to travel north, and Brak made no effort to offer one.

They sailed from Bordertown on the twentieth day of Margaran into a blustery breeze that pushed the small barge upstream in fits and starts. Drendik predicted it would take almost until mid-spring to reach Brodenvale. From there, Brak planned to make his way overland to the Citadel to find Lorandranek’s child.

The problem he faced when he reached the Citadel did not bear thinking about. He had no idea if the child, or rather, the young adult by now, was male or female. He had no idea what he or she looked like, no idea what his or her name was. He had nothing to go on other than the knowledge the demon child was at the Citadel, a city of thousands of people. It was the very heart of the Sisterhood’s power. Presumably, the child favoured its human mother in appearance. It was hard to imagine a Harshini child living in the heart of the Citadel going unremarked. It was quite reasonable to assume then, that the child looked as human as any other young man or woman.

Brak figured there was only one way he was likely to find the child: sheer bloody luck.