Medalon (19 page)

“He’s going to have to kiss her,” Kalianah announced with a frown. “We can’t have her like this.” The goddess waved her hand and Tarja, who Brak had feared was on the brink of slapping R’shiel, suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders, pushed her against the wall and kissed her with bruising force. Although taken by surprise, R’shiel didn’t appear to mind in the least.

“Kalianah! Stop it! They’re brother and sister!”

“Don’t be silly, Brakandaran. How could they be brother and sister? Lorandranek only had one child.”

“But that’s not—”

“The demon child?” the goddess asked, with a puzzled look. “Of course, it is. Who did you think it was?”

Brak glanced at the couple, who appeared so lost in the power of Kalianah’s spell that they might see it through to it’s inevitable conclusion, right there in the yard. “Enough, Kalianah. Let them up for air, at least.”

She sighed and waved her arm. The gesture was an affectation. Her will was imposed by thought alone. They broke apart and stared at each other wordlessly for a moment, before R’shiel fled into the darkness. Tarja watched her leave then sagged against the wall, as if he couldn’t understand what had come over him. Hardly surprising, under the circumstances, Brak thought.

“It’s done now, you know,” Kalianah warned. “He’ll only ever be able to love her. Do you think Zegarnald will be mad when I tell him what I did?”

Right then, Brak could not have cared less what the War God thought. He looked at the goddess in despair. “R’shiel is Lorandranek’s child?”

“I thought we’d settled that.”

“It can’t be. Not R’shiel. Anyone but her.”

It was just on dawn when Tarja finally admitted to himself that he would get no more sleep this night. He rose from his makeshift bed and made his way quietly through the sleeping bodies in the cellar, climbed the narrow stairs and let himself outside. The sun was yet to show itself over the horizon, but it had sent out ribbons of scarlet light to herald its imminent arrival, making the scattered clouds appear as if they had been dipped in blood. He glanced around the silent farmyard, noting almost unconsciously the position of the sentries.

Despite the optimism among the rebels, Tarja was well aware that the rebellion was nothing more than an irritation to the Sisterhood. They had no serious chance of overthrowing the Sisters of the Blade. It angered Tarja when he heard the young, foolish men making plans about what they would do when they took the Citadel. They had no real concept of what they faced. They had skirmished with the Defenders and been lucky, more often than not. They had never been attacked in force, never faced a cavalry charge, never felt the paralysing fear of a pitched battle.
They skirmished and retreated and thought they were heroes.

The faint smell of burning incense reached him on the still air and he turned curiously in the direction of the aroma. He followed it around the side of the ramshackle farmhouse to the stables. No doubt hoping his presence heralded breakfast, several of the dozen or so horses stabled there nickered softly as he looked inside. When he found nobody there, he walked back around the side of the building, stepping over the low stone wall that circled the yard. His footfalls made no sound on the soft earth as he followed the sweet smell to a small clearing amid the wilting vines some hundred paces from the house.

Mandah was kneeling on the damp ground, her back to him, as she tended a small stone altar. He watched silently as she placed a small bunch of wildflowers on the altar and sat back on her heels, her head bowed in prayer. Tarja studied her curiously for a moment, wondering which of the Primal Gods she was praying to, then deciding against disturbing her, he turned to leave. Without giving any indication that she was aware of his presence, she suddenly spoke to him.

“You’re up early this morning, Captain.”

“So are you,” he replied, as she stood up and dusted off her mud-stained skirt.

“I always get up this early. It’s said that the gods listen better in the mornings.”

“And do they?”

“I don’t really know. But it doesn’t hurt to try.”

“Which god were you praying to?”

“Patanan, the God of Good Fortune,” she said. “I was praying that he would be with you today.”

“Do you have a God of Damned Fools?” Tarja asked, a little bitterly. “He’s more likely to be with me than Good Fortune.”

Mandah smiled. “No, but I’m sure if you believe in one long enough he will come into being.”

Tarja frowned, her statement made no sense. “If I believe in him?”

Mandah fell into step beside him as they headed back towards the house.

“There are two sorts of gods, Captain,” she explained. “The Primal Gods, who exist because life exists. Love, Hate, War, Fertility, the Oceans, the Mountains—every one of them has a god. The Incidental Gods come into being when enough people believe in them.” She smiled at Tarja’s blank expression. “Let me explain it another way. You’ve heard of Kalianah, the Goddess of Love?”

Tarja nodded.

“Well, she is a Primal God,” Mandah continued. “Now Xaphista, whom I’m sure you’ve heard of, is an Incidental God. That’s what they call a demon who gathers enough power to become a god. Once they achieve the status of a god, the bulk of their power comes from their believers, so the more they have, the stronger they are. If their believers lose faith, they whither and die. Primal Gods will exist as long as life does.”

She laughed at his uncomprehending expression.

“You’ve heard of the Harshini, I suppose?”

“Of course, I have.”

“Well, the Harshini are sort of a bridge between humans and the gods. The Harshini and the demons are bonded.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “And you actually believe this?”

“That’s the nature of faith, Tarja,” she replied.

“So what do these demons do, besides running around all day trying to become…what did you call them…Incidental Gods?”

“I’ve no idea. You would have to ask the Harshini.”

“I see,” Tarja said. “So how did Xaphista get to be a god, if he was just a demon?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. Demons acquire learning by shape shifting and merging with other demons. I think that every time they merge, each demon acquires some of the knowledge of every other demon in the link. That’s how the Harshini could fly on dragons. Hundreds of demons would merge to create the dragon, and each one learnt from the others while they were in that form. I suppose Xaphista eventually acquired enough knowledge and power to gather human worshippers. He left Sanctuary, taking his Harshini clan with him. It’s rumoured the Karien priests are descended from those Harshini who broke away from Sanctuary.”

“And he moved north to Karien,” Tarja added. “So he needs all those Karien worshippers to maintain power?”

“That’s the nature of an Incidental God,” Mandah agreed, looking rather pleased with him. “Without people to believe in them, they are just harmless demons.”

Tarja looked down at Mandah. “Then wouldn’t you be better off praying to an Incidental God? He’d have more of a vested interest in answering your
prayers than a god who doesn’t care whether you believe in him or not.”

Mandah shook her head. “You have the most infuriating way of twisting everything I say, Captain. Perhaps the gods have sent you here to test my patience.”

“They’ve definitely sent me here to test mine,” Tarja added, a smile taking the sting from his words.

She stopped walking and looked up at him. “You’re starting to feel sorry you joined us, aren’t you?” she asked intuitively.

He shrugged. “This rebellion can’t hope to win, Mandah. All we are is a burr in the Sisterhood’s saddle blanket. Sooner or later they’ll turn on us in full force and this pitiful attempt at resistance will be annihilated.”

“You should have more faith, Captain. You have brought hope to our people. You have saved hundreds of lives, heathen and atheist.”

“Much good that will be if those lives I’m supposed to have saved are killed later in retaliation,” Tarja pointed out. “Can’t you see how useless this is? You have a handful of heathens and even fewer atheists on your side. The vast majority of Medalonians don’t want war. They want peace. They want to go about their lives and not be bothered by anything more serious than whether or not their crops will thrive.”

“That might have been the case a year ago, Captain,” Mandah replied. “But the Purge has changed that. I agree that most Medalonians could not have cared less about what the Sisterhood was doing, but things have changed. Innocent people are
being hurt. People who never broke a law in their lives are being thrown off their land. Every time that happens they look at us and wonder if perhaps we’re not the threat the Sisterhood always claimed we were. And now, even the Sisterhood has been forced to recognise us.”

“You still can’t win. This is a futile fight, Mandah, doomed to failure.”

“Then why don’t you leave us?”

“I keep asking myself the same question.”

“I’ll tell you the answer, Captain. It’s because you know, deep down, that what you are doing is right,” she said with total confidence. “It might be foolish and futile, but it’s right. Today will prove that.”

They resumed walking and Tarja wondered if it was that simple. He had a bad feeling his motives were just as ignoble as R’shiel’s. By fighting Joyhinia, he was making a stand. He was more than a deserter and an oath breaker, he was a champion of injustice. It would be a bitter irony if his efforts to ease his own conscience ended up costing even more lives.

By the time they reached the small stone wall that enclosed the packed-earth yard, the sky had lost its bloody tinge and grey light bathed the old farmhouse. Tarja insisted they leave the outside as untouched as possible. Training was held amid the vines, where it was out of sight of the casual observer. The farmhouse itself looked as if nobody had been inside it for years. As much as was practicable, all business was conducted underground, in the vastly extended cellars. That was another advantage of using the old vineyard as headquarters. The cellars here were extensive, despite the relative meanness of the house.

As they drew nearer, a figure appeared in the doorway. It was the sailor from the Fardohnyan boat who had joined them, seemingly on the spur of the moment, nearly a year ago. He gave no reason for his decision. He simply offered his help. Mandah, being Mandah, accepted it gratefully. She had a bad habit of thinking everything was a sign from the gods, and Brak’s offer of help was no exception. Tarja didn’t trust him, although he could think of no reason why. He had never done anything to make Tarja doubt his loyalty. The man was vague about his past, but that was common among the rebels. Brak caught sight of Tarja and Mandah and crossed the yard towards them.

“I thought perhaps you’d left without me,” he said to Tarja as he approached. Brak was even taller than Tarja, but of a much more slender build. He moved with an economy of gesture that made Tarja wonder if he had trained as a fighter. He had thick brown hair and weary, faded eyes and the manner of one who had seen just about everything there was to be seen in the world and found it wanting. “Good morning, Mandah.”

“Good morning, Brak,” she replied. “I’ve just made an offering to Patanan to aid you on your journey.”

“That was very thoughtful of you.” Tarja saw the expression that flickered over the older man’s face and wondered about him again. He professed to believe in the Primal Gods, but unlike the other heathens, Brak seemed almost sceptical about the value of the prayers and sacrifices of his brethren. “I hope it won’t be wasted.”

“You’re as bad as Tarja,” she scolded. “Have a little faith.”

“Faith I have in abundance, Mandah,” he said. “It’s hope I run short of, on occasion.” He turned his attention to Tarja and added, “Like hoping we’re not walking into a trap this morning.”

Tarja found himself once again forced to reassess his opinion of Brak. Nobody else had supported him when he warned that the meeting today in Testra was more likely to be a trap than a true chance at a resolution of the conflict—no one except R’shiel, who cared more about the rebellion continuing than finding a chance to end it. Even the Defenders who had deserted the Corps to join him seemed to think it was a genuine chance to end the conflict. Perhaps they were just beginning to regret their decision. Living with a price on your head was not easy, as Tarja could readily attest to.

“I wish others shared your opinion,” Tarja said, with a meaningful glance at Mandah. The young woman looked at them both and frowned.

“We have gone over this again and again,” she reminded them. “It might be a trap, but it might be a genuine offer of peace. We cannot ignore it. The Sisterhood recognises the threat we pose and wants to talk. If we can negotiate an end to the Purge and religious freedom for our people, then the fighting can stop. I thought that’s what you wanted, Tarja?”

“Of course it’s what I want,” he said, exasperated by the argument that had been going on for over a week.

“The gods will be with you both,” she assured them with quiet confidence. “It will not be long now, before this is over.”

Tarja glanced at Brak who seemed to share his scepticism. He stood back and let Mandah pass then turned to Tarja.

“You know this is a trap, don’t you?”

Tarja nodded. “I’m almost certain of it.”

“Then why are you going?” Brak asked.

Tarja glanced at the retreating figure of the young woman and shrugged. “Because there is a remote chance that it’s not,” he said. “Joyhinia might genuinely want this to end without costing any more lives.”

Brak shook his head doubtfully. “I’ve been away from Medalon for quite a while, son, but I remember the last Purge. This is no rout of a few heathens. This is systematic extermination.”

“All the more reason to end it,” Tarja pointed out wearily.

“Well, you know Joyhinia better than anyone, I suppose,” he said. “But I suspect you may live to regret this.”

“Living through it at all will be a good start.”

Brak shook his head at Tarja’s flippant reply and turned away, walking back toward the farmhouse with long, graceful strides. He stopped after a few paces and looked back over his shoulder.

“By the way, have you seen R’shiel anywhere?”

“No.” He had not seen her for days, not since the night outside the farmhouse when their argument turned into something much too uncomfortable and confusing to dwell on. He assumed she was avoiding him, not a difficult thing to accomplish in the large network of cellars under the house. He wondered what Brak wanted with her. The sailor saw through R’shiel easily and normally paid her little attention. “Why?”

“I was just curious. I’ll ask Ghari. He might know where she is.”

“Ghari left last night for Testra,” Tarja reminded him. “You don’t think she went with them, do you?”

“The gods help us if she has,” Brak muttered. “Still, it’s not that important. No doubt she’ll turn up.”

“No doubt,” he agreed, a little concerned at Brak’s sudden interest in R’shiel, and more than a little concerned that R’shiel might be missing. As he followed him to the house, another uncomfortable thought occurred to Tarja.

Brak claimed to remember the last Purge.

The last Purge the Sisterhood had launched against the heathens was during the reign of First Sister Brettan almost one hundred and twenty years ago.