R’shiel suspected her continuing weakness was more from forced idleness than loss of blood. Her aversion to meat seemed to vanish with the headaches and the onset of her menses. She still didn’t actually crave meat, but it no longer smelled rancid or repulsive to her, which was a good thing, as Gwenell was firmly convinced that red-meat was the only cure for loss of blood and R’shiel was served it for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Junee and Kilene were allowed to visit her on the third day of her confinement. Her friends were bubbling with the gossip sweeping the Citadel regarding the fight in the Arena. According to Junee and Kilene, Loclon had been treated for the gash that Tarja had given him, but it would scar him horribly, a fact that seemed to both delight and dismay the Probates all at once. The general opinion around the Citadel was that it was a shame such a handsome officer was going to be marked for the rest of his life, but he probably deserved it. Kilene claimed that Georj was dead before they got him out of the Arena. To die in such an awful way was just the worst luck, she declared, although he only had himself to blame. R’shiel wanted to strangle her.
To Kilene the Defenders were just soldiers, good for entertainment and an occasional roll in the sack. R’shiel chafed at the restrictions placed on her by Sister Gwenell and her own weakness, refusing to believe Kilene’s assertion that Loclon would not be tried for murder. Junee promised to see if she could find out something more reliable and the girls left, leaving R’shiel quite depressed by their efforts to cheer her up.
She was still brooding about their visit two days later, sitting on a wrought-iron recliner piled with pillows, on the terrace overlooking the Infirmary gardens. She was wrapped in a blanket against the cool autumn breeze, reading some forgettable text that Junee had left her, when Tarja finally paid her a visit.
He took the seat beside her, wearing his high-collared red jacket, his boots polished to a parade ground gleam. She glared at him, angry that he had taken so long to visit her.
“Go on, tell me how terrible I look,” she snapped, before he could say a word.
“Actually, you look like hell, but it’s an improvement from the last time I saw you. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” she admitted. “Mother has already told me to get well, or else, so I don’t really have a choice.”
“That sounds like Joyhinia,” Tarja agreed. “She’ll probably disown you, if you don’t.”
“Sometimes I wish she would,” R’shiel muttered, still smarting from Joyhinia’s unsympathetic reaction to her plight.
“It does have its advantages you know, being disowned,” he assured her.
R’shiel looked at him closely, but there was no bitterness in his tone. “Why does she hate you, Tarja?”
Tarja shrugged. “Who knows? For that matter, who cares?”
“I care.”
He took her hand in his. “I know you care, R’shiel. That’s because no matter how hard Joyhinia tries to mould you into another version of herself, there is a part of you she can’t seem to corrupt. I hope she never succeeds.”
Uncomfortable with Tarja’s scrutiny, R’shiel forced herself to scowl at him. “You’re not suggesting I won’t make a good Sister, are you, Captain?”
“From what I hear, you’ll be lucky to make the Blue at all, R’shiel.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Isn’t it?” He looked at her sceptically.
“Well, maybe it is,” she conceded. “But I don’t ever recall being asked if I actually wanted to be a Sister. Joyhinia just assumed that I would.”
“And what would you do if you didn’t take the Blue?” he asked. “You’re singularly unsuited for anything else. Joyhinia has seen to that.”
She thought for a moment. What would I do, if I refused to follow the path Joyhinia has so clearly laid out for me? The fact that she couldn’t come up with an answer was disturbing. Perhaps that was why she teetered on the brink of outright defiance, instead of taking that last, final step. There was nothing beyond.
“Tell me about the Arena, Tarja,” she said. Joyhinia was not a comfortable subject for either of them. Besides, he would know what had really happened in the aftermath of the brutal fight. “Is it true that Georj is dead? Kilene said he was dead before he left the Arena.”
Tarja nodded. “I’m sorry, R’shiel.”
For a moment, R’shiel saw her own grief reflected in his eyes, but he covered it easily. He had dealt with death too often, and was hardened to it.
“What did Lord Jenga do to Loclon?” she asked.
“There’s nothing he can do, R’shiel. There is no rank in the Arena and no written rules. Georj went in knowing the risk he took.”
R’shiel was appalled. “But he was murdered! Loclon is a monster!”
“Well, Loclon didn’t win himself any friends, but that doesn’t make him a monster. Men have died in the Arena before,” he reminded her. “Loclon might have let his bloodlust get the better of him, but it was Georj who kept fighting.”
“I can’t believe you’re defending him, Tarja! Georj was your best friend!”
“I’m not defending him, or what he did. But Georj was a fool for not realising the sort of man Loclon was. Know your enemy, R’shiel. It’s the first rule of combat.”
“You should have killed Loclon when you had the chance.”
“To what purpose?”
“To rid the world of him!” she declared. “He is evil. If I believed in the heathen stories I’d say he was their demon child!”
Tarja looked at her curiously. “Evil? You haven’t been sneaking a peek at those pagan murals again, have you?” When she glared at him angrily, he shrugged. “If it’s any consolation, Jenga’s talking of transferring him to the Grimfield.”
R’shiel was only slightly mollified by the news. The Grimfield was Medalon’s prison town and the Defenders who guarded it, like the prisoners who peopled it, were the dregs of Medalon. A posting to the Grimfield was the end of any promising career.
“That’s something, I suppose,” she grumbled. “Though it seems too lenient, to my mind.”
“I shall inform the Lord Defender of your displeasure,” Tarja told her solemnly.
“Don’t patronise me, Tarja! I’m not a child.”
“Then accept the reality, R’shiel, Georj took a risk and he paid the price. The simple solution would have been to refuse Loclon in the first place.”
“Like you did?”
“I’ve no need to prove myself against the Loclons of this world. I’ve met much more worthy opponents.”
R’shiel sighed. “I will never understand you.”
“Good. You’re not supposed to.”
“Where do you get all this big brother nonsense from?” she demanded. “Every time you want to weasel out of explaining yourself, I get the same excuse.”
He smiled, but refused to answer. “You take care of yourself, young lady. Big brother will be checking on you when he gets back.”
She hurled a pillow at him, wishing it was something more substantial. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“Up north,” he said as he ducked. “Garet Warner wants me to check on something.”
R’shiel’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you working with him? You’re a cavalry officer, not intelligence.”
“You mean I’m all brawn and no brains?”
She frowned in annoyance. “You know what I mean. Garet Warner is always plotting and planning something. Mother hates him. She says he’s the most dangerous man in the Defenders. If she had her way, he’d be removed.”
“Then let’s hope she never gets her way,” Tarja said. “But you needn’t fear, R’shiel. All I’m doing is a survey of the northern border villages. There are no deep plots involved.”
“Well, be careful, anyway,” she ordered.
“As you command, my Lady,” he replied with a small bow.
R’shiel frowned, certain he was making fun of her, but she had nothing left to throw. “When will you be ba
ck?”
“With luck, by Founders’ Day. I shall make a point of being here, just to annoy Joyhinia, if for no other reason.”
“Since when have you cared about riding in the Founders’ Day Parade?”
Tarja looked entirely too smug. “Mahina is going to announce some changes. I want to be where I can see the look on our beloved mother’s face.” He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead, something he had not done since she was a small child. “Take care, R’shiel.”
“You too,” she replied, but when she opened her eyes he was gone.
CHAPTER 9
For three weeks Tarja and his small troop rode north towards the sparsely populated high plains on the border with Karien. As they neared the border the snowcapped Sanctuary Mountains in the distance loomed closer every day on the western horizon and the air grew chill with the onset of the coming winter. Low clouds gathered, blocking out the sun, but did little more than threaten rain, for which they were grateful. In a few weeks, the same clouds would gather over the mountains and bring snow to the high plains. Tarja hoped to be long back at the Citadel before that happened.
Garet had sent Tarja north to survey the villages close to the border for logistical reasons. He wanted a cavalry officer’s view of their ability to cope with the influx of Defenders that construction of fortifications on the border would entail. There also were the long-term effects of a permanent garrison to consider. Although horses could be grazed, a cavalry mount ate about 20 pounds of feed a day, which would have to be shipped to the border, along with everything else the garrison needed. Garet speculated that convenience, as much as trust, had kept the treaty with the Kariens alive so long. Having seen how inadequate the villages north of the Glass River were for the task, Tarja was inclined to agree with him.
The most vulnerable point on the border between Medalon and Karien was this high grassy plain, where the mountains ceased abruptly, exposing an open and undefended expanse of knee-high grass which was rapidly browning as winter approached. Tarja and his small party reached the crumbling border keep, the only sign of human habitation on the plain, on the first day of Brigedda. He remembered the date as he rode at a trot towards the old keep, wondering who Brigedda had been. All the Medalonian months were named for the Founding Sisters, some of whom, like Param, who had wrested control of Medalon from the Harshini and established the Sisterhood’s government over Medalon, were quite famous. Others, like Brigedda, were remembered for no other reason than their names now marked the changing of the seasons.
He had not even realised this old keep was out here, until the innkeeper in Lilyvale had mentioned it to him. Curiosity had gotten the better of him and he judged they had the time for a small detour. One look at the distant ruin was enough to convince him that strategically, it was useless.
The keep was still some distance away when Tarja slowed his horse to a walk. Five small mounds of freshly turned dirt, topped with bunches of wilted wildflowers, were spaced at intervals beside the faint track that led to the keep. He stopped and dismounted, followed by Davydd Tailorson, the lieutenant Garet had assigned to him. He was a brown-haired, serious young man. Tarja had come to enjoy his quiet company. On the rare occasion he offered his opinion, it was usually an astute one. Davydd examined the mounds with a slight frown.
“Pagan graves,” he remarked, squatting down beside the closest mound.
“And too small to be adults,” Tarja agreed, glancing towards the abandoned keep.
“What do you suppose they’re doing way out here?”
“Better here than close to a town. Perhaps they thought no one would find them in such an isolated place.”
Davydd stood up and followed Tarja’s gaze towards the keep. “Or perhaps the keep isn’t abandoned?”
“Well, there’s one way to establish that for certain, isn’t there?”
Davydd nodded and re-mounted his horse. Tarja followed suit and waved to the four troopers who accompanied them to move out. The two officers rode side by side at a walk, making no gestures that could be construed as threatening—although if there were heathens hiding in the ruin, their uniforms would be threat enough.
“You know, it just occurred to me,” Davydd remarked, “that red coats against a background of brown grass make us an excellent target.”
Tarja glanced at Davydd and laughed. “I should introduce you to a certain Captain Gawn, currently stationed on our southern border. He has first hand knowledge of the perils of brandishing one’s uniform against a brown background when there are enemy archers in the vicinity. But, I think in this case, we’re safe enough.”
“Unless the heathens in the keep are followers of Zegarnald.”
“If they followed Zegarnald, they’d be heading south. There isn’t much point in worshipping the God of War out here in the middle of nowhere, where there’s no one to fight.”
As they approached the keep, Tarja noted signs of human habitation. A small field had been cleared and planted along the western side of the ruin. Stones from the crumbling wall had been painstakingly dragged to form a rough enclosure that housed a thin milk cow and several unshorn sheep. The faint smell of burning dung reached his nose. On this treeless plain there would be no wood to burn. They rode past the wall and into the rubble-strewn courtyard, where a boiling copper sat unattended over an open fire. There was no sign of the inhabitants.
They stopped and waited for a while, to see if anyone would approach. The air was still. The smouldering dung stung Tarja’s nostrils.
He finally turned in his saddle and yelled: “Show yourselves!”
The keep was silent except for a slight breeze that stirred the dusty yard and the creaking of leather as the horses tossed their heads, as curious about this place as their riders.
“We mean you no harm!”
They waited in silence for a long moment until a figure appeared from behind the fallen wall of what had probably been the main hall. She was a thin woman of late middle years, dressed in rough peasant homespun, a toddler clutched at her hip. She eyed the soldiers warily, staying close to the wall.
“If you mean us no harm, then leave now,” she said, her cultured accent belying her rough clothing.
Tarja stayed on his horse, making no move towards her. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a boy, perhaps ten or twelve years old, hiding up on the decaying steps of the old tower to his left.
“It will be night soon, Mistress,” Tarja pointed out. “This is the only shelter for miles and it looks like rain. Would you deny us what little comfort there is to be had on this barren plain?”
The woman took a step closer and glared at him. “You and your kind would deny me, quick enough. Do you really think I care if your men suffer a little, Captain?”
“But Kalianah, the Goddess of Love, says that all bounty should be shared,” Davydd answered, before Tarja could reply. He glanced at the younger man in surprise and then followed his gaze to the amulet hanging from a leather thong around the woman’s neck. It was an acorn tied together with several soft white feathers. The symbol of Kalianah. Tarja had seen some of Damin Wolfblade’s Raiders wearing the same amulet. The woman looked both startled and annoyed to have her own beliefs used against her by a Defender. “You speak the words, young man, but you have no idea of their true meaning. Leave us in peace. We harm nobody here.”
By now, Tarja had caught sight of another half dozen or more children hiding in the ruins. Was she alone out here, with all these children?
“We could insist, Mistress,” he warned.
The woman snorted at him contemptuously. “Have the Defenders fallen so low that they would attack women and children for the sake of a night out of the rain, Captain?” she asked, bending down to place the child on the ground. It looked up at the soldiers with wide eyes, sucking its thumb nervously. The woman walked across the yard and stood beside Tarja’s horse, looking up at him. “I had respect for the Defenders once, Captain, but no longer. Give me one reason
why I should share anything with your kind?”
“You have no need to share anything, Mistress,” Tarja replied, meeting her accusing gaze. “We will share with you.”
The woman looked at him doubtfully. “You’re not ordinary Defenders, are you? Intelligence Corps is my guess. Nasty as the rest of them, but marginally better educated. Well, we are finished here anyway, now that you’ve found us. If you mean what you say about sharing, then I’ll take whatever you can spare. I’ve seventeen motherless children to care for and I’m not too proud to accept charity.”
Tarja dismounted carefully, anxious not to threaten the woman and her odd brood any more than he already had. He was curious about these children. He had seen heathen cults aplenty across the length and breadth of Medalon, but never anything that so closely resembled an orphanage. As they dismounted more children appeared, staring at the Defenders silently from the safety of the crumbling walls. To a child they were ragged and thin. None wore shoes, their feet bound with rags against the cold. It was more than likely they would not survive a winter here. Tarja called forward the trooper leading the packhorses and ordered him to leave them enough for their return journey, and to give the rest to the woman. The trooper nodded and went about his task without question. That surprised Tarja a little. He was expecting some resistance. After all, feeding a bunch of starving heathens was hardly the patriotic thing to do.
“Where do all these children come from?” he asked as another trooper took his horse and Davydd’s to be unsaddled and watered.
The woman looked at him sharply, as if expecting the question to be the beginning of an interrogation. “Why do you want to know that?”
When Tarja didn’t answer, she shrugged, as if too tired to argue with him.
“They’re orphans, mostly. Their parents were accused of being heathens, or worse. Some were sentenced to the Grimfield or killed by Defenders. Not fighting, mind you, simply trying to save their homes from wanton destruction. I would ask that you tread carefully here, Captain. Most of these children associate that uniform with death.”
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