The rebels called a meeting and passed their own sentence. Tarja would die, they declared. The more slowly and painfully the better, Ghari amended. Brak heard the news with mixed feelings. He did not want the man to die, but he suspected the first thing Tarja would do the next time they met was try to kill him.
It was with some relief that Brak learnt R’shiel had also been sentenced to the Grimfield. She was long gone from the vineyard by the time he realised she had run away and even the gods had ignored his pleas for help in locating her. Kalianah did not visit him again and Maera was too vague to be of any use. He cursed Kalianah’s interference and his own ineptitude. He had been so certain Mandah was the one he sought, he refused to see the truth about R’shiel. Even if her unusual height, or her dark red, té Ortyn hair, had not alerted him, her anger should have. He knew what it was to burn with a rage that sought any outlet it could find. If he had not been so blind, he could have picked it a league away. He had made the mistake of thinking the demon child would be Harshini, when in fact, the one she resembled most was himself—a half-breed hungering for a balance between two irreconcilable natures.
The only way to find R’shiel and ensure Tarja’s sentence wasn’t carried out was to volunteer for the job of assassin himself, hence his arrival in the Grimfield with Khira. Padric did not entirely trust him, although rescuing Ghari and his friends from the Defenders in Testra had gone a long way to easing the old man’s mind. He had argued that he couldn’t just ride into the Grimfield and run a sword through Tarja, who would be guarded for fear of that very thing. Mandah had agreed that the only way to be certain was to send someone to the Grimfield to investigate. Besides, she thought Tarja should be given a chance to explain, but then Mandah was like that. She tended to think the best of everyone.
The physic Khira had volunteered her services and their mission had been set. Khira had not lied to Wilem about the reason she left Testra. She really had been expelled from the Physics Guild for performing illegal abortions. Unfortunately for Khira, her customers had mostly been poor young women from provincial towns. The Sisterhood professed an extreme abhorrence to the practice, but any Probate or Novice who found herself in the same situation was dealt with quietly and efficiently by the physics at the Citadel.
Grafe had regained consciousness by the time Lycren led Tarja and his fellow prisoner away. Khira fished out a small packet of herbs for the man’s concussion and ordered bedrest and a poultice for his bruises. Mysekis had the man taken away and smiled at Khira before returning inside. Brak recognised the look he gave her and rolled his eyes. Khira was a handsome woman, with thick dark hair and a comely figure. Brak released the glamour and walked over to Khira wondering if she reciprocated the captain’s obvious admiration. One look at her expression and he doubted it. Khira hated the Defenders. If Mysekis made a move on her he was likely to get much more than he bargained for.
“So that was Tarja,” Khira remarked as she closed her bag and dusted off her skirt.
“In the flesh,” Brak agreed.
“He’s in pretty good shape for a man supposedly tortured in the Citadel,” Khira noted sourly. “I’ve treated men the Defenders have questioned and I can promise you, he shows no sign of it.
“Well, never fear, Mistress Physic. Ten lashes should take the fight out of him.”
“He’ll probably be sent to me afterwards. You could…you know, do it then.” For a woman sworn to protect life, she was pretty anxious to see Tarja’s snuffed out.
“Let’s not be hasty,” Brak advised. “I would rather see him taken back to the others for a trial, wouldn’t you? That way everyone would see what happens to traitors.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she agreed.
“Of course I am.”
Khira nodded, albeit reluctantly. She was as bent on seeing Tarja brought to justice as Ghari, in her own way. Brak sighed with relief as they left the yard and headed back to the inn, reflecting on the irony of Tarja’s assassin going to so much trouble to keep him alive. But he wasn’t ready for Tarja to die.
Somewhere in this godforsaken place was R’shiel, and he had not found her yet.
CHAPTER 35
News that Tarja was to receive the lash spread through the Grimfield faster than a summer squall. By the following morning, any number of the Grimfield citizens had found a reason to be in the Town Square, where such punishments were normally carried out. Tarja had been in the Grimfield for less than a month, but there was not a man or woman who didn’t know about him.
The news about Tarja reached Crisabelle just after lunch on the day of the brawl. She spent the rest of the day deciding what to wear to a public lashing. Mahina made a few caustic comments about her daughter-in-law’s predilection for enjoying men in pain and announced that she did not intend to watch anybody being lashed. R’shiel thought the old woman sounded upset at the idea.
Mahina had changed since her impeachment, R’shiel decided. Although she still looked like a cuddly grandmother, these days there was a bitter edge to her voice more often than not. Her temper was short and her mood swings pronounced. The entire household tiptoed around her, except Crisabelle, who seemed oblivious to anything but herself.
Mahina’s reaction to R’shiel’s sentence had been shock, sympathy and perhaps a little irony. Mahina had known of her true parentage, she told R’shiel. Jenga had given her the information the very day that Joyhinia had moved against her at the Gathering. But she had said nothing. Mahina had decided against using it to spare R’shiel the pain such a revelation would cause.
Whatever the reason for Mahina’s reticence in seeing Tarja punished, Crisabelle was delighted by the prospect of seeing the famous rebel publicly whipped. R’shiel was ordered to attend her, carrying a basket of smelling salts and other useful items, such as a perfumed handkerchief in case the smell of the prisoners overwhelmed her. Several pieces of fruit and a slice of jam roll were also included, in case watching a man screaming in agony stimulated one’s appetite. The phial of smelling salts was insurance against the sight of all that torn flesh making her feel faint. R’shiel was quite sure that anybody who packed a snack for a public whipping was highly unlikely to swoon at the sight of blood. Crisabelle hurried her out of the house the next morning dressed in a buttercup-yellow dress with a wide skirt and a large frill forming a V down the front of the bodice. R’shiel thought the dress was ghastly, but Crisabelle had decided it was just the thing for this sort of occasion.
The square was almost half-full when they arrived, but the crowd parted to allow Crisabelle through. She strutted up to the verandah of the Headquarters building where Wilem was going over a list with Mysekis. He glanced up at their approach and his expression grew thunderous, before he composed his features into a neutral mien.
“What are you doing here?”
R’shiel hung back. She had no wish to see Tarja whipped and hoped that Wilem would send them home. But Crisabelle was determined to get full value from the morning’s entertainment. She ignored her husband and found herself a vantage point near the verandah railing. Wilem shook his head and turned his attention back to Mysekis.
It was not long before the four men who were to receive a lashing were brought out from the cells behind the Headquarters building. All were bare-chested and shivering in the chill morning. With little ceremony, the first man was dragged to the whipping post, which was a tall log buried deep in the ground and braced at the base. A solid iron ring was set near the top of the post and the man’s hands were lashed to it with a stout hemp rope. Once his hands were tied, the guards kicked the prisoner’s feet apart and lashed each ankle to the bracing struts. As soon as the criminal was secure, Mysekis unrolled the parchment and read from it.
“Jiven Wainwright. Five Lashes. Stealing from the kitchens.”
Once the charge was read, the officer who was to deliver the lashing stepped forward. R’shiel was not surprised to find it was Loclon. He was clutching the vicious-looking short-handled whip with nume
rous plaited strands of leather, finished with small barbed knots. The infamous Tail of the Tiger, it was called. The whip was supposed to deliver an excruciatingly painful blow in the hands of an expert. Simply by the way he was standing, R’shiel could tell that Loclon not only knew how to handle the whip, but would probably enjoy it.
The man at the post screamed even before the first blow fell and howled afresh with every crack of the whip. By the last blow he was sobbing uncontrollably. As the guards untied him he collapsed, then screamed as a bucket of salt water was thrown over his bloody back. Two guards dragged him away and the next victim was brought forward. Again, Mysekis consulted his list.
“Virnin Chandler. Five lashes. Brewing illegal spirits.”
The scene was repeated again, making R’shiel sick to her stomach. The crowd watched silently, an audible hiss accompanying every cracking blow. This one didn’t scream until the second blow but he was almost as broken as the first man by the time the guards had untied him. They administered the same rough first aid to the second man, who bellowed as the salt water hit his torn flesh, but he walked away without any assistance from the guards.
By the time the third man had been similarly dealt with, R’shiel was certain she was going to be sick. She had seen men whipped before. It was a common enough practice in the Citadel for minor crimes. But in the Citadel men were whipped with a single plaited lash and care was taken to cause pain, rather than lasting damage. Loclon’s purpose seemed to be to inflict as much damage as possible.
As they brought Tarja forward, R’shiel glanced at Loclon and shuddered. His eyes were alight with pleasure, as he watched Tarja walk calmly towards the post. Rather than waiting to have his hands tied, Tarja reached up, gripped the ring with both hands, and braced his feet wide apart. Unused to such cooperation from their charges, the guards hesitated a moment before securing him with the hemp ropes.
“Tarjanian Tenragan. Ten lashes. Public brawling.”
A murmur ran through the crowd at the number of lashes to be administered. Ten was a rare punishment. Wilem was known as a fair man who doled out punishment for discipline, not entertainment. R’shiel glanced at Wilem and suddenly understood why Tarja was last. Loclon had already delivered fifteen blows with the deadly Tiger’s Tail. Wilem had put Tarja last to spare him a little, but while she appreciated Wilem’s gesture, she doubted it would do much good. For a moment, she let her eyes lose focus on the scene and she studied the auras around both men. Her strange and inexplicable gift was becoming increasingly easy to control. Tarja’s was clear but tinged with red, the only sign of the fear that he refused to display publicly. Loclon’s was fractured with black lines and dark swirling colours. The sight evoked unwanted memories in R’shiel as she recognised the pattern from her own torment at his hands. She wondered why nobody else could see this man for what he truly was. To her, it was so obvious; it was almost like a warning beacon shining over his head.
Silence descended on the crowd as Loclon stepped up and swung his arm back, expertly flicking the tails of the whip. The lash landed with an audible crack across Tarja’s back and he flinched with the pain, but gave no other sign of the agony he must be feeling. The next blow landed with similar force, raising a bloody welt across the first cut. Tarja remained silent, flinching with the pain, but refusing to utter a sound. The silence continued as Loclon laid blow after blow across the rebel’s back, which soon became a bloody canvas of torn flesh and raw muscle. The crowd shared Tarja’s silence—it was as if they were collectively holding their breath, waiting for him to break. Loclon grew increasingly agitated. R’shiel recognised Loclon’s frustration. He had worn the same look when she had refused to scream for him.
The only noise that echoed through the Square was the sound of Loclon grunting with the effort of laying open Tarja’s back and the monotone voice of the sergeant who was counting off the blows. When he reached ten, Loclon raised his arm for another strike, but the sudden cheer from the crowd distracted him. They might despise him for a traitor, but they were willing to acknowledge Tarja’s courage. Loclon looked disappointed as the guards hurried forward to untie him and douse his bleeding back with the salt water. Tarja finally allowed himself a loud yelp when the water hit him.
R’shiel was thoroughly sickened by the whole affair, but Crisabelle seemed quite exhilarated by it. She turned to the woman standing on the other side of her, a blue-robed Sister from one of the workhouses. She chattered on about what a lovely day it was for this sort of thing, although the wind was a bit nippy, and shouldn’t they put in some sort of seating for the spectators? R’shiel watched them lead Tarja away and wondered just how much willpower it was taking for him to stay on his feet.
“Get the physic to take a look at him,” Wilem told Mysekis as they led the rebel away.
“If your intention was to break him, then I doubt you succeeded.”
“We’ll not have any further trouble,” Wilem predicted. “Tarja has proved his point. He won back a measure of respect today.”
“Traitor or not, he certainly has mine,” Mysekis agreed. “I’ve never seen anyone take ten lashes without a whimper.”
“That’s the tragedy. He could have been a great man. Now he’s nothing more than a common criminal.”
R’shiel listened to the private conversation thoughtfully as she waited for Crisabelle to finish her discussion with the Sister, watching the crowd disperse. They were hugely impressed by Tarja’s courage, and, as Wilem had predicted, much less ambivalent towards him. She glanced across the square and spied Dace with L’rin, the tall blonde tavern owner, watching the proceedings. The man standing with them gave R’shiel pause.
It was Brak. He was the last person she expected to find in the Grimfield. He refused to meet her eye, but R’shiel was suddenly certain that he had not been watching the lashing. He had been watching her.
CHAPTER 36
The first few weeks of R’shiel’s sentence passed so quickly she could barely credit it. Life settled down in a surprisingly short time, disturbed only by Crisabelle’s idiotic demands and occasional, but disturbing brushes with Loclon. Each incident served only to strengthen her resolve to escape, preferably leaving Loclon dead in her wake.
She would sometimes watch the work gangs being marched out to the mines, which were located in the foothills about a league from the town. The men appeared universally miserable. They worked long shifts, breaking down the rock face with heavy sledge hammers, while others, bent almost double with the weight of the load, carried the ore back to the huge, bullock-drawn wagons for the journey to the foundry at Vanahiem. The female convicts of the Grimfield fared marginally better. They were split into three basic groups: the laundry, the kitchens and the court’esa. The laundry was back-breaking work; the kitchen, although cosy enough now, was unbearably hot in the long central plateau summers. And the court’esa—well, that didn’t even bear thinking about. R’shiel could still hardly believe her escape from such a fate. Dace’s timely reminder to Wilem that Crisabelle wanted another maid had, quite possibly, saved her life.
R’shiel quickly made herself indispensable to Crisabelle. She had taken to constantly reminding people that her maid was the First Sister’s daughter, ignoring the fact that R’shiel was not even permitted to use the name Tenragan any more, or claim any familial links with Joyhinia. R’shiel found the constant reminders irritating, but they reinforced Crisabelle’s belief that she had some link with the life she felt she should be leading, rather than the one she did. Crisabelle blamed Mahina, not Joyhinia, for her current circumstances and rather than take her frustration out on R’shiel, she heaped all of her woes at her mother-in-law’s door.
Mahina was a different story, entirely. She was brusque on a good day, unbearable on others, but R’shiel liked the old woman almost as much as she secretly despised Crisabelle. They had developed a private bond, brought about by the shared burden of Crisabelle’s constant and frequently idiotic demands.
Mahina treated Cri
sabelle’s pretensions of grandeur with utter contempt and made a point of deflating her daughter-in-law at every opportunity. Nobody else in the Grimfield dared to challenge Crisabelle; most simply went out of their way to avoid her. Mahina had a wicked sense of humour and a keen eye for the absurdities of life. She even joked about her own fall from grace once in a while. R’shiel wished she had found a way to warn Mahina of Joyhinia’s plans to bring her down. Had Mahina never been impeached, her life would have taken a very different course.
With a sigh, R’shiel crossed the small village square and shifted the basket of laundry on her hip to a more comfortable position. Crisabelle invited selected officers and their wives to monthly formal dinner parties, which she loved, but everyone else, from the Commandant down, abhorred. No one in the Grimfield dared refuse an invitation. Wilem tolerated them for the sake of peace. Sitting down in his uncomfortable dress uniform once a month was vastly preferable to Crisabelle whining at him daily, and if he had to suffer it, so did his men.
Crisabelle was agonising over the guest list, wondering who warranted a second invitation, who warranted a first, and who she could leave off without causing offence in the tight-knit community. Mahina helpfully offered her caustic advice for no other reason than to annoy her daughter-in-law. Crisabelle’s attire for the party was almost as big a decision as the guest list, hence her hurried order to R’shiel this morning to have all her good dresses cleaned so that she could choose at the last moment.
“One never knows how one is going to feel on the night and one must be prepared for all eventualities,” Crisabelle had instructed her gravely this morning.
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