Medalon

by Jennifer Fallon

  The human part of Brak was telling him Tarja should have simply ignored the note from Joyhinia. The Harshini part of him was advising patience. Some things were meant to be.

  Lord Draco did not rise from his seat as Tarja approached—a deliberate insult—although the captain with him did. Tarja stopped a few paces from the two men and looked at them expectantly. The silence in the tavern was heavy. The tavern keeper and his wenches had made themselves scarce. There was nobody left in the room who was not directly connected with this meeting.

  “Tarja,” the captain said finally, breaking the thick silence.

  “Nheal,” Tarja replied with a cautious nod. “Lord Draco.”

  Draco glared at Tarja.

  “Fetch them,” Draco ordered.

  Nheal disappeared into the kitchen as Tarja and Draco continued to look at each other with open hostility. He returned in a few moments with several other Defenders, dressed in their distinctive red uniforms. Between them, they dragged Ghari, Rodric, Tarl and Drenin, the four rebels who had ridden into Testra the night before to ensure Tarja was not walking into a trap.

  Brak shook his head. They were all too young, too enthusiastic and too hotheaded for this sort of work. The young men were bound with heavy ropes and all bore evidence of beatings. Ghari looked the worst, but he had probably resisted the most, so it was hardly surprising he had fared the poorest in custody.

  As the rebels were hustled into the room, a sudden change came over Draco. He stood up and approached Tarja.

  “Thank you, Captain,” he said, as if the younger man was his best friend, his most trusted ally. “You’ve been a great help. The First Sister will no doubt give you a hero’s welcome when you return to the Citadel. Did they never suspect you?”

  Tarja’s expression was puzzled for a moment, until he realised what Draco was doing. Ghari, however, understood immediately what Draco was implying and lunged forward in his captor’s arms toward Tarja.

  “You lying, traitorous, son-of-a-bitch!” he cried. “You’re a spy!”

  “Draco is lying,” Tarja warned Ghari, his tone admirably even under the circumstances. Brak thought he sounded shocked, as if he couldn’t believe a Defender would be capable of such a blatant lie. In his own way, Brak thought, Tarja could be remarkably naive. “He’s trying to make you believe I betrayed you. Don’t listen to him.”

  “Come now, Tarja,” Draco laughed. “There’s no need for pretence any longer. I’ll wager you’re looking forward to getting home, eh?”

  Tarja glared at Draco. “This is your idea of negotiating peace?”

  “What peace?” Draco shrugged. “The pagans must be destroyed. And you are sworn to the Defenders until death. Did these fools really believe you would betray your oath so readily?”

  Draco turned to Nheal. “Let one of them go. When they hear the news about Tarja the blow to their morale should be devastating. Take the rest to the boat. We’ll hang them when we get to the Citadel.”

  Nheal saluted, then bustled the prisoners out of the room. As soon as they were gone, Draco stepped closer to Tarja and delivered a stinging blow across the former captain’s cheek. “You are a disgrace to the Corps. I would kill you myself, if the choice were mine.”

  Tarja took a step backwards, unsheathing his sword in one fluid movement. As soon as he touched his weapon, the disguised Defenders sitting by the door leapt to their feet, ready to take him from behind. Draco held up his hand, forestalling them. He looked at Tarja contemptuously. The rebel was poised on the balls of his feet, ready and anxious to fight his way clear. There would be no negotiations. Brak wondered if Tarja was regretting his decision to come or simply concentrating on getting out of the tavern in one piece.

  “I’ll not give you the satisfaction of throwing yourself on a blade,” Draco told him. “If you resist, I will slit the throats of the prisoners now. Put down your sword or watch your heathen comrades die. The choice is yours.”

  Tarja hesitated for a moment, his blue eyes blazing with anger and frustration. Brak felt for him, but made no move to intervene. Thanks to Kalianah’s ill-timed intervention, Tarja was linked to R’shiel more closely than he could imagine. Kalianah, having gone to the trouble of making him fall in love with her, would not allow anything as inconvenient as a death sentence ruin her plans. Tarja might suffer a little, but Kalianah would not permit him to die.

  Tarja glanced around the taproom quickly, no doubt looking for Brak, but the illusion he had drawn around himself made his eyes pass over Brak without pause. Once Tarja had lost sight of him on entering the Tavern, he wouldn’t find him again until Brak willed it. He saw the look of disappointment and betrayal that flickered over Tarja’s face and knew that the next time they met, he would have a lot of explaining to do.

  “You’re going to kill them anyway,” Tarja pointed out. “What difference does it make?”

  Draco considered the matter for a moment then nodded. “A valid point. Sergeant, fetch the innkeeper.”

  The man in question must have been listening at the door. Almost before Draco had finished speaking, he appeared, wiping his hands on his apron, anxious to be of service, his balding head sheened with sweat.

  “My Lord?” he asked obsequiously.

  “Come here,” Draco replied evenly. Without warning, he grabbed the innkeeper’s arm, and jerked the man off his feet. As the innkeeper hit the rush-covered floor with a startled cry, Draco snatched his own sword from its scabbard and placing a booted foot on the terrified man’s chest, held the point just above his throat. He glanced up at Tarja.

  “Perhaps a few civilian corpses will change your mind,” he remarked callously. “The innkeeper first, then his daughters, perhaps? I’m in no hurry.”

  Brak could imagine what was going through Tarja’s mind. He could almost see him calculating his chances of reaching Draco before he plunged his sword into the innkeeper’s throat, judging distances out of the corner of his eye, marking the position of the men behind him. The odds were hopeless. Brak said a silent prayer to Jondalup, the God of Chance, that Tarja would realise it.

  Jondalup must have heard him. Tarja hesitated for a moment then threw his sword down. The two men behind him were on him in an instant. Brak winced as he watched Tarja overwhelmed with brutal enthusiasm by the soldiers. Draco stood back and let the innkeeper scramble to his feet and flee the room. He sheathed his sword with an expression of intense satisfaction and ordered Tarja taken out the back way. Brak debated following them, then decided against it. He would be better off helping Ghari and the others escape. It would ease his conscience a little, at any rate. For now, Tarja was on his way back to the Citadel, and that was exactly what Brak wanted.

  All he had to do now, was find R’shiel.

  CHAPTER 24

  R’shiel had been raised to believe that tears were a sign of weakness. She had not cried as child. Not when she was whipped for being defiant. She never shed a tear when Joyhinia had her pony put down after she caught R’shiel trying to run away, rather than join the Novices when she was twelve. She didn’t cry over anything, not even when Georj was killed. But as she fled Tarja in the darkness, tears she had bottled up for years burst forth, determined to undo her.

  She ran blindly through the vineyard for a time until she reached the marshy ground on the edge of the river. Sinking to her knees on the damp ground, she sobbed like a child. The worst of it was that she didn’t even know why she was crying. It couldn’t have been the argument—she and Tarja had so many these days. And it wasn’t because he kissed her. She had long ago stopped thinking of him as her brother and was envious enough of Mandah to recognise jealousy when she felt it. Perhaps it was because he didn’t want to kiss her, that he had done it against his better judgement. His expression when he finally let her go was enough to tell her that he regretted it.

  “Why are you crying?”

  R’shiel had turned at the voice, startled to find a little girl watching her curiously. The child had bare feet and wore
a flimsy shift, yet she appeared unperturbed by the cool night. R’shiel had not seen the girl before. No doubt she belonged to one of the many heathen families who sought refuge at the vineyard. R’shiel’s instinctive reaction to snap at the child and send her on her way suddenly dissipated as the child stepped closer.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, wiping her eyes.

  “Is it because you fought with Tarja?” the child asked.

  “How do you know I fought with Tarja?”

  “You don’t have to worry about him,” the child assured her. “He loves you. He’ll only ever love you. Kalianah has made sure of that.”

  “Your legendary Goddess of Love? I don’t think so. And anyway, how would you know?” R’shiel couldn’t understand why she was bothering with this child. She should just order her back to the house. It must be well past her bedtime.

  “I am named for the goddess,” the child said. “She and I are very…close.”

  “Well, next time you see her, tell her to mind her own damned business,” R’shiel said, climbing to her feet and wringing out her sodden skirts. She wiped away the last of her tears and sniffed inelegantly.

  “I know why you’re crying.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s because Tarja’s mad at you.”

  “Mad at me?” she scoffed. “He thinks I’m a monster.”

  “Why?”

  R’shiel looked at the child irritably. “Because he thinks I’m just in this to get back at Joyhinia!”

  “Well, aren’t you?”

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “I’m your friend,” the little girl told her. “And I think you need to get over Joyhinia. You’ve much more important things to do.”

  “You don’t know anything about me, you impudent little brat! Go back to your family. You shouldn’t be out this late anyway!”

  The child looked rather put out. “Nobody has ever called me a brat before!”

  “Well, it won’t be the last time, I’ll wager. Now, go away and leave me alone!” R’shiel turned her back on the child and stared out over the black surface of the Glass River.

  “You’re the spoilt brat,” the child retorted loftily. “You’ve spent your whole life as a privileged member of a ruling class and now you want to punish them for making you suffer. If you want my opinion, you’ve got a chip on your shoulder the size of the Seeing Stone and the sooner you deal with it the better. I thought if somebody loved you, you’d be much more amenable! I don’t know why I bothered!”

  Startled by the child’s very unchildish outburst, R’shiel spun around, but she was alone. There was no sign of the girl. Not even footprints in the soft ground. There was nothing but a small acorn tied with white feathers where the child had been standing. R’shiel picked up the amulet and studied it for a moment before hurling it into the dark waters of the Glass River.

  More than six weeks later, as the white spires of the Citadel loomed in the distance, R’shiel was still wondering what the child meant.

  She had been right about one thing, though, and so had Tarja. Her anger was directed at Joyhinia, and until she dealt with it, it would fester like a gangrenous wound, eating away at her until nothing was left but a hard bitter shell. So she had gone back to the cellars, gathered her few meagre belongings, and set out on foot for Testra. She had told no one of her intentions. She didn’t want to explain herself to Tarja and she doubted if anybody else really cared.

  On reaching Testra, R’shiel had traded her silver hand mirror for passage on the ferry to Vanahiem on the other side of the river and begun heading on foot to the Citadel. During her second day on the road she was fortunate enough to hitch a lift with a stout couple from Vanahiem delivering furniture for their newly married son in Reddingdale. Their names were Holdarn and Preena Carpenter. She told them she was a Probate on her way back to the Citadel after her mother had died in the Mountains. It was barely even a lie. The couple had been so considerate, so solicitous of her comfort, that she almost regretted her deception. When they reached Reddingdale, Holdarn paid for passage on a freight barge to Brodenvale for her, claiming a Probate shouldn’t have to walk all that way. R’shiel tried to refuse their generosity, but they would hear nothing of it. So she had reached Brodenvale far sooner than she expected, and from there undertook the relatively short overland trek to the Citadel.

  The road was busy, filled with oxen-drawn wagons, Defenders on horseback, farmers pulling handcarts laden with vegetables and people either heading for, or away from, the Citadel on business R’shiel didn’t care about. She did worry that somebody might recognise her. Although it was unlikely she was known to any of the enlisted men, there were many officers in the Defenders who knew her by sight. Fortunately, the weather was cool and her simple homespun cloak had a deep hood that shadowed her face. She stooped a little as she pushed through the gate, but the Defenders ignored her. A lone woman was hardly worthy of notice, amid the traffic heading into the Citadel.

  That hurdle successfully negotiated, she breathed a sigh of relief, although she still had no clear idea of what she planned to do. Her impulsive decision to confront the source of her anger and pain had not really manifested itself in a plan of action. There were ten thousand things she wanted to say to Joyhinia, but she could hardly just walk up the steps of the Great Hall and announce herself. Nor was there anybody in the Citadel she really trusted not to betray her presence. Certainly none of her former roommates in the Dormitories. She was sure of only one thing: that she would be arrested on sight if she was recognised. That fact presented a dilemma which she had still not resolved, even after six weeks of considering the problem.

  R’shiel walked toward the centre of the city, head bowed, looking neither right nor left for fear of meeting a familiar eye. Consequently, she didn’t notice at first the crowd gathering on the roadside. It was hearing Tarja’s name that finally alerted her. It rippled through the street like a whisper of excitement. She was caught up in the crowd as she neared the Great Hall and found herself well placed to watch the progress of the small army that escorted Tarja to justice.

  And a small army it was. There must have been two hundred Defenders in their smart, silver-buttoned short red jackets, all mounted on sturdy, broad-chested horses. Tarja rode at the centre of his escort, his mount on a lead rein, his hands tied behind his back.

  Her mouth went dry as she watched him. R’shiel felt no pleasure in discovering that she had been right regarding the meeting with Draco. She had known it would be a trap. Tarja probably knew it, too. He sat tall in the saddle, but his dark hair was unkempt among his closely cropped guard. He had been beaten, that much was obvious, but that he was still alive at all was a feat in itself. He was dressed in leather breeches and a bloodstained white shirt. He was the stuff rebel heroes were made of, she thought with a despairing shake of her head, despite the black eyes and swollen lips. Handsome, strong and defiant. It was not hard to see why he had so much sympathy among the heathens and a lot of atheists who should know better.

  As they reached the Great Hall he looked around him at the thousands of Sisters, Novices, Probates, Defenders, servants and visitors to the Citadel who were lining every balcony and roadway of the city to watch him brought in. R’shiel thought that Tarja did not look like a defeated man—angry perhaps, but not defeated. He rode as if his escort was a guard of honour. He even wore the same slightly mocking, vaguely patronising expression that he did when he was teasing her.

  “The poor man,” someone in front of her whispered. “How humiliating for him.”

  How hard was it to ride back into the heart of the Citadel, having deserted the Corps? she wondered. Is he dying a little inside?

  “He’s so brave,” a female voice sighed wistfully.

  “He’s a traitor,” someone else added.

  “They said he was going to be the next Lord Defender.”

  “He’s going to be a corpse, now,” another wit pointed out, which brought a chuckle from a fe
w, and a sorrowful sigh from the others.

  The column came to an impressive, synchronised halt in the centre of the street. The Lord Defender, with Garet Warner, came down from the shadowed steps of the Great Hall, or rather Francil’s Hall, as it was now known, to confront them. R’shiel thought it strange that the Sisterhood was allowing the Defenders to deal with Tarja and not taking a direct hand in his arrest. She half-expected to see the entire Quorum standing there, ready to condemn the traitor. But Tarja had been a Captain of the Defenders and was a deserter, in addition to his other crimes. Maybe Joyhinia thought the Defenders would exact a more fitting punishment. Draco wheeled his horse around to speak to the Lord Defender.

  “I wish we could hear what they’re saying,” someone whispered. The crowd was strangely quiet, straining to catch a few words of the exchange. Anticipation charged the air like a summer storm. It seemed the entire Citadel was holding its breath. R’shiel watched and listened as the voices floated across the street on the preternaturally silent air.

  “It is my pleasure to hand over the deserter Tarjanian Tenragan, my Lord,” Draco announced, obviously aware of the huge audience he was playing to. It was not often the Spear of the First Sister took a direct hand in any action and Draco had achieved the impossible. He had done what Jenga had been unable to. He had captured Tarja.

  “Has he been any trouble?” the Lord Defender asked, glancing at Tarja.

  “Once he realised he was overwhelmed, he came quietly enough.”

  “And the rest of his rebels?”

  “He came alone,” Draco said. “Bearing in mind that the First Sister ordered him taken alive, I thought it better to leave his interrogation to you.”

  “Just as well, I suppose,” The Lord Defender grunted. “He probably would have died before he told you anything. Bring him here.”

  Tarja must have heard the exchange as he swung his leg over the saddle and jumped nimbly to the ground before anyone could reach him. He bounded up the steps and bowed to the Lord Defender, unhampered by the binding which held his hands behind his back.