Medalon

by Jennifer Fallon

  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.

  PART 3

  THE PURGE

  CHAPTER 15

  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.

  CHAPTER 16

  The day was as bleak as Jenga’s mood as he headed across the parade ground toward his office to the tattoo of booted feet as a squad of fourth-year Cadets practiced formation marching. The Citadel looked as unchanged as it had yesterday or the day before. The domes and spires still sparkled in the dull light. The Brightening and Dimming still waxed and waned as it had for two millennia or more. Winter was slowly relinquishing its grip on the highlands and soon the plains would bloom with their carpet of spring flowers. But for now, the day was cold and miserable and Jenga was looking forward to the warmth his office promised. It seemed to have been such a long winter.

  The atmosphere in the Citadel had changed dramatically after the fateful Gathering at the beginning of winter that saw Mahina unseated, the first time in living memory such a startling event had occurred. There was an air of tension now that permeated every part of the Citadel from the taverns to the Dormitories, from the Sisters of the Quorum to the lowliest pig-herder.

  The Defenders were on constant alert as Joyhinia kept her promise to the Karien Envoy. Daily, red-coated patrols marched or rode out of the Citadel, returning days or weeks later, grim-faced and silent, with wagonloads of helpless-looking prisoners accused of following the heathen gods. Some of them were little more than children. It was obvious to everyone that the Defenders didn’t agree with the Purge, but the Lord Defender had sworn an oath. Jenga had been forced to discipline more than one of his officers for voicing opinions at odds with the First Sister’s policy of suppression. It was his duty.

  To cater for the sudden increase of accused heathens, Joyhinia had set up a special court, chaired by Harith, which dealt with the influx of prisoners requiring trial. From what Jenga had seen, the trials were little more than a formality, the sentences the same, regardless of circumstance. Arrest was proof enough of guilt and every Fourthday another caravan of tried and convicted heathens was dispatched to the Grimfield mines, where before the prisoners of the Citadel had only needed to be dispatched once a month. Jenga found himself constantly having to remind hi
s men to be certain, beyond doubt, before they arrested anyone, while Joyhinia undermined him by addressing the Defenders personally, telling them that suspicion was enough. Where there is smoke there is fire, the First Sister was fond of saying.

  In the aftermath of Mahina’s removal, Wilem Cortanen, Mahina’s son, was hastily appointed as Commandant of the Grimfield and was gone from the Citadel within days, his mother, now officially retired, and his dreadful wife Crisabelle in tow. To Jenga’s mind, it was the one bright spot in the whole miserable affair. Many might regret Mahina’s banishment and it was common knowledge that Wilem’s posting was not to his liking, although he was well qualified for the post and would undoubtedly prove an effective administrator. But nobody in the Citadel, Jenga thought, was going to miss Crisabelle.

  Lord Pieter had stayed at the Citadel until the day before, when he rode out of the gates with a full guard of honour to escort him to Brodenvale. He had stayed through the winter—partly to supervise the implementation of the Purge and partly because he wanted to sail home. He had no choice but to wait while his ship sailed north against the current to the nearest port. The Saran River that flowed past the Citadel was too shallow to be navigable. News had finally come that the ship had docked in Brodenvale and planned to take full advantage of the spring flood to hasten the Envoy’s journey home. Lord Pieter had cooled his heels in the Citadel, frustrated and helpless under Elfron’s watchful eyes, for long enough.

  Lord Pieter had not had a moment’s privacy in the three months he spent at the Citadel. The rest of the Envoy’s party, including Elfron’s nuns, had shared the protection of the Envoy between them, apparently terrified that he might be tempted into sin by some wicked atheist. Jenga wondered if the Karien clergy had any inkling of Pieter’s behaviour when he came to the Citadel without them. The nuns were dedicated in their duty and Pieter’s frustration was a palpable thing. He waited and fretted, and spent a vexatious winter of abstinence. Elfron had looked thoroughly miserable riding out of the Citadel empty handed. Jenga still had no clue as to why the priest wanted R’shiel, and even Pieter seemed annoyed when the priest suggested they wait at the Citadel until she was found. Whatever the priest had in mind for the girl, Pieter didn’t share his enthusiasm. He wanted to go home.