“Tarja?” she whispered, reaching out to touch his face. A vicelike grip snatched at her wrist, and she had to force herself not to cry out with the sudden pain. “It’s me!” she hissed.
The pain eased as he released her. “What’s wrong?” he said, so softly she had to lean forward until she could feel his breath on her face.
“Can we talk?”
She felt rather than saw him nod in the darkness and stood back as he swung out of the hammock. He took her hand and led her toward the aft end of the hold. A glimmer of light trickled in from a loose board high on the bulkhead. Tarja sank down onto the hard deck and pulled R’shiel, shivering in her thin shift, down beside him. He put his arm around her, and she leaned into the solid warmth of his chest.
“What happened? Why didn’t they hang you?” she whispered. Although the sleeping prisoners were on the other side of the hold, it was not a large boat and even normal voices would probably wake them. “Everyone says you betrayed the rebels.”
“This is Joyhinia’s idea of revenge. She’s hoping the rebels will kill me for her.”
“But if you explained to them—”
She could feel him shaking his head in the darkness. “You know them as well as I, R’shiel. I doubt I’ll be given the chance. But we’re still alive, that’s something. Maybe I can find a way out of this yet.”
“You can rescue me any time you want, Tarja. Anywhere between here and the Grimfield will do just nicely. I’ll die if I have to spend an hour as a court’esa, let alone ten years.”
“Is that what Harith sentenced you to?”
She nodded. A part of her wanted him to explode with fury and kick a hole in the bulkhead so that they could swim to freedom. Another part of her knew that he was as helpless as she was.
“Well,” she sighed. “Whatever happens, I’m glad Joyhinia didn’t hang you.”
“Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
“For what?”
“You tell me.”
“Oh! At the Citadel, you mean? I was just surprised, that’s all. Everyone was saying you’d been tortured.” He did not confirm or deny the rumor. He just held her close. She could hear the steady beat of his heart against her ear. “You should have listened to me, you know. I warned you the meeting in Testra was a trap.”
“You also suggested we ambush Draco and kill every Defender in the town,” he reminded her.
“We wouldn’t be here now, if we had,” she retorted, but her rhetoric had lost the passion that once consumed her.
“We’ll survive.”
“Is that your idea of encouragement? I wish I could die!”
Tarja reached down and lifted her chin with his finger. His eyes glittered in the thin light from the cracked board.
“Don’t say that!” he hissed. “Don’t even think it! Founders! I think I preferred you when you wanted to take on the whole world! If you want to get even with Joyhinia, then survive this. No. Not just survive. Damned well flourish. Don’t let them defeat you, R’shiel. Don’t let anybody, ever, defeat you!”
R’shiel was startled by his vehemence. “But I’m scared, Tarja.”
“You’re not afraid of anything, R’shiel.”
She looked up at him. He might think her fearless, but there was one thing she was afraid of. She was terrified he would look at her again, the way he had the night she left the vineyard.
chapter 32
They reached the Cliffwall four days later. Over the eons, the wide, meandering Glass River had worn a deep ravine through the rift between the high and central plateaus, and it was here that the Defenders were ordered on full alert. Loclon was convinced that the cliffs hemming in the river were an ideal place for an ambush. The riverboat captain obviously considered that a very optimistic opinion. Even at its narrowest, the river was still half a league wide, but he obediently kept to the center. They were traveling with the current, and their progress was swift. The day had begun cloudy, but the unseasonal warmth had burned off the last remaining clouds by midmorning, which not even the vast expanse of the river seemed to affect. It was odd, this sudden warm spell, but then R’shiel was further south now than she had been since arriving at the Citadel as a babe in arms.
“How long before we reach Juliern?”
Loclon was standing behind the captain, his tunic unbuttoned and rumpled. His scar was pale against his windburned face. The sun was beginning to set, and the cool of the evening was settling with alarming speed. Cooling sweat turned chill in seconds. The prisoners were just below them on the main deck. The riverboat captain insisted that they clean up after the horses, and the men were on their hands and knees, swabbing the boards. The women were spared the task and for the most part were laying about, too lethargic to do anything else, particularly wearing leg irons. R’shiel cautiously moved a little closer, to better concentrate on the discussion.
“Tomorrow morning sometime, I suppose,” the riverboat captain replied. “Is that where you want to land?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Are you planning to dock the boat yourself?”
“Of course not! But I don’t want your men to know. Or the prisoners.”
“As you wish.”
“And once we’ve offloaded, you’re to head straight back to Brodenvale.”
The captain frowned. “That wasn’t part of the deal. I’m heading downriver.”
“That’s too bad, because if you don’t dock in Brodenvale two weeks from tomorrow, the Brodenvale Garrison Commander has orders to declare you and your whole damned crew outlaws.”
R’shiel heard the sailor curse softly as Loclon walked away.
Juliern was a small village slumped between the Glass River and the barren central plateau. It had little to offer in trade and was not a regular port of call. It consisted of little more than a rickety wooden dock, a tavern, a blacksmith, and a few mean houses.
The village appeared almost deserted when the Melissa bumped gently against the dock. A boat with her rails lined by Defenders was enough to send most of the residents scurrying behind closed doors. Two sailors jumped onto the dock, secured the boat, then climbed back on board and pushed the gangplank out. It landed with an alarming thump which shook the whole dangerous-looking structure.
Loclon watched as the horses were led off the boat. Then the prisoners were marched off, stumbling awkwardly in their leg irons. Loclon mounted his horse and cantered to the head of their small column, yelling an order for them to move out.
They were on the road for three days before Loclon sent for R’shiel. Three miserable, foot-sore days that saw the Glass River fade from sight behind the rift of the Cliffwall. As they stumbled along, the countryside slowly changed from the lush pastures of the river plains to the semiarid grasslands of the Central Plateau. The road tasted dusty to the weary prisoners, and the sparse shelter from the blue-oaks lining the road became almost nonexistent. The wind scraped across the plains, scouring the land. Despite the cold, all but a few were windburned. R’shiel escaped the worst of it, her skin somehow not reacting to the relentless wind. A couple of the men who had spent their life outdoors merely tanned a darker shade, and Tarja, who had a naturally olive skin, fared better than most. The others were red, blistered, and miserable. If Loclon noticed or cared about their suffering, he gave no indication.
They spent their nights in the open. After being allowed a short time to relieve themselves and stretch out, they were again fed a thin gruel, while the Defenders ate at another fire dining on the results of the day’s hunt. Once they were well into the plains, even that fizzled out, and the Defenders were forced to partake of the same slops as their prisoners. They were shackled at night, although Loclon had ordered the chains removed while they traveled. They hampered movement, and he grew impatient with their shuffling pace.
Of the six women in the party R’shiel was both the youngest and the only one not resigned to being a court’esa once they reached the Grimfield. She would have been content to sp
end the whole journey in solitude, trying to figure out how to escape, had it not been for Sunny’s persistent attempts to include her. The men seemed to sort themselves out in a similar fashion. She glanced at them now and then, noticing they gave Tarja a wide berth.
But the third night out things changed. They were well out of sight of Juliern now and still a good week or more from the Grimfield. They ate their meager meal in silence and were being herded into the shackles when R’shiel was singled out by a guard and told to stay put while he locked in the other women. She glanced around hopefully, but there were too many alert guards to try to make a break for it, and nowhere to go if she did. Sunny sneaked up behind her as the guard ordered the women into line and tapped her shoulder urgently.
“Now you listen to me and listen good,” Sunny said. “Don’t you go doing anything stupid. You give him what he wants, you hear. If you don’t, the only one who’ll get hurt is you, and it’s not that big a prize. Do you understand?”
R’shiel looked at her blankly. Sunny dug her plump fingers painfully into the younger girl’s shoulder.
“You be smart, hear?” she insisted. “It’s about power. It’s the only power he’s got over you, see? The harder you fight, the more he has to prove himself.”
“I ordered you to get into line,” the guard said.
“Just giving the girl a few pointers,” she told him, as he led her away.
“I’ll bet,” the guard said as he locked Sunny into her leg irons.
Taking R’shiel by the arm he led her toward Loclon’s tent. R’shiel glanced back at the women, hoping for – what? Rescue? Help? But the women simply watched her go. Telia and Warril looked unconcerned. Danka even looked a little envious that R’shiel had been singled out and not her. The men simply stared at her, or ignored her completely. No one was planning to get involved. All but Tarja. As he saw the direction she was being led, he suddenly lunged toward the guard who was shackling him. The guard cried out, and Tarja was clubbed down by two other Defenders. R’shiel turned away, not able to bear the sight of him being beaten. Don’t let anybody, ever, defeat you, he had told her. She tried to keep that thought in her mind as the guard thrust her inside Loclon’s tent with a shove, then disappeared into the night.
He was waiting for her, sitting on a fold-down campstool with a mug of ale in his hand.
“Enjoying the trip?”
She lifted her chin defiantly and refused to meet his gaze.
“You know, I’ve been trying to figure out what makes you such an uppity little bitch. Is it because you’re the First Sister’s daughter? Is that why you’re so high and bloody mighty? Except it turns out you’re just a common bastard.” He rose to his feet in a surprisingly fluid movement and began circling her like a predatory bird.
With a conscious effort she focused her gaze on him. “Class only matters to those who don’t have any.”
Loclon slapped her for her impudence, making her eyes water. “You arrogant little bitch!” R’shiel glared at him and tried not to imagine what was coming next. Imagination could be a worse tormentor than actual abuse. She had heard someone say that once. “I’ll bet you’re just like the rest of those Probate sluts, aren’t you? I’ve seen them at the Citadel. How many lovers have you had, I wonder, you and your uppity friends?”
R’shiel refused to dignify his question with a reply.
“ANSWER ME!”
She jumped at the sudden shout. She could feel his anger, his lust for pain – her pain – radiating from him like a heat shimmer off the horizon in summer. Rebellion warred with fear inside her, but Sunny’s advice was fresh in her mind. This was a power game, and by defying him she was just asking for trouble. Loclon needed to be in control.
“I don’t think I’m better than you,” she said, as meekly as she could manage.
Loclon grabbed a handful of her long hair and jerked her head back viciously. “Don’t patronize me, you conceited little whore.”
She stayed silent, sorry now that she had only kicked him in the balls. Had she known the consequences, she would have made an effort to really hurt him. He twisted her head around to face him. “What would it take to make you beg for mercy, I wonder?”
Held in his painful grip, there was little R’shiel could do but stare him in the face. The puckered flesh of his scar both repulsed and comforted her. Tarja had given him that scar.
“I would rather turn heathen and be burned alive on a Karien altar as a witch, than beg you for anything.”
Her answer enraged him, as she knew it would. He raised his arm to strike her again, but she hit out first, raking her nails down his face, leaving a trail of bloody scratches on his right cheek. He yelped and grabbed her wrist, twisting it savagely behind her back. R’shiel struggled wildly, but he forced her arm so far up her back she feared he would break it. He threw her down onto the sleeping pallet, breathing hard, rage boiling over in him. She kicked at him but her aim was wild and she merely connected with his thigh. He slapped her leg away and was on her, his lithe frame hiding surprising strength, pinning her to the pallet. He suddenly laughed at her, coldly, viciously.
“Go on, scream! Scream as loud as you can. I want your bastard brother to hear. I want him to know what I’m doing to you. I want him to go to sleep every night hearing you scream, just as I have to wake up every morning and look at what he did to me!”
R’shiel bit her lip and refused to cry out, her eyes wide and staring. She stopped struggling, lay still and unmoving, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her pain or her fear as he pushed up the rough linen shift. His desire to make her scream only strengthened her will. Don’t let anybody, ever, defeat you. Her composure infuriated him. He punched her face, making her head swim.
R’shiel closed her eyes. She swallowed the screams he so desperately wanted to tear from her and for a fleeting, glorious moment an intoxicating sweetness swept over her, reaching for her, calling for her. She clung to it, trying to touch the source, but Loclon hit her again and the feeling vanished, leaving behind nothing but cruel reality.
Morning was a long time coming.
Sunny was waiting for R’shiel when she was returned to the women at first light, taking in her bruised face without comment. She pushed the others away and for once did not attempt to fill the silence with chatter. R’shiel sat unmoving as they were served a thin porridge for breakfast.
They got underway a short time later with Loclon bawling orders at his men, obviously in a foul mood. If the Defenders cast her surreptitious glances as they rode by, wondering at the scratches on the captain’s face, they said nothing. But they watched and wondered just the same. Tarja was kept well away from her, but she could tell his mood was murderous. If Loclon was fool enough to get within reach of him, Tarja would kill him.
The scene was repeated each night for the next three nights, and each morning when R’shiel was returned to the other prisoners, Loclon emerged from his tent in an increasingly vile temper.
On the fourth night he sent for Sunny, who trotted off happily to ply her trade. Sunny knew the reality of life outside the Citadel. She knew that pleasing Loclon now would ease her lot once they arrived at the Grimfield. R’shiel watched her go and turned back to huddle on the ground. She had won. He had given up in the end. Not a cry, not a whimper, no reaction at all, had Loclon been able to force from her. She bit her lip as hysterical laughter bubbled up inside her, threatening to escape and betray her silent, private victory.
The Grimfield came into sight on the tenth day after they left the river-boat. The town squatted like a mangy dog at the foot of the Hallowdean Mountains. R’shiel watched it grow larger in the distance, half-fearful and half-relieved that her journey was coming to an end. The buildings were dirty and squat, built from the local gray stone with little or no thought for style. Most were single story, thatched affairs with wide verandahs to keep out the intense summer heat. Only the inn, the Defenders’ Headquarters and a few other buildings had more than one s
tory. Even the low wall that surrounded the town, glittering in the sunlight with its wicked capping of broken glass, looked as if it was trying to crouch.
The women had assured her that the court’esa of the Grimfield were only lightly guarded and the higher the ranked officer one managed to latch onto, the less onerous one’s incarceration was. A part of R’shiel rebelled at the idea of deliberately seeking out an officer. She liked the idea of being a barracks court’esa even less, so she made an attempt, along with the other women, to make herself presentable. Loclon had done that for her. He had driven home the reality of her situation. Being assigned to the laundry or the kitchen would not save her, and her one ambition now was to avoid any further contact with him until she could take her revenge. If that meant attracting the eye of another officer for protection, then she was willing to do whatever she had to. Don’t let anybody, ever, defeat you, she reminded herself. It was becoming the rule by which she lived. The men cheered them on good-naturedly, offering hints as to what might attract the eye of this officer or that, until Loclon bellowed at them to shut up. R’shiel caught Tarja’s speculative look as she combed her hair with her fingers and turned away from him.
The prisoners were met in the town square by the Commandant. R’shiel had forgotten that Mahina’s son was now Commandant of the Grimfield, and she prayed he would not notice her. He watched impassively as the prisoners were lined up, and a small crowd gathered to examine the new arrivals. At his side stood a bearded man who appeared to be his adjutant. Wilem examined the list that Loclon handed him and read through it carelessly until he came to a name that caught his eye. Looking up, he searched the line of prisoners until he spied Tarja.
Medalon dct-1 Page 27