He had a long list of victims who would suffer at the First Sister’s hands once he had a free rein. Men who had slighted him; women who had scorned him; all of them would pay.
He would start with Tarja Tenragan.
Fortunately, this coincided with the Kariens’plans and the order would be issued today, under the First Sister’s seal. A courier would take it to Lord Jenga in the north as soon as the ink was dry. It would demand that Tarja Tenragan be arrested immediately and handed over to the Kariens to stand trial for the murders of Lord Pieter and the priest Elfron. Loclon would have preferred to take a more personal hand in Tarja’s demise, but the Kariens were planning to burn him alive. It was a very satisfying thought; his pleasure diminished only slightly by being unable to witness the event.
There were others too, who would feel his wrath, but they could wait. With Tarja accounted for, he must take care of R’shiel. Unfortunately, his chance at her had a deadline.
When Terbolt left the Citadel, R’shiel would go with him, willingly or not. He felt betrayed by the Kariens’plans for R’shiel. They had promised him revenge and then denied him. R’shiel was a prisoner, granted, but she was hardly suffering. She was fed regularly and well, and treated with cautious respect by Terbolt and his priests. The collar that circled her neck caused her pain only if she tried to touch her Harshini power, and she appeared to have learnt that lesson very quickly. All in all, her incarceration was remarkably comfortable and not at all what Loclon had in mind. If he was going to do something about the bitch, he would have to do it soon.
Conveniently, the Kariens were creatures of habit. Xaphista was a demanding god, and every day at sunset, when the mysterious Dimming began in the Citadel, they would gather in the apartments Lord Terbolt had seconded and pray for at least an hour. For that hour, R’shiel was guarded by only two Defenders and as First Sister, he could order them about with impunity. He sighed contentedly. It was almost sundown. By the time he was dressed Terbolt, Garanus and their companions would be on their knees at their devotions. He knew the folly of killing R’shiel, but for an hour at least, he could take the revenge he felt he so richly deserved.
She was standing by the window when he arrived, her exquisite profile limned by the sunset. Her glorious dark red hair was loose. It hung past her waist and had obviously been brushed until it shone – she had little else to fill her days. She wore dark, supple leathers that hugged her lithe body. Had he still been a man, the very sight of her would have aroused him. That had always been his mistake in the past. He had let his lust for this woman rule his head. But not this time. This time he inhabited a woman’s body and the desire that had betrayed him in the past was nothing more than a shallow echo.
R’shiel turned at the sound of the door and stiffened at the sight of him.
“What do you want?” She sounded annoyed rather than fearful. That would have to change.
“I’ve come to ask you some questions,” he said, placing the large covered birdcage he carried on the floor beside him.
“Ask them from there,” she said, crossing her arms defensively.
“You’re hardly in a position to be giving me orders, R’shiel.”
“And you’re hardly in a position to defy your Karien masters. Does Terbolt know that you’re here? No, of course he doesn’t. He’s at prayer, isn’t he? You’re too craven to dare anything if you thought he might catch you at it.”
Loclon bit back his fury at her scorn. “I’ve no care for what Terbolt thinks.”
“You should have. Have you been to check on your body Loclon? Are you sure it’s well? Are they feeding it? Turning it frequently so you don’t get bedsores? Do you really trust them that much?”
“Stop it!”
She smiled, which was a big mistake. Loclon did not take well to being laughed at. But he would have his fun. Instead of responding to her taunts he pulled the cover from the cage.
R’shiel gasped in horror. The little demon cowered in the centre of the cage, crouched into a tangle of arms and legs, her large black eyes filled with terror.
Loclon saw R’shiel’s expression and knew he had found the perfect way to torment her.
“Funny little creature, isn’t it?”
“Let her go.”
“You know I can’t do that. Aren’t you going to ask how we caught it?”
“I know how you caught it. How are you keeping her there?”
Loclon shrugged. “I’ve no idea. The priests tied the top of one of those staffs to the top of the cage, here... you see... and it does something to the bars. Did you want to see?”
“No.”
“Oh, but you must,” he insisted with a malicious smile.
He poked the creature and it jerked away from him instinctively, but the cage was too small and the movement pushed it back against the metal bars. The creature cried out with pain and jerked back from the bars, only to come up against the bars on the other side, where the agony was waiting for it. The high-pitched screams were most gratifying. It took the creature two or three attempts to curl back up into the ball that kept it away from the bars. When it finally settled down, it was trembling uncontrollably with tears spilling silently from its liquid black eyes.
“Want to see it again?” he asked.
“Stop it!” She crossed the room in a few paces and grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to his knees. Loclon did not cry out, or even struggle against her.
He simply reached out with his foot and kicked the cage, which set the demon off again.
R’shiel let him go and ran to the cage, but she could no more touch the enchanted bars than the demon could. The priests’ magic worked best on those who could channel the power of the gods. R’shiel had no hope of freeing the terrified creature. All she could do was kneel on the floor and watch it suffer.
Loclon climbed to his feet, laughing. Her attempts to open the cage were useless, even touching the latch was agony. She heard him move and turned to look up at him. The pain in her eyes was all he could have hoped for.
“Go ahead, let it go. If you can.”
R’shiel glanced back at the cage which had fallen on its side. The demon was screaming in agony. There was nothing she could do to help it. She couldn’t even right the cage to save the demon from the pain of contacting the bars.
As if she had realised the same thing, she climbed slowly to her feet.
“Giving up so soon?” he taunted.
Without warning, she turned and kicked the cage with all the force she could muster, lifting it clear off the floor. The cage clattered against the wall and landed with a thud. As it did, the base of the cage popped open and the demon gratefully scrambled clear of the trap.
“Be gone!” she cried urgently, as Loclon grabbed her.
The demon winked out of existence with a startled squeal.
Loclon punched her then pushed her onto the floor and held her there with his knee while he looked around the room for something to hurt her with. There was nothing handy. Terbolt had stripped the room of anything remotely resembling a potential weapon. He wished for his male body. R’shiel was physically stronger than Joyhinia. Fighting her with his bare hands was not an option. Lacking anything more substantial than his fists, he wrapped his hand tighter through her hair and slammed her forehead into the floor, over and over, until she was almost senseless.
He stopped himself just in time. He would be in enough trouble for letting the creature escape. Killing R’shiel could easily cost him his life.
“Get up!”
She did not respond.
“I said, get up!” He kicked her in the stomach and she grunted involuntarily, confirming his suspicion that she was faking unconsciousness. “Get up, you inhuman slut!”
R’shiel rolled over slowly and stared at him with defiant eyes, a little dazed.
“Get up, I said!”
She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. The wound on her forehead had opened and the blood flowed freely, obscuring her
vision. Impatient with her slow response, he kicked her again, throwing her backwards against the wall. He laughed. This was what he wanted. What he needed.
R’shiel collapsed against the wall and for a moment she lay still, but when she looked up there was no submission in her eyes. Instead there was an expression of such hatred that he took a step back from her. Her eyes began to darken ominously. As she drew on her power the collar around her neck began to glow in response. She pushed herself up as her eyes turned black. The collar grew so bright it was almost painful to look on it.
Truly fearful of what he might have provoked, Loclon backed away from her. The sickening stench of burning flesh reached him as R’shiel gathered her power to her and the collar punished her for her efforts. She grabbed the windowsill and pulled herself to her feet, her eyes as black as night, the collar like a thousand candles burning under her chin.
With a visible effort she steadied herself and prepared to hurl her fury at him. The stench of burning flesh grew stronger. Loclon marvelled at her tolerance for the pain she must be in, but his own fear prevented him from taking any pleasure in it. If she broke through the constraint of the collar, he would not leave this room alive.
“Die!” she hissed.
Loclon expected his life to end at that moment, but the collar flared as she tried to unleash her power. She screamed and dropped to the floor, tearing uselessly at the burning necklet. Loclon let her drop, shaking with relief as she collapsed.
The screams stopped only when she finally passed out. He waited for a long, long time to be certain she really was unconscious this time.
When Loclon finally stopped shaking he was appalled to discover his bladder had let go and for the first time was grateful for Joyhinia’s long skirts. R’shiel lay under the window, her breathing shallow. He approached her cautiously, half expecting her to be faking again. As he neared her, he realised it was unlikely. Her magnificent long hair tumbled over her face, obscuring the worst of the damage, but blood streamed from her forehead and he could see savage blisters marring her neck above and below the now quiescent collar.
He prodded her experimentally with the toe of Joyhinia’s boot, but received no response. A harder kick got the same reaction. He kicked her again, this time for sheer pleasure rather than any attempt to determine her state of consciousness. The kick following that one was just for the hell of it.
He tired of that game soon enough. Bruises and broken ribs would heal in time. Even her scars would probably fade – she was Harshini, not human. He wanted to leave her with a reminder. He stood back and studied her for a while, wondering. Then it came to him. He crossed the room to the door and opened it a fraction.
“Bring me scissors,” he ordered.
The guard looked a little startled by the order but hurried to comply. Joyhinia taped her foot impatiently as she waited for him to return. When he hurried back to his post clutching the scissors, she snatched them from his hand and locked the door again.
Loclon dragged R’shiel to the bed, annoyed by Joyhinia’s weakness. If he had his own body, it would have been nothing to scoop her up and throw her onto the bed. As it was, he grunted and struggled to get his hands under her arms and move her across the room. Lifting her was almost beyond him, but he managed it somehow. When he finally got her on the bed, he laid R’shiel out with almost tender care, crossing her hands demurely across her breast. He combed out her glorious mane with his fingers until it spread like a fiery halo around her head then stepped back to admire his handiwork.
If one was prepared to ignore the blood and the burns, she looked quite stunning. He smiled, thinking he had never seen her quite this way – so peaceful, so... vulnerable.
Loclon sighed and picked up the scissors. He moved to the bed and planted a lingering kiss on her slightly parted lips.
Then he took the scissors and cut her hair as close to the skull as he could get. He hummed tunelessly as he worked, stopping only once to stare suspiciously over his shoulder.
He could not avoid the feeling that someone was watching him.
Chapter 52
When Tarja questioned first Hadly, then Sergeant Monthay regarding the whereabouts of the Karien boy, neither of them could provide a satisfactory answer. Hadly was too busy, and Monthay sounded genuinely perturbed. He could recall giving the boy the afternoon off, but not why.
Tarja thanked him for his assistance and went looking for the child himself. He didn’t blame the sergeant. If the God of Thieves had taken it into his head to lead Mikel astray, there was little Monthay could have done about it.
He leaned forward and patted Shadow, wondering where a small Karien boy and a mischief-making god could be hiding in the vast camp. Nowhere there was work to be done, that was certain. They were unlikely to have gone north toward the border. Not only was it dangerous, there was no entertainment in that direction. The Keep was just as unlikely, as was the Hythrun camp, where Mikel’s brother was, or the neat Defender’s camp, where surely somebody would question their right to be there. He glanced south at the follower’s camp thinking there was plenty of trouble to be found there. He turned Shadow and let her pick her own pace, hoping he was heading in the right direction.
There would be a town here soon if the war dragged on much longer, he thought as he rode through the vast camp. Already some enterprising merchants had set up rickety wooden frames to house their commercial endeavours between tents that ranged from the ramshackle to the truly spectacular. The larger tents belonged to the Court’esa’s Guild. They had moved in within days of the Defenders. All these lonely men out here in the middle of nowhere was an opportunity too good to be missed. Half the court’esa here could probably retire in luxury by now and those that couldn’t would not have long to wait.
Tarja debated stopping by the largest tent to speak to Mistress Miffany. If Jenga surrendered, the court’esa were in real danger. Miffany was a generous, rotund little woman who had worked in the Citadel as a court’esa when Tarja was a cadet. She had inherited the business from Mistress Lyndah, when the sour old bitch had finally died – making everyone in the Citadel who knew her breathe a sigh of relief – and had set about making life pleasant for as many Defenders as possible since then – at a reasonable price, of course. Tarja liked her and had no desire to see her, or her girls, stoned by the invading Kariens.
On impulse, he turned toward her gaily-striped tent. If he could do nothing to stop the surrender, he could at least save a few lives. That Jenga would surrender was a very real possibility. The Lord Defender had stretched his loyalty about as far as it was likely to go. From the moment he had defied Joyhinia in Testra, he had been fighting a losing battle with his conscience. The order to surrender, while unpalatable, was probably easier to live with than treason.
A grubby child ran forward to hold his mount when he arrived. He dismounted and threw the child a copper rivet, before pushing back the flap, bending over to enter the tent. Inside, a number of women looked up hopefully at his captain’s insignia, smiling at him with open invitation. Tarja smiled back, but otherwise ignored them. Miffany hurried forward as soon as she recognised him, obviously happy to see him.
“Tarja!”
“Hello Miff,” he said, kissing her cheek. “You’ve lost weight.”
Miffany laughed delightedly. She was almost as wide as she was tall.
“You tease! I look like a pudding, and you know it, but it was nice of you to say so. Did you want a girl?” Miffany was never one to beat around the bush.
“No, I wanted a word with you. In private.”
Curious, but unconcerned, she turned to her girls. “I’m going to take a turn of the camp with the captain, here. Becca, you’re in charge until I get back.”
Miffany slipped her arm though his and led him outside.
They headed south between the tents down what could only very loosely be described as a street. The tents had been placed with little thought to the traffic in the camp and they were forced to step ove
r tent pegs and dodge muddy puddles as they walked. Miffany clung to his arm with a smug grin that broadened to an outright smirk as they passed by the tent of one of her competitors.
“There’ll be tongues a-wagging in there, soon enough,” she predicted.
Tarja smiled. “We could stop outside on the way back while I declare I’ve never had better.”
“You are such a sweetheart,” she laughed, squeezing his arm.
“Have you done well since you’ve been here, Miff?”
“I’ll say! I’m rich enough to buy myself one of those posh little villas on the riverfront in Brodenvale. War is good for a business like mine.”
“Then perhaps you should think about retiring.”
She looked up at him suspiciously. “You’re taking a sudden interest in my welfare.”
“I care about you.”
“You’re sweet Tarja, I’ve always thought that, but you’re a captain. One of Jenga’s closest officers. You didn’t come all this way to suggest I retire without a damn good reason.”
“Isn’t caring for you enough?” he asked with a hopeful smile.
“Much as I’d like to kid myself that is the case, Tarja, I’m not a fool. What’s really going on?”
“I can’t say, Miff. All I can do is suggest that you quit while you’re ahead.”
The chubby court’esa thought for a moment and then nodded. “How long do we have?”
He could have hugged her for being so astute. “A few days. A week at most. Your profession won’t be looked upon kindly after that.”
“I owe you for this, Tarja.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Miff. Consider it a debt repaid.”
“What debt?”
“I was fourteen the first time I came to Mistress Lyndah’s. You didn’t laugh at me.”
She chuckled at the memory. “I was a lot thinner in those days. You were a sweet boy then, Tarja, and you still are, in my book. Tell me, do you plan to act on your own advice, or stay here and let them kill you?”
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