Medalon

by Jennifer Fallon

  Brak walked away from the darkened farmhouse, between long lines of withered vines, pondering the problem. The note from Joyhinia was a trap, perhaps, but the real danger to these rebels came from within. Tarja was smart enough to see the problem; Brak didn’t worry about him. In fact, despite Tarja’s obvious distrust, he quite liked the man. R’shiel, however, could best help the rebels by getting herself killed in the next available skirmish.

  “Why so miserable, Brakandaran?”

  He started at the voice and looked around. The night was dark, the air still and cool. He felt the presence of the goddess but couldn’t see her.

  “Kalianah?”

  “You do remember me!” The figure of a small child appeared between the wilted vines. She had a cloud of fair hair and wore a pale flimsy shift that rippled in the still air with every move she made. Her feet were bare and hovering just above the ground. “I told the others that just because you hadn’t spoken to us for so long, it didn’t mean you’d forgotten us.”

  “How could I forget you, Kalianah?” he asked. As the Goddess of Love glided toward him, he could feel her power radiating from her like a cheery fire on a cold night. She was hard to resist in this form.

  “That’s what I told Zegarnald,” she agreed, settling on the ground in front of him. She looked up with wide eyes and frowned. “You are too tall, Brakandaran. Come down here.”

  “Why don’t you just make yourself taller?” he suggested. Kalianah could chose any form she liked, but she often appeared as a child. Everybody loved children.

  “Because I’m a god and you’re a mortal,” she told him. “I get to make the rules.”

  He squatted down to face her, resisting her efforts to overwhelm him with her essence. “What do you want, Kalianah?”

  “I want to know what’s taking you so long,” she said. “Well, no, that’s not true. I just want you to love me. It’s Zegarnald who wants to know. You’ve found the demon child. It’s time you took her home.”

  “Since when have you been Zegarnald’s messenger?” he asked. Twice now, a goddess had appeared at the War God’s behest. Such cooperation among the immortals was unusual. Zegarnald might be able to order the weaker River Goddess around, but Kalianah did no one’s bidding.

  “I am not his messenger,” she protested. “I just happen to agree with him. Besides, I wanted to see you. You’ve been gone from Sanctuary so long. And you never talk to me any more.”

  “I’ve been gone twenty years, Kalianah. You’ve probably only just noticed I was missing.”

  “That’s not true! Pick me up!”

  Brak did as she bade him and she wrapped her thin arms around his neck, laying her head on his shoulder. “Do you love me, Brakandaran?”

  “Everybody loves you, Kali. They can’t help it.”

  “Does the demon child love me, too?”

  “She worships you,” Brak assured her.

  “I want to see her!” Kalianah announced. She wiggled out of his grasp and landed on the soft earth without making a mark. “Show her to me!”

  “You want me to take you into a cellar full of mortals just so I can point her out? You’re a god. Can’t you find her yourself?”

  “Of course I can! But I want you to do it. And because I’m a goddess, you have to do as I say!”

  Brak sighed. “Very well. But not until you change into something more grown up. I can’t take you in there looking like that.”

  Instantly the child before him vanished and a plain young woman, dressed in a simple homespun dress, took her place. “Is that better?”

  “I suppose.” Somewhat reluctantly, he headed back towards the farmhouse with the goddess at his side. When he glanced down, he discovered her gliding over the ground. “Walk, dammit! Unless you want to cause a riot by announcing who you are!”

  “There’s no need to be rude, Brakandaran. I forget sometimes, that’s all.”

  As they neared the small stone wall that enclosed the yard, Brak held out his hand to halt her. A spill of yellow light appeared as the door opened and two figures appeared. It was Tarja leading R’shiel by the hand, none too gently. He pulled her around to the side of the house, turning on her as she pulled free of him.

  “Just what in the Seven Hells do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

  Brak’s eyes darkened as he drew on enough power to conceal his presence. He did not try to include Kalianah. No mortal ever saw her when she didn’t want them to.

  “I’m helping them fight for their beliefs!” R’shiel retorted.

  “You don’t give a damn about what these people believe in! You’re doing this to get revenge on Joyhinia!”

  “Now there’s a mortal who needs my help,” Kalianah sighed. Brak put a finger to his lips, urging her to silence. He wanted to hear the rest of this.

  “So what if I do?” R’shiel declared. “What do you care? You just want to pretend you’re still in the Defenders by turning this rabble into your own private little army. Next you’ll be asking them to swear an oath!”

  Ouch! thought Brak. R’shiel knew better than anyone what breaking his oath to the Defenders had cost Tarja.

  “That girl needs someone to love her,” Kalianah said. “Shall I make them fall in love, do you think?”

  “Sshh!”

  “At least they’d be swearing to something they believe in, R’shiel,” Tarja replied, his voice so low, Brak could barely make it out. “You don’t believe in anything.”

  “And you do?” she asked. “You don’t hold with these pagan gods any more than I. Perhaps Mandah’s kisses have so addled your brain that you’re starting to believe in them?”

  “She’s jealous, that’s a good sign.”

  “Kali, shut up!”

  “Leave Mandah out of this, R’shiel,” Tarja warned.

  “Oh! Did I say something to offend your insipid little girlfriend? Founders, I am so sick of that girl! She only has to look in your direction and you go running! You accuse me of using these people to get revenge on Joyhinia. Well, Captain, if you want my opinion, you’re here because you enjoy being worshipped like one of her damned gods! Have you slept with her yet?”

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 21

  It was just on dawn when Tarja finally admitted to himself that he would get no more sleep this night. He rose from his m
akeshift 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 bathe
d 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.”