Harshini

CHAPTER 35

The high plains of Medalon were a riot of colour, caught in the burgeoning grip of spring. R'shiel reined in her horse and studied the scattered clouds that dotted the pale blue sky. Wildflowers carpeted the plains, and the day was so mild she had shed her cloak some leagues back. As the tall white towers of the Citadel appeared in the distance an odd feeling came over her and she found herself strangely reluctant to go on.

“What's the matter?”

She shrugged and leaned forward to pat the neck of her gelding. He was a sturdy, deep-chested grey they had purchased in Vanahiem. R'shiel missed the magnificent speed and stamina of the Hythrun horses she had grown accustomed to riding, but he had been a reliable mount, if more stolid than spirited.

“I'm scared, I think,” she admitted, thoughtfully. “I wasn't expecting that.”

“You're only half-Harshini, R'shiel,” Brak reminded her. “You'll find your human emotions have a nasty habit of jumping out and biting you at the most inopportune moments. What were you expecting to feel?”

“I'm not sure. Some overpowering sense of righteousness, I suppose.”

Brak laughed sourly. “You have a lot to learn, demon child.”

“I wish you'd stop calling me that. You know how much I hate it.”

“I thought you were growing quite enamoured of the title. You certainly threw it around enough in Fardohnya.”

“In Fardohnya I wasn't likely to be hanged for it.”

He nodded silently. They both knew the risk they ran by returning so openly to Medalon. In fact, even more than the mediocrity of their mounts, it was the need to travel through Medalon by conventional means that had taken them so long to reach their destination. Had they been willing to risk using their power, R'shiel and Brak could have been at the Citadel weeks ago, but they were too deep into Karien-occupied territory to tempt fate by openly using demons.

Hablet had provided them with a ship, which had delivered them to Bordertown. Then they had taken passage on a river boat as far as Vanahiem. With news that the Testa ferry had been destroyed and the river boat captains understandably nervous about approaching the Citadel, it proved quicker and easier to complete their journey on horseback.

R'shiel turned in her saddle at the sound of other horses approaching. Brak followed her gaze and muttered a curse. The road they travelled from Brodenvale was almost deserted this late in the afternoon. Earlier, it had been crowded with refugees fleeing the Citadel and the occasional Karien patrol.

“We'd best get off the road.”

“Founders! They're everywhere!”

Brak urged his horse into the long grass on the shoulder of the road. R'shiel followed him as the approaching patrol drew closer. She gripped the reins until her knuckles turned white as she watched them. The troop of Kariens passed by without sparing them a glance, pennons snapping from the tips of their lances, the armoured knights claiming the road with the arrogant assurance of conquerors who have nothing to fear from their vanquished foes. It was the third Karien troop they had seen in the last few hours. Southern Medalon was still relatively free of them, but the closer they got to the Citadel the more they saw.

“There are no priests with them.”

“They'll be at the Citadel. Mathen probably doesn't want to scare the population into thinking they're going to be forced to worship the Overlord,” Brak speculated.

“But isn't that exactly what they're planning?”

“Undoubtedly, but Squire Mathen is too smart to do it openly.”

“Squire Mathen?”

“Don't you remember him? Terbolt left him in charge of the Citadel.”

“I don't remember much of anything from the last time I was at the Citadel,” she admitted with a frown. “Except Loclon.”

“Mathen's not a nobleman,” Brak told her as the Kariens moved slowly past them. Behind the knights trundled several wagons carrying loot from some outlying village that had been the victim of their foray out of the Citadel. “That in itself is a bit odd for the Kariens. But he appears to be a very astute politician.”

“I think I'd prefer a good old fashioned noble-born moron,” she said, noticing the grain-filled wagons, but she decided against saying or doing anything that would bring them to the attention of the knights. She had learnt that much restraint over the past few months.

“One has to work with what one is given, I'm afraid. Still, we won't have to worry about him too much.”

“Why not?”

“As I said, Mathen's not a nobleman. Terbolt placed him in charge, but I can't see Lord Roache and his ilk tolerating a commoner calling the shots for very long, and unless he's advocating mass conversion, the priesthood won't like him much either. They have no care for Medalonian sensibilities.”

The last of the wagons rumbled by. They waited until the Kariens were some way up the road before they urged their horses back onto the road and followed them at a walk.

“Speaking of the priests,” Brak added. “You remember what I told you?”

“About them being able to detect us if we call on our power? Yes, Brak, I remember.”

“I mean it, R'shiel,” he warned. “Don't underestimate them.”

“I dealt with those priests in the Defenders' camp.”

“You faced three of them and caught them by surprise,” he reminded her. “Once we get to the Citadel, there will be scores of them, and they know the demon child is abroad. I wouldn't be surprised if they have a Watching Coven posted, just waiting for you to slip up.”

“What's a Watching Coven?”

“A group of priests who link through their staves, sometimes up to twenty or thirty of them. A Coven's power could give either of us a run for our money.”

“How can they be so strong? They don't have access to Harshini power.”

“No, they have access to a god who doesn't mind bending the rules.”

“The gods!” she muttered in annoyance. “It always comes back to them, doesn't it?”

“In the end, yes.”

She smiled grimly. “Don't worry, Brak. I'll watch myself. Squire Mathen isn't the only one who can get what he wants by subtle means.”

“Oh? You have a plan then?” There was an edge of scepticism in his voice that she didn't much care for.

“I'm going to take a leaf out of your book, actually. I'm going to go straight to the best source of intelligence in Medalon.”

“Garet Warner?” he asked with amusement. “I thought the first thing you'd want to do when you saw him again would be to run a blade through him.”

“No. Garet helped me as much as he could, I think. I'm not going to kill him. Unless he doesn't want to help us.”

Brak didn't answer her and she could not tell if he approved or condemned her intentions.

They reached the Citadel just on sundown, halting on the slight rise in the road to stare at the scene before them in horrified awe. A blanket of humanity covered the plains surrounding the Citadel: the Karien army camped about the fortress of their newest subject nation. R'shiel could not begin to guess their number, but as far as she could see, the grasslands were thick with tents and men and the panoply of war. Both sides of the shallow Saran River were crowded with them. The bridges curved gracefully out of the plain, the only part of it not swarming with the enemy. A pall of smoke from the countless cooking fires lay over the whole scene, touched with ruddy light by the dying sun, making it look like a painting of some nightmarish vision of a pagan hell.

“Founders!” she swore softly. “I didn't think there'd be so many of them.”

“Having second thoughts?”

She glanced at him, then smiled. “No. I figure between you and me, we have them outnumbered, Brak.”

He returned her smile briefly. “I think I preferred it when you were scared.”

They urged their horses on and rode down through the Karien host that was camped right up to the edge of the road. For the most part, the soldiers ignored them, too engrossed in their own business to care about two unarmed travellers on the main thoroughfare into the Citadel. She avoided meeting their eyes while despair threatened to overwhelm her.

As they crossed the bridge over the Saran River she looked up at the high white walls. Bile rose in her throat. There was a head, or the remains of one, mounted on a pike over the gateway. It had been there for some time. The eyes were empty sockets picked clean by the ravens and the skin of its face hung in strips of desiccated flesh. The hair, or what was left of it, was grey and straggling, but long enough to identify the hapless skull as once having been a woman. With sickening dread, R'shiel wondered who it had been, afraid that she knew. Unless the Kariens had murdered Joyhinia, there was only one woman in Medalon likely to incur such wrath and she had never deserved such a fate.

“Brak,” she said softly.

He followed the direction of her gaze then shook his head sadly. “Gods!”

“I think it's Mahina.”

He studied it more closely then shrugged. “There's no way to tell, R'shiel.”

“Loclon is going to die very, very slowly,” she said with frightening intensity.

R'shiel had feared the Defenders on the gate might recognise her, but she need not have worried. There were no Defenders guarding the Citadel. There was, however, a large contingent of Kariens and they were interrogating anybody seeking entrance to the city.

“Let me handle this,” Brak said.

“What are you going to do?” she asked suspiciously.

“Cause a fuss,” he told her as he kicked his horse forward. “Hey you! Do you speak Medalonian?”

R'shiel cringed as he called out to the guards, wondering what in the name of the Founders he was up to. This was hardly her idea of sneaking into the Citadel.

“Halt!” a Karien trooper called out in Medalonian - probably the only word he knew.

“Halt yourself!” Brak retorted. “I demand to see whoever is in charge!”

The guard looked at him blankly.

“Where is your superior, young man? I demand to see him at once!”

“Halt!” the guard repeated.

“What's the problem?” The man who spoke was a Defender. He emerged from the gatehouse with another Karien, this one wearing knight's armour. He was very young, just out of the Cadets, R'shiel guessed. She did not recognise him and that hopefully meant he would not recognise her.

“Ah! Someone who understands me!” Brak declared. “Young man, I demand to be taken to whoever is in charge of this... invasion, or whatever you call it, at once!”

The Defender translated Brak's words for the benefit of the Kariens, which explained his posting on the gate. His Karien was quite fluent but he wore a sullen expression. She could imagine how this duty must irk him. The Karien knight said something to the Defender, who then turned back to Brak.

“Why do you want to see Lord Roache?”

“Lord Roache? Is that who's in charge?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to the First Sister?”

“The First Sister is assisting Lord Roache and Squire Mathen,” the young Defender informed him in a voice loaded with scorn.

“Well then, I wish to see this Lord Roache, young man, to lodge a formal complaint against the behaviour of these... these... hooligans who have invaded our country. Do you know what they've done? Do you?”

“I can guess,” the Defender muttered. “What have they done?”

“What have they done? My shop is in ruins! My wife and I are homeless! My servants have all fled in fear and I am on the verge of destitution! I intend to see this Karien fellow and demand compensation.”

The Defender appeared genuinely amused at the idea. “Good luck, my friend, but I don't like your chances.”

“Well!” Brak declared indignantly. “We shall have to see about that! Come, Gerterina! Let us go find this Lord Roache person and set him straight on a few things!”

Brak urged his horse through the gate, with R'shiel following close behind. The Defender and the Kariens stood back to let them pass. As the young man explained what they were doing in the Citadel the Kariens roared with laughter, which followed them down the street.

“Gerterina?”

He shrugged apologetically. “It was all I could think of.”

“And that was your plan? Make such a fuss at the gate that they'll never forget us?”

“Sometimes it's easier to hide out in the open, R'shiel. People trying to sneak into the Citadel don't start by demanding to see whoever is in charge. We were barely questioned and they didn't even look at you twice.”

She had to admit he was right. “Brak, why is it that when you do things like that, you're being clever, but when I do them, I'm being reckless?”

“Because I'm older than you. A lot older.”

“Well, Old One, what are we going to do now?”

They rode at a walk down the cobbled main road that led past the Great Hall to the amphitheatre. The tension in the air was almost solid enough to touch. R'shiel realised that the awful spectre nailed over the main gate was more than just a gloating gesture of barbaric triumph. It was a warning, and one the citizens of the Citadel appeared to have taken to heart. The streets appeared almost as deserted as Greenharbour had been, when she arrived with Damin.

“We need to find an inn and a meal and perhaps some company for the evening.”

“Company?”

“We need to find out what's happening here. The next best source of information in any city, after the assassins and the thieves, are the prostitutes.”

“That's the best excuse I've heard for a long time,” she said with a scowl.

“We all have our own methods, R'shiel.”

“Funny how all your methods involve consorting with criminals.”

He glanced at her and then smiled. “Considering you are probably the most wanted criminal in all of Karien and Medalon, I find your attitude rather strange.”

She ignored the jibe. “I still think Garet is the better option.”

“And I agree, but I want to know that when we confront him he's telling us the truth, not what he thinks we want to hear.”

“You're not a very trusting person, are you?”

“I don't happen to like the idea of having my head decorating the main gate next to poor old Mahina's. If you plan to live long enough to fulfil your destiny, R'shiel, you would be wise to adopt the same outlook.”

After that they rode without speaking through streets that were slowly darkening with the coming night. Squares of yellow light appeared in the windows of the houses that lined the streets, but the silence was heavy and R'shiel could not feel the welcoming touch of the Citadel as she had when she arrived the last time.

It was as if the massive spirit of the Citadel had shrivelled and died - or perhaps he had simply retreated into hiding in the face of the Karien blight that swarmed through him like flies over a dying carcass.

CHAPTER 36

Garet Warner opened the door to the Lord Defender's office and was greeted by a blast of warm air. Someone must have thought to light the fire, he thought, although he was a little surprised. With the Lord Defender in “protective confinement” as the Kariens euphemistically referred to his incarceration, Garet used the office rarely, and he had told nobody of his intention to come here this morning.

He pushed the door shut and glanced around, but other than the blazing fire in the small hearth, the room was unchanged since his last visit. The heavy carved desk took up a great deal of space, and the comfortable chair behind it smelled faintly of the saddle soap used to keep the leather supple. The array of Fardohnyan and Hythrun weapons Jenga had collected over the years still hung over the mantle. The aura of the man permeated the room. It was as if he had just stepped out a moment ago and was due back any minute.

But perhaps it was not completely unchanged; the pile of unattended paperwork had grown considerably. Garet groaned as he looked at it. He had his own work to do. He did not need the added responsibility of the Lord Defender's administrative tasks.

Most of the papers would be fairly straightforward. Requests for transfers, for leave, for permission to marry, for a score of other mundane, everyday matters that required the Lord Defender's approval. But there would be the odd report that needed investigation, disciplinary matters that could not be settled with a mere stroke of a pen - most of them a direct result of the conflicts that arose frequently between the Defenders and the Karien invaders.

There would be orders from the First Sister, too.

Garet was well aware that even though signed by Joyhinia Tenragan, the orders were no more from her than they had been when she was on the northern border, a babbling idiot who would sign anything put in front of her. These orders came from Squire Mathen, and if he couched them in a manner easily digestible to the Medalonians, they were no less the orders of his Karien masters.

He moved towards the desk and then froze as the feeling he was no longer alone in the room suddenly overwhelmed him.

“Garet.”

He started and turned at the voice. R'shiel stood close behind him. She looked much better than when he'd last seen her. He was glad to see her hair had grown out a little and now framed her face in dark red curls. But there was something else different about her: a confidence that he had not seen before. He wondered how she had escaped the Kariens, and why, having managed that remarkable feat, she had so foolishly returned to the Citadel. Standing behind her, wearing an air of lethal calm, was the Harshini half-breed, Brakandaran.

“R'shiel! Brak! How did the two of you... ? Never mind, I'd rather not know.”

He composed himself and walked around Lord Jenga's desk before he looked at them again. They were wearing the close fitting and supple Harshini leathers, which outlined their statuesque bodies, giving a hint of the natural grace and athletic ability that was part of their alien heritage.

“What are you doing here?”

“We have come to put things right,” R'shiel told him.

“And how do you plan to do that?”

“With your help.”

Her declaration did not surprise him. “I suppose you think I owe you something, for not supporting you at the Gathering?”

“You don't owe me anything, Garet. But as you said when you slipped me your knife, you can't help Medalon from a prison cell.”

“I'm not in a prison cell.”

“I used your knife to kill the Karien Crown Prince. I imagine a prison cell will be the least of your worries if the Kariens learn that.”

Garet was too experienced to let his apprehension show. “You killed the Karien Crown Prince? Founders, R'shiel, when you set out to cause trouble, you don't mess about, do you?”

A small smile flickered over her lips. “Wait until you hear the rest of it.”

He shook his head. “Thanks, but I'd rather not...”

“No!” she cut in. “That is not an option any longer, Garet. You must decide. You are with us or against us. There is no more sitting on the fence.”

Garet sank down into the Lord Defender's chair - more to give himself time to think than through any real need to take the weight off his feet. He knew about R'shiel. Knew of her Harshini parentage and her status as their long awaited demon child, but until this moment it had never truly occurred to him that she might actually be as powerful as the pagans believed.

“And if I choose not to follow you?” he asked, wondering how determined she was.

“Then I will remove you from the equation.”

“You'd kill me?”

“I killed a Karien Prince. You don't think a mere Defender is going to cause me any grief?”

He placed his hands palm down on the desk and looked at her closely. Her whole being radiated a kind of leashed power, straining to be set free.

“So that's it? Join you or die?”

“Pretty much,” she agreed with a shrug.

“You leave me little choice.”

“Then your answer is yes?”

He nodded cautiously.

In two steps she was across the room. She slammed her hands down over his on the desk and glared at him. “Then swear it!”

Garet opened his mouth to say what she wanted to hear, but the words would not come. She was doing something to him, something that would not permit him to lie. With a sudden and terrifying flash of clarity, he knew that if he took this oath he would belong to her, body and soul, until he died, and perhaps even after, if one believed the pagans.

“Swear it, Garet,” she whispered. Her face was close to his, her eyes boring through him as though she could read every dark, unsavoury secret he kept hidden in the furthermost recesses of his mind. She wasn't using magic on him, her eyes had not turned black, but whatever it was, he found her impossible to deny.

“I'm yours, R'shiel.”

She studied him for a moment and then stood back. As soon as she released him, Garet slumped back in his chair, light-headed. He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping that when he opened them again, the room would have stopped spinning.

“Sorry, Garet, but I had to be sure.”

He looked up at her, wondering what he had done. It took a moment for him to recover enough to speak.

“So, now what?”

“First, we have to stop the Kariens from hanging Tarja,” Brak remarked, as if it was no more trouble than squashing a flea.

“You know they're blaming him for killing Cratyn, don't you?”

“Well, they can hardly admit the demon child did it. When is his trial?”

“Trial? What trial? The Kariens aren't big on the natural course of justice, Brak. Tarja's scheduled to be hanged next Restday. In the amphitheatre so everyone can come and watch.”

“Then we have to put a stop to it,” R'shiel declared. “Where's Jenga? Have they killed him too?”

“Not yet. Actually, they haven't interfered too much with the Defenders. Most of their people don't speak a word of Medalonian so they need us. There'd be a mutiny if they tried to kill the Lord Defender and they know it. He's under arrest. They're holding him in the cells behind the Headquarters Building, and it's the Kariens who are guarding him, not our people.”

“Then we have to release him, too.”

“How? Your last attempt at breaking somebody out of the Citadel was spectacularly unsuccessful, as I recall.”

R'shiel frowned at the reminder. “I intend to plan this a little better. If we're going to do something about the Kariens, the first thing we have to do is get rid of Joyhinia, and replace her with a First Sister who is on Medalon's side, rather than her own, then...”

“Who are you planning to put in power? Mahina's dead.”

“I know. I saw the head over the gate.”

“Whose idea was that?” Brak asked.

“The First Sister's.”

“Somehow that doesn't surprise me.” R'shiel's eyes hardened as she spoke, something he did not think was possible. Then she shook off whatever it was that caused such hatred to flare in her and shrugged. “I was thinking of Harith.”

Garet shrugged. Harith was not popular. But she was, of all the Quorum members, perhaps the one who cared most about Medalon.

“Assuming you manage that, then what?”

“I need to find the Harshini archives. And I'm going to kill Loclon.”

“Loclon? What's he got to do with this? Besides, he's listed as a deserter. Nobody has seen him since the night of the last Gathering.”

R'shiel pulled the wooden chair on the other side of the desk across the rug and sat down facing him. “Joyhinia didn't recover, Garet. The Karien priests simply borrowed another mind and put it in her body. That's not Joyhinia issuing the Kariens orders. It's Loclon.”

The whole idea was too bizarre for Garet to take in. “That's absurd... it's not possible...”

“Of course it's possible,” Brak said. “You're dealing with powers you refuse to acknowledge, Commandant, but that doesn't make them any less real. Or powerful.”

“Perhaps she simply recovered...”

“Tarja destroyed her wit. There is no way Joyhinia could have returned.”

“But Loclon? How did he... ?”

“It doesn't matter,” R'shiel insisted. “All that matters is that we do something about it, about everything - Loclon, the Kariens, all of it. I can't do anything about finding the answers I need until they've been taken care of.”

“Did you ride in here with your eyes shut, R'shiel?”

“I never said I thought it was going to be easy, Garet,” she said. “But it is necessary.”

The commandant nodded slowly. “Very well. But if you want me to cooperate, then I ask... no I demand... two things.”

“You're not in a position to demand anything, Garet.”

“Nevertheless, I will demand them. If you don't wish to heed me, then I'll just throw myself on my sword now, and save the Kariens the trouble of hanging me.”

R'shiel obviously meant to object, but Brak cut in before she could say anything. “What do you want, Commandant?”

“First, I want your promise that you will listen to me. I haven't been sitting here idly while the Kariens overrun Medalon. I have the men we need in the places we need them and the authority to mobilise them. But if we're to do this successfully, then timing is critical. I don't want anyone - specifically you, R'shiel - going off on a tangent because of some noble pagan purpose I don't give a damn about and ruining it for the rest of us. I don't care about your destiny, the Harshini or the rebels. I don't even want to know what you're looking for in the archives. Is that clear?”

“I think that's fair. And the second thing?” Brak asked before R'shiel could get a word in.

“I want to disband the Sisterhood.”

They both stared at him.

“Disband the Sisterhood? Why?”

“I'm surprised you of all people have to ask, R'shiel. It's a corrupt and destructive form of government. They may have started out with the right intentions, but what drives them now is nothing more than the quest for personal power. The Sisters of the Blade that led us into this mess. When we take the Citadel, we take the power out of the hands of the Sisterhood and place it with the Defenders.”

“So you want to replace one form of oppressive rule with another?” Brak asked wryly.

“No. Eventually, we'll hold elections. The people of Medalon should be allowed to vote for who they want to lead them, not leave the choice to a handful of women who are trained from childhood to believe they are better than everybody else. We'll put Jenga in charge until we've cleared out the Kariens and we can organise a vote. He has enough honour to see that it's done properly.”

R'shiel gazed at him suspiciously. “How long have you been planning this, Garet?”

“The destruction of the Sisterhood? Since the day I learnt of the burning of a small village in the Sanctuary Mountains called Haven,” he told her.

For a moment she said nothing.

“You come from Haven.” It was more a statement of fact than a question; a sudden acceptance of his motives, an understanding of what drove him. He felt as if, on some unconscious level, she had forgiven him.

“Your real family was killed in that raid, R'shiel. So were mine.”

“I never knew you were Mountain Folk.”

“Why should you? I've been a Defender for as long as you've known me.”

“Then you've known all along who I really was?”

He shook his head. “You were born long after I left Haven. But I knew your mother, J'nel. And B'thrim, her sister.”

“What were they like?”

He smiled, partly in remembrance, and partly because of the expression on R'shiel's face. For all her deeds, for all her awesome power, there was still a part of the child she had been lurking deep inside her, desperate for reassurance.

“B'thrim I remember as being a rather large, over-protective woman who would chase us with a skinning knife if ever she caught us robbing her traps in the woods. J'nel was the complete opposite. She was small and fragile and wild. We used to call her the Snow Child. She was never happier than when she was lost in the woods. As a boy, I was part of more than one search party sent to find her. She was the sort of person who could coax wild rabbits to sit on her lap. I never knew anyone like her. It doesn't surprise me in the least that she caught the eye of a Harshini King.”

R'shiel closed her eyes for a moment and he exchanged a look with Brak.

“When did you leave Haven?” Brak asked.

“I was fourteen. The life of a woodcutter didn't particularly appeal to me so I ran away to Testra. That's when I discovered that knowing how to live off the land in no way prepared one for living in a city. I was caught stealing food by a Defender lieutenant. He gave me the choice to join up or be sent to the Grimfield. So I joined the Defenders. The lieutenant put in a good word for me and I was accepted into the Cadets. I've not been back to Haven since.”

“You were lucky to meet someone so generous,” Brak remarked.

Garet nodded. “I was. And I still owe him. His name was Palin Jenga.”

R'shiel's eyes opened wide. “Then you have a debt to pay, as well as vengeance to seek.”

He nodded. “Which is why I insist on both my demands being met. I don't intend to let your hidden agenda ruin mine. I will never have another chance at this. Do we have a deal?”

R'shiel glanced up at Brak who was standing behind her. The Harshini nodded slightly and she turned back to him.

“Yes, Garet. We have a deal.”

CHAPTER 37

Garet Warner arranged a meeting with those officers who were with him in his desire to overthrow both the Kariens and the Sisters of the Blade. R'shiel was surprised when she saw them. There were quite a few familiar faces - classmates of Tarja's and other senior officers who she would never have expected to harbour such treasonous ambitions. She was certain every Defender in the Citadel wanted to be free of Karien occupation, but it was a little disturbing to learn how many of these men were willing to destroy the Sisterhood.

They met in a room at the back of the Grey Widow Inn in Tavern Street, slipping in one at a time to avoid raising the suspicions of the Karien soldiers who now frequented the place. The windows were covered against the night with shabby woven curtains and the lanterns that flickered in their yellow glass flutes gave the room an air of conspiracy. When they were finally assembled, Garet locked the door and turned to face them. There were fifteen Defenders present, every one of them an officer and not one ranked below captain. Brak and R'shiel were the only civilians.

“I'm not going to bother with introductions,” he began. “If you don't know each other's names, then it's probably better that it stays that way. The only people who need introduction are these two. Most of you know R'shiel. Her friend is called Brak.”

“Can we trust them?” an officer asked, one R'shiel did not know.

“They wouldn't be here otherwise.”

The Defender nodded and made no further comment.

“I take it this meeting means that we've decided to make our move,” another man remarked.

Garet nodded. “We begin at dawn on Restday.”

“That doesn't give us much time,” someone else pointed out. R'shiel knew the voice, but could not put a face to it.

“That's the whole point,” Garet replied. “Once we leave this room tonight, we will have to take others into our confidence. Every additional person who learns of this plot increases our chances of discovery. The less time between now and when we strike the better.”

“I know we've discussed this before,” a young man near the back of the room commented, “but even if we can take the Citadel, that still leaves the Karien army camped outside our gates.”

“And there's the priests to contend with, too,” his companion added with concern. “I don't believe in their tales of magic, but I was on the northern border when their army attacked. I know what I saw there.”

“Take them hostage,” R'shiel suggested.

They all looked at her in surprise, including Brak.

“If you plan it right,” she continued, “once you take the Citadel you'll have every duke in Karien as a hostage and their priests with them. If you can't negotiate a settlement with Jasnoff, using his entire Council of Dukes as your bargaining chip, you're not going to do it with anything else. It's quite simple, really. You kill them one at a time until he gives in. Start with the priests and work your way up. You shouldn't have to dispose of too many before King Jasnoff gets the message.”

Brak grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close so only she could hear him. “What in the gods' name are you up to now?” he hissed in her ear.

“Trust me, Brak.” She pulled free of his grasp and rubbed her arm.

“Not this time, R'shiel. I won't stand by while you slaughter innocent men just so you can get even with your mother.”

She let out an impatient, exasperated sigh. Why did he always assume the worst about her? “I'd hardly call the Karien dukes and their priests innocent. Besides, we're not really going to destroy anyone, Brak; we're just going to threaten it. We're just giving them a reason to go home.”

Brak's faded eyes were burning with suspicion, but he had no chance to question her further.

“You don't seriously expect us to kill hostages in cold blood?” The man who spoke was Rylan, the Citadel's Master of Horse. R'shiel had known him since she was a small child. “That's not the way we do things in the Defenders.”

“You coped well enough murdering your own people during the Purge, Commandant,” she replied. “I should think a few enemy heads posted over the main gate would make a nice change.”

The room exploded in a rush of objection. Garet glared at her angrily. “You're treading on very thin ice, R'shiel.”

“I'm merely stating facts, Garet. The Defenders have much to atone for.”

“The biggest mistake we made was not ensuring we had completely eradicated the Harshini,” someone called out pointedly.

R'shiel turned on the officer who had spoken. “You'll make an even bigger mistake if you think you can do this and remain on your high moral ground. Look at you! Hiding in the back room of a tavern, plotting the overthrow of your government while you profess to abhor unnecessary bloodshed. Your precious Defender's honour didn't stop Mahina being killed. It hasn't stopped the Kariens taking control of Medalon and it won't help you get it back. You're fighting fanatics, Captain, not men who think like you do. If you expect to win, you have to play by their rules, not hope they'll play by yours.”

Garet glanced at Brak warningly. “Shut her up, or leave.”

Brak stepped up behind R'shiel and placed a strong, restraining hand on her shoulder. “You aren't helping, R'shiel.”

“We can't go ahead with this!” Rylan insisted. “Jasnoff won't negotiate. He doesn't need to. What does it matter if we control the Citadel? With that army camped outside our walls, we could be under siege for years. There is no army waiting over the next rise to come to our rescue. And even if there were, what army on the continent could rival the number of Kariens out there? It's too dangerous. We should find another way.”

Garet held up his hands to quell the hubbub of agreement that followed the Horse Master's words, then looked at R'shiel and Brak speculatively.

“Rylan has raised a valid point. If this strategy fails and we can't disperse the Karien host, we will be caught in a siege that will be long, painful and ultimately futile.”

“What if you had a chance of being relieved?” Brak asked. R'shiel glanced over her shoulder at him. Then she smiled in understanding.

“Damin.”

“Who?” someone asked from the back of the room.

“Damin Wolfblade, the High Prince of Hythria. Tarja was taking the men he gathered south to meet him. He has already promised Medalon aid.”

“For that matter,” R'shiel added thoughtfully, “we could probably get Hablet to join in the fray. And then there are the Defenders who fled to Hythria.”

“How many Defenders?” someone asked. “A thousand? Maybe two? They'll not be much use against that horde outside.”

“And you seriously think the Hythrun and the Fardohnyans will come to our aid?” Rylan scoffed.

“Damin will come,” R'shiel replied confidently.

“R'shiel's right,” Brak agreed. “Hythria and Fardohnya will come if she asks for their help.”

“Things must have changed in the south quite dramatically in recent months,” Rylan remarked sourly. “Last I heard, Hablet was planning to invade us, not come to our rescue. And since when did you hold any sway with the kings and princes of our southern neighbours?”

Garet studied her for a moment then turned to Rylan. He had been on the northern border with them and knew she was acquainted with the Hythrun Prince. “Actually, in this I think she may be right. Wolfblade might come if R'shiel asks him. But are you sure you can trust him?”

“I'd trust Damin with my life.”

“It's not just your life you're trusting him with, R'shiel, but the lives of every man, woman and child in the Citadel.”

Garet studied them both for a moment, weighing the advisability of placing his faith in their assurances. Eventually he shrugged and turned to face his men. “As I see it, we go now, or we abandon the idea altogether. Every day the Kariens reside in Medalon makes it all the harder to dislodge them. I'm willing to believe R'shiel if she says she can bring help. I say we do it and then settle down and wait for the Hythrun to relieve us.”

A low murmur ran through the room as the Defenders indicated their cautious agreement. Garet nodded. “Good. Then let's get down to details.”

There wasn't much R'shiel or Brak could contribute after that. These men had been planning this since the day Joyhinia signed Medalon's surrender. Everything had been worked out: each key position they would take, every weapon they would need and every man they would need to do it. This meeting was simply to sort out the minor details and accommodate any last-minute changes to their plans.

They based their coup on the assumption that every Defender in the Citadel would follow them when the time came, and R'shiel was quite sure their confidence was justified. There was not a Defender who would willingly subjugate himself to the Kariens - with the possible exception of Wain Loclon, and she intended to take care of him personally.

The task of rescuing the Lord Defender and Tarja fell to a young captain whom R'shiel vaguely remembered being a lieutenant when she had been a Probate. He was, she recalled with mild surprise, the young man who had whisked Kilene away to dance, on the night Davydd Tailorson had taken her to meet Tarja in the caverns under the amphitheatre. That night stuck in her memory like the jagged edge of a bottomless abyss, down which she seemed to have been helplessly tumbling ever since, towards a destiny she had never wanted or envisaged. Symin accepted his orders with a serious expression, but she could sense the suppressed excitement that he struggled to hold in check. He worried her a little. This was not an adventure.

It was the early hours of the morning before Garet glanced around the room with a nod of satisfaction. “Well, that's about it. You all know what you have to do. Any questions?”

“We've not mentioned how we're going to get a message to the Hythrun,” Rylan pointed out.

“R'shiel?” Garet asked, turning to her.

“We'll take care of that.”

“How?” Rylan asked. “We'll be trapped in the Citadel. How will you get a message out? How will you get past the Kariens? We have no birds here trained to fly to Hythria.”

It was Garet who answered for her. “I think in this case, we can leave that up to Brak and R'shiel. They have... er... resources... that we don't need to know about. I don't think we need fear on that point.”

R'shiel glanced at Brak who smiled briefly at Garet's cautious acknowledgment of their power.

“Well, if there are no more questions, I think we're finished here. Good luck, gentlemen.”

The Defenders gathered up their maps and plans and began to leave the room, one at a time, slipping out as the young lieutenant, who was surreptitiously guarding the door outside, gave the signal that it was clear. R'shiel and Brak were among the last to leave.

“I'm placing an awful lot of faith in you two, and based on your past history, that's not very encouraging,” Garet said as they waited. “Can you really get Wolfblade and the Fardohnyans here in time to help?”

“I think so.”

“R'shiel, I'd be a lot happier if you sounded more certain.”

She shrugged. “It depends on a few things. I have to talk to some of the gods.”

Garet's brow furrowed in concern. “I can't believe I'm even discussing this, let alone pinning our whole strategy on it.” He stopped and nodded in acknowledgment of a salute from two captains, then waited until they were alone before he continued. “There's something else I want you to keep in mind. If we kill too many priests and dukes, Jasnoff will seek our destruction out of spite.”

“You won't have to kill more than a few, Garet.”

“That's easy for you to say. It's not you who will be holding the sword to their throats. Or were you planning to do this personally?”

“I couldn't, even if I wanted to. If I caused that much destruction, it would devastate the Harshini, who are linked to the same power source as me.” She glanced at Brak, a little offended by his startled expression. “You didn't think I knew that, did you? I remember what Shananara said to me about the night that I tried to kill Loclon. If wanting to kill one person could hurt the Harshini that much, killing dozens would destroy them.”

“Then bear something else in mind,” Garet reminded her. “A hundred thousand rampaging Kariens fleeing through Medalon will be just as destructive as making them die here.”

“Don't worry, Garet. I know what I'm doing.”

He shook his head ruefully. “I seriously doubt that, R'shiel, and the look of doubt on Brak's face does little to encourage me.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“Because we have to,” he replied simply.

The Great Hall of the Citadel was now known as Francil's Hall, however R'shiel refused to acknowledge the new name. Joyhinia Tenragan had purchased the name at the cost of a woman's honour, and R'shiel would not give such a base and lowly act any credence by admitting to it. The huge hall was deserted when they slipped inside, cringing as the massive doors boomed shut behind them. It was just on dawn and the hall was shrouded in shadows as the first faint rays of light painted the dancing dust motes pink. The walls below the gallery were just beginning to lighten with the Brightening. Brak stepped into the hall and looked around. His eyes were full of unspeakable sadness.

“The ceiling used to have a painting on it that depicted all the Primal Gods,” he said, looking up at the stark, whitewashed roof. His voice seemed dangerously loud in the silent, cavernous building. “It took the Harshini nearly half a century to complete it. You could stare at it for a lifetime and still not find everything there was to see.”

“There was a mural in my room like that,” she told him. “It was so full of detail I never tired of looking at it.”

He did not appear to notice she had spoken. “Along the gallery up there was a mural dedicated to the Incidental Gods. Their followers would come to the Temple of the Gods and add to the mural as part of their acknowledgment of their gods' existence. Parts of it were magnificent, particularly the panels devoted to the God of Artists. There were sonnets covering the walls devoted to the God of Poets, too. You see the marble balustrade? If you look closely, you'll find each pillar is drilled with holes. Open the windows in the arches at either end of the Hall on a windy day and the whole hall will sing to the God of Music.”

R'shiel wasn't sure what to say, or even if she should say anything. Brak seemed lost in the past. He walked further into the hall, his boots loud on the marble floor.

“See these twenty pillars supporting the gallery? They used to have alcoves set in each one, but they're filled in now. Each pillar was a shrine to one of the Primal Gods.” He frowned at some distant memory and glanced at her. “The Seeing Stone used to sit up there on the podium. It seemed bigger then, but I guess I remember it through the eyes of a younger man.”

“It must have been spectacular.”

“It was,” he agreed, with a frown at the stark walls. The wall at the back of the podium had been plastered over and whitewashed. R'shiel recalled the impressive Stone in the Temple in Greenharbour and tried to envisage a similar Stone taking pride of place in this Temple, but she could not imagine it. The Hall was filled with too much of the Sisterhood's history for her to really grasp what Brak could see.

“Do you know how much mischief Korandellan and I used to find as children, with the God of Thieves and the God of Chance for playmates?”

“You played with the gods?”

“It was a different world then, R'shiel. There were no Sisters of the Blade. No Overlord. Not much violence at all, to speak of, except in Hythria, but that was the God of War's province and it rarely impinged on our lives.” He shook his head and looked around with regret. “The Sisterhood has done much to be despised for, but I think this is the worst desecration of all.”

She stared at the stark, empty hall for a moment. She had seen Sanctuary and been overcome by the beauty of it, but she had a feeling it was a pale reflection of what the Citadel had once been.

Brak visibly shook off his nostalgic melancholy. “Come on. If we're going to do this, we'd better get it over with. The city will be awake soon.”

“Won't the priests feel us?”

“Not in here.”

“You neglected to mention that before.”

“No, I quite deliberately omitted mentioning it,” he told her. “I didn't want you getting ideas.”

“But they found me here the last time I drew on my power.”

“Only once they were inside with you.”

She scowled at him. “How many other little snippets of vital information like that have you deliberately omitted?”

“Quite a few. Now get a move on. We haven't got all day.”

This was the Temple of the Gods. To name a god here was to summon him. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if after all this time, the gods would still come to the temple if she called. She glanced at Brak and then shrugged.

There was really only one way to find out.

CHAPTER 38

Initially, Tarja survived his captivity because nobody recognised him. When he regained consciousness with a pounding headache, eyes glued shut by the blood that had leaked from the wound on his forehead, he found himself in a crowded cell with a score of other men rounded up by the Kariens. He was blue from cold and shivering uncontrollably in his damp clothes, but otherwise unharmed, which surprised him a little. Of Ulran and the others there was no sign. They had either escaped or were being held in a different location.

Tarja's anonymity was aided considerably by the fact that the Kariens had not thought to establish the identity of their prisoners. That was a job for scribes, and they did not consider scribes a necessary part of an advance war party.

The main Karien army arrived in Cauthside the day after he cut loose the ferry. According to his cellmates, who had witnessed the aftermath, the ferry had been destroyed by the river, which had thrown it against the bank like a piece of driftwood. It was now good for nothing more than kindling. The news gave Tarja some small measure of satisfaction. For the time being, the Kariens were stalled.

His good fortune did not last long. A week after he was captured he was reunited with Ulran, who spied him on the other side of the crowded cellar where they were being held and called out to him gleefully, loud enough for every Karien in Cauthside to hear.

Within an hour, Tarja found himself, chained hand and foot, facing Lord Roache and Lord Wherland.

With the discovery of the notorious Tarja Tenragan in their custody, the Kariens obviously felt that the Overlord had answered their prayers. He became the focus of everything that had gone wrong in their campaign: Cratyn's death, Lord Terbolt's death, the fact that their army was facing starvation because there were not enough farms or cities in northern Medalon they could ransack for supplies, that the Defenders had surrendered yet refused to be cowed - even that they still needed the Defenders to maintain control of the civilian population. They blamed him for the squads of roving deserters who harried their flanks and slunk away into the night before they could be captured, and they blamed him for the fact that they were immobilised on the wrong side of the river, a responsibility which Tarja didn't mind shouldering at all, considering he actually was accountable for that.

Everything became Tarja's fault and they intended to see that he paid for it.

The Karien dukes wore the frazzled air that surrounds men whose success comes at a very high price. Lord Roache did not accuse him openly of single-handedly hampering the Karien occupation of Medalon, but he came close. He had spared Tarja a contemptuous glance, then consulted the parchment in front of him.

“You murdered Lord Pieter, Lord Terbolt and His Royal Highness, Cratyn, the Crown Prince of Karien. You also murdered the priest Elfron. You are responsible for countless acts of sabotage, up to and including the destruction of the Cauthside Ferry. You are responsible for the kidnapping of Her Royal Highness, Adrina, Crown Princess of Karien, and for handing her over to the custody of the barbarian Hythrun, where she remains a hostage. You have consorted with demons and pagans and have actively assisted Harshini sorcerers. Do you have anything to say?”

“I think you left out the bit about eating babies,” he had said with the reckless abandon of a man who knows he is condemned and that nothing he said could make the situation worse than it already was.

“You will hang, Captain. Your crimes allow no other course of action.”

“Could you do it sooner, rather than later?” he quipped, enjoying the effect his insolence was having on the Karien duke. “The food in the cells is terrible.”

“You mock me at your peril, Captain.”

“I say we dispose of him now!” Wherland declared. He was a big man with a big voice and very little patience.

Roache shook his head. “These Medalonians need to see that even the mighty Tarja Tenragan cannot escape our vengeance. If we hang him here, in this isolated country village, the people will refuse to believe it. He has to die as publicly as possible. We will wait until we reach the Citadel. I want as many witnesses as I can get.”

“Then a little public humiliation will have to do. We'll put him in the stocks.”

“No. The risk of his accomplices trying to free him would be too great. He'll be confined in the camp. I intend to make an example of him that the Medalonians will not forget.”

They spoke Karien, perhaps not aware that Tarja understood them. He did not react to their words, preferring them to remain ignorant of the fact that he spoke their language fluently. If anything, Roache's determination to hang him in the Citadel gave him heart. It would be a month or more before they could get across the river. A lot could happen in a month.

Roache turned back to Tarja and addressed him in heavily accented Medalonian.

“You will be confined here and transferred to the Citadel at the earliest opportunity. If you wish to prolong your life, you will provide us with the names of your conspirators and the location of your rebel headquarters.”

“You don't seriously expect me to tell you anything, do you?”

The Duke shrugged. “One is never sure what a Medalonian considers honourable, Captain. You might be willing to barter your friends to save your own neck.”

“A word of advice, my Lord. If you expect to hold onto Medalon, you would do well to learn what we consider honourable.”

“Looking at the list of your crimes, Captain, I'm surprised you have the word in your vocabulary.”

While hardly luxurious, Tarja's accommodation proved better than he expected. He was confined to a tent in the centre of the Karien camp, guarded on all four sides by knights who held their loyalty to Karien and the Overlord above even their own mothers, Tarja suspected. They were taciturn to begin with, but as the days merged into weeks, they relented a little and from them Tarja learnt what was happening in the outside world.

The knights told him when the news arrived that Princess Adrina was now in Hythria and married to the Hythrun High Prince. Tarja appeared suitably surprised, not wanting to spoil their outrage by informing them that he had known about her marriage for some time. The news that Damin was the High Prince worried him a little. He wondered if R'shiel had had a hand in it. She had killed twice that he knew of and never shown a moment's remorse over either man. Had she acquired a taste for murder? Was the blood of the old High Prince on her hands now? The thoughts ate at him, added to the other memories of her that continued to haunt him. Memories that could not be real. Memories he had no reason to doubt.

Although he had no idea of the fate of Mandah and the rest of his squad, he learnt soon enough what had happened to the Fardohnyans they had found in the abandoned boathouse. When Paval informed the remnants of Adrina's Guard that the Kariens had arrived, instead of fleeing south, which would have been the sensible thing to do, Filip and his men rode straight into Cauthside in a futile attempt to aid the Medalonians. By the time they arrived, there were enough Kariens in the town to outnumber them considerably. The fight had been short and bloody. A number were killed in the skirmish, including Filip and Paval. The remainder were summarily tried and hanged as deserters the following day.

Tarja saw their rotting bodies swinging from a temporary gallows the Kariens had constructed in the town square when he was escorted to his new quarters in the Karien camp. He felt a pang of guilt and wondered why the Fardohnyans had risked such a fate when they could have gotten clean away. In the end he decided it was some incomprehensible idea of Fardohnyan honour that made them turn back. He had seen the look in Filip's eyes when he had offered their surrender to Damin on the border. Perhaps it was easier to die attempting something heroic against ridiculous odds than return home to Talabar to face the King. The Princess' Guard had not only deserted a battlefield, but had abandoned the Princess they'd been sent north to protect. That Adrina had ordered them to do both would not matter to Hablet. Tarja realised that the same fate probably awaited these men at home. All they had done was hasten the inevitable.

Tarja spent almost a month in the Karien camp before the rafts were completed and he was transferred across the Glass River to the Citadel under heavy guard. He saw nothing of the journey or the Citadel when the Kariens entered it in triumph. Lord Roache had commandeered a closed carriage in Cauthside, and Tarja was confined to it, night and day, for the entire trip, allowed out only once each morning and evening to relieve himself. He was transferred to a cell in the Defenders' headquarters under cover of darkness, and there he remained, completely cut off from news of what was happening in the outside world.

Tarja did not know if the Citadel had surrendered quietly, or if there had been a pitched battle for it. He did not know if the Defenders still existed, or if Roache had disbanded them. The guards on his cell in the Citadel spoke no Medalonian and he did not want to reveal that he spoke their language, so there was no conversation between them. If they discussed the events of the day as they whiled away the hours on duty, they were too far from his cell for him to overhear them.

As he lost track of the days, Tarja found the isolation beginning to wear on him. He had spent enough time behind bars recently to grow accustomed to incarceration - a circumstance that bothered him more than he cared to admit - but he had always had something to occupy his mind. The torturers who had tried to extract the identity of his fellow rebels from him with batons and hot iron pokers had given him some purpose, even if it was merely to resist them. But here, so isolated that he had not seen another soul for days, he began to appreciate the need for human company. He saw no one. Even his meals were delivered anonymously through a hatch in the metal door.

At first he tried to occupy his mind with plans of escape, but with no tools to break out and no contact with anybody who could provide them, he was helpless. He wondered if feigning illness would bring his guards running into the cell, but he had banged on the door until his knuckles were raw and his voice grew hoarse from calling out to no avail. Tarja began to wonder if his isolation was a form of torture in itself. There were worse things than pain, worse than humiliation or defeat. To be forgotten; to be so inconsequential that it mattered to nobody if you lived or died - that was proving to be the bitterest pill of all.

With escape, or even the hope of it denied him, Tarja turned his thoughts inward. Introspection proved a dangerous game. His mind was filled with a past that horrified him, yet he was coming to accept it as real. For some reason - perhaps, as Mandah suggested, on the whim of a god - he had fallen hopelessly in love with R'shiel. He could remember it all, every thought, every longing, every kiss, every embrace, every moment of intimacy, every time he slept with her curled in his arms. What puzzled him was why it had not bothered him at the time - and why it bothered him so much now. He knew, on an intellectual level, that R'shiel was not his sister, but a lifetime of thinking of her as his own flesh and blood was not so easily swept aside. Yet he had loved her, seemingly without regret, until he woke in that wagon on the way to Testra and discovered his world completely changed and no memory or inkling of what had changed it.

When the door to his cell finally opened, Tarja leaped to his feet with pathetic eagerness. The man who opened it was a knight with dark hair and the disillusioned look of a young man who has discovered that war is not nearly as romantic or heroic as he imagined. His tabard was decorated with three stylised pines against a red background.

Kirkland, Tarja thought. He comes from the same province as young Mikel. What happened to him, I wonder? Did he live through this or is he yet another victim of R'shiel's destiny?

“My name is Sir Andony,” the Karien said in broken Medalonian. “You come with me.”

Tarja looked down, aware of how bad he smelled. He was unshaved and filthy and his cell reeked, the bucket in the corner long since filled to overflowing.

“Where are we going?”

“Must be clean. You hang tomorrow. Lord Roache say you must look like Defender.”

So, they were finally going to hang him. Roache had said he wanted as many witnesses as possible and he obviously wanted to remind the citizens of Medalon that he was hanging an Officer of the Defenders. The desperate, unwholesome creature he must appear at the moment would threaten no one. Tarja debated resisting for an instant then rejected the idea. There might be some hope of escape once he was out of his cell, although looking at the men arrayed behind Andony it was unlikely.

Tarja followed Andony and resolutely refused to give up hope. He had escaped this fate before. He had eluded death so many times in the past that he had wondered if, like the magical Harshini, he were immortal. As the Karien guards fell in around him, he warned himself not to be so foolish.

He was not invincible. Even the Harshini were not immortal. Barring some unforeseen miracle, in less than a day all his previous narrow escapes would finally catch up with him.

CHAPTER 39

Dawn broke over the Citadel on Restday to the ring of hammers pounding on wood as the gallows slowly took shape. The sandy floor of the arena was littered with construction debris as the workmen hurried to finish their task before the crowd arrived. Joyhinia Tenragan stepped down through the gate in the white painted barricade and surveyed the progress with a frown as she crossed the arena floor, tugging her cloak closed against the crisp breeze.

“How much longer?”

The foreman turned at her voice and dropped his hammer. He bowed hastily. “It will be done on time, First Sister.”

Joyhinia nodded with satisfaction. The hanging was scheduled for noon. “You've done well.”

“I've no need to be doing this at all,” the man complained as he picked up his hammer. “There's a perfectly good gallows behind the Defenders' headquarters.”

“You don't approve of public hangings?” Joyhinia asked curiously. She probably should have reprimanded him for being so impudent, but she was in a rare mood today.

“It's not my idea of entertainment, no,” the foreman agreed cautiously, perhaps realising the folly of being so outspoken.

“I see. It's not that you harbour sympathies for the criminal, then?”

“No, your Grace!”

“I thought not. Carry on.”

Joyhinia turned away from the workmen with a sour smile. That should take the lead out of their boots. A few words from the First Sister and men quivered where they stood. Even the threat of her presence was enough to unman some. It was the headiest feeling. Better than wine. Better than sex. Better even, than watching someone in pain...

The First Sister strolled back towards her office in a fine mood. The day was cool but clear, and it would see the last of Tarja Tenragan. That her vengeance had taken so long did not concern the First Sister. If anything, it tasted all the sweeter for the wait.

At the thought of her other enemies who were still at large, the First Sister frowned. She had expected some news by now, but no word had come about R'shiel. She had last been seen in Fardohnya, according to Squire Mathen, claiming to be the Harshini demon child. The news did not overly concern her.

Tarja would draw R'shiel like a water diviner to an underground spring. Joyhinia had made certain that the hanging had been well publicised, surprising even the Kariens with her vehement insistence that Tarja's execution be delayed until the news had reached every corner of Medalon.

R'shiel had to come. All this power, all that Loclon currently enjoyed in the guise of the First Sister would be meaningless if she continued to live.

Squire Mathen was waiting when the First Sister returned. He was a thin man with curling black hair, long thin features and a dour disposition. He also had little patience with Joyhinia and it was only the knowledge that this man held the key to the room where Loclon's body lay, empty and alive at Mathen's whim while his mind resided in Joyhinia's body, that kept the First Sister from defying him.

“Where have you been?”

The man was sitting behind the First Sister's desk, going through her papers. Joyhinia bit back her annoyance.

“I was checking on the progress of the gallows. I wanted to be sure everything would be ready.”

“It should be quite an event,” Mathen remarked without looking up. “Not often one gets to see an Officer of the Defenders hanged. I imagine you would have to hang someone as important as the First Sister to get a bigger crowd.”

Even Joyhinia could not miss the veiled threat.

“Tarja Tenragan is a deserter and a miserable traitor.”

Mathen looked up with cold narrow eyes and stared at her. Joyhinia fidgeted under his scrutiny. “Then it will do the citizens good to see what happens to traitors.”

“And it will bring those who oppose us out of the woodwork,” Joyhinia added.

Mathen finished reading the letter he was holding before he answered. “Or drive them underground.”

“No, I know these people. Someone will try to rescue him. And when they do, we'll be ready for them.”

“If it was up to me, I wouldn't try to rescue him,” Mathen shrugged. “If I wanted to ferment rebellion, I would let you hang him unopposed and use his death as a rallying cry for every malcontent in Medalon.”

The implied criticism was clear. “If you think this is such a bad idea, why are you letting it go ahead?”

“Because Lord Roache wishes it, and even as a martyr, Tarja Tenragan will be less trouble dead than alive. Where is the speech I wrote for you?”

“I gave it to my secretary.”

“Fetch it. I have a few changes I wish to make.”

Joyhinia knew better than to argue with the man. She turned on her heel and crossed the large office, jerking open the door angrily.

“Suelen? Give me that speech I gave you yesterday!”

Suelen jumped to obey. Joyhinia snatched the rolled parchment from her outstretched hand and slammed the door in the young woman's face.

“There!” she said, slapping it on the desk.

Squire Mathen looked up. He seemed amused. “Temper, temper, First Sister.”

Although it had been the Karien priests who had worked the spell that had put his mind in Joyhinia's body, secretly, the First Sister was no happier about the Karien occupation of the Citadel than any other Medalonian. It had nothing to do with patriotism, however. Loclon simply wanted to be left alone to run things as he saw fit and Mathen's presence was a constant reminder of the limits to his power.

From a purely political point of view, Loclon begrudgingly admired the Duke of Setenton's wisdom in placing Squire Mathen in charge. Even Lord Roache seemed content to let him take care of the day-to-day running of the Citadel. It must have been tempting for the Kariens simply to demand instant conversion of their new subjects to the Overlord; to forbid practices that had been part of Medalonian society for centuries. Mathen was too clever to stir up resistance in such a manner. There had been enough trouble when they threw open the gates of the Citadel to welcome the Karien occupation force. He wasn't going to make Medalon ungovernable by ordering them to change their views on the gods overnight.

With no Quorum to answer to any longer, the First Sister could issue decrees as she wished, although they were written under Mathen's careful guidance. On the surface, the decrees seemed quite reasonable. One had to look closely to realise they were the first insidious steps down the road of Xaphista's worship. Mathen had all but outlawed prostitution, which the Sisterhood had legalised two centuries ago. There were other laws too, which had been enacted in the past months. It was now an offence to wager on anything; a decree that had been met with a great deal of grumbling, but little open resistance. Loclon wasn't a gambler himself, unless he had fixed it so he knew he would win, but he knew enough about the religion of the Kariens to know that this was another of their strict mores that they wished to impose on Medalon.

Illegitimacy was the next target, Loclon knew, but he doubted Mathen would be quite so lucky getting that one accepted. In Medalon, legitimacy was determined by the maternal line - a law set down by the Sisterhood long ago - and one that meant perhaps two thirds of the population had been born out of the Karien definition of wedlock. They would not be pleased to suddenly find themselves considered bastards.

Had he tried to disband the Defenders, Mathen would have had a bloodbath on his hands, so he had wisely made no attempt to disarm them, and had, against Loclon's advice, left Garet Warner in charge, as the senior officer in the Citadel. Loclon didn't trust Garet Warner, although the man gave every indication of accepting the surrender. To Loclon, even wearing the body of the First Sister, the commandant's cooperation reeked of duplicity. Mathen, however, seemed unconcerned. He considered Garet a pragmatist, and while he obeyed orders, he was content to leave him be.

As for the Lord Defender, nobody, from Lord Roache down, was prepared to trust him. He had accepted the surrender unwillingly and actively abetted the deserters who now plagued them with acts of sabotage. There were even rumours that he had dispatched a large force to Hythria, which was massing to attack in the spring. Jenga was locked in the cells behind the Defenders' headquarters and there he would stay until Roache decided what to do with him. The Karien duke was reluctant to kill him out of hand. He may yet prove useful.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Mathen looked up and called permission to enter. Garet Warner stepped into the office, saluting Mathen and the First Sister politely when he stopped in front of the desk.

“Good morning, Squire. First Sister.”

“What is it, Commandant? Trouble over the execution today?”

“That's why I'm here. I thought perhaps it might be wise to post extra guards around the Citadel, in case things get out of hand.”

“That's probably a good idea. I'll send out to the camp for some extra men.”

“I was hoping to use the Defenders,” Garet said calmly. Joyhinia watched him with misgiving. Neither Loclon nor Joyhinia had ever liked Garet Warner. He was too clever by half.

“Why?” Mathen asked suspiciously.

“You're going to hang a Defender today, Squire. I'd prefer to have them kept busy. If you leave them off duty, they'll be in the stands as spectators.”

“Then they will learn a salutary lesson.”

“Or they might decide to object.”

Mathen thought on it for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Use all the men you need. Preferably away from the amphitheatre.”

“I've made a list of strategic locations that would be at risk if anything were to happen. I'll see my men are sent to all those positions. They'll not think it strange, and as you say, it will keep them away from the amphitheatre.”

“Very good. Is that all?”

“There was one other thing,” Garet added, almost as an afterthought. “They're having trouble with the main gate. One of the pulleys has seized and they can't get it open. I've got the engineers working on it. It should be fixed some time this morning.”

Mathen looked annoyed. “A convenient day for that to happen. Are you sure it was an accident?”

The Commandant nodded. “It's not been tampered with, if that's what you mean. I checked on it myself this morning when I heard they were having trouble with it. You can inspect the problem yourself if you wish.”

“Just get the damned thing open,” Mathen snapped impatiently.

“As you wish, Squire.” Garet saluted smartly and turned towards the door. “I've taken the liberty of posting some men outside,” he added as he reached it. Then he looked over his shoulder at Joyhinia and smiled. “And I've arranged a special bodyguard for you too, your Grace. We don't want any incidents.”

Something about Garet Warner's manner screamed a warning to Loclon. He was much too calm, much too accepting of Tarja's hanging. Mathen returned his attention to the speech as Garet closed the door behind him.

“I changed the part here about traitorous deeds. It now reads: 'Captain Tenragan is a blight on the honour of the Defenders. His callow and cowardly deeds have shamed every citizen in Medalon'... and so on, and so on. It sounds better, don't you think? Calling him a traitor outright might stir up a few passions. Technically, he didn't betray Medalon, only Karien, and that wouldn't bother your people one whit, I suspect. We need to paint him as a coward, a criminal not worth... Are you listening to me?”

“He's up to something,” Joyhinia warned.

“Who? Tarja Tenragan?”

“Garet Warner.”

Mathen shrugged. “Undoubtedly.”

“Well, don't just sit there! We have to stop him!”

“I've taken precautions.”

“What precautions? You moved Jenga, that's all! I'm sure they're quaking in their boots!”

“Jenga is far more dangerous than Tarja Tenragan. The Lord Defender is a symbol of honour to every soldier in the Corps. I don't really care if they try to free Tarja. As you pointed out, this hanging will bring the troublemakers out of the woodwork. Let Warner try something. I've a hundred thousand men on the other side of that gate.”

“The gate is closed, you fool!”

Mathen looked at her for a moment and then swore viciously. He jumped to his feet and ran for the door, jerking it open. Suelen was gone. The anteroom was full of Defenders.

A sword pressing into his vest encouraged him to back up. The Defender holding the blade was a captain with the look of a man who wanted nothing more than to plunge his blade right through Mathen's chest.

“You idiot!” Joyhinia screamed at him. “I warned you!”

“Shut up, Joyhinia!” Mathen moved back far enough that the blade no longer touched him. For a tense moment he watched the Defenders who filed into the office with weapons drawn then addressed their captain.

“You cannot succeed, you know that, don't you?”

“No, actually I didn't know that,” the captain replied pleasantly. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Even if you manage to take the Citadel, you can't get past our army.”

“We'll see.”

The captain was infuriatingly confident. Loclon had been a Defender and he knew that stupidity was not one of their traits. Nor was Garet Warner a man for taking unnecessary risks. If this man believed they could win, it was because they had something up their sleeve. Something Mathen had not anticipated.

“They've done something!” Joyhinia said with a panicked edge to her voice. “Look at him! He doesn't care about your army! They've poisoned the water or the food or something.”

“Nothing so crude, First Sister,” Garet Warner remarked as he stepped back into the office. He glanced around and then nodded to the captain. “Take Mathen down and put him with the others. Quietly. Commandant Foren should have control of the administration building by now. Once you've secured the Squire, get over to the guest quarters and see if Cadon needs any help rounding up the priests.”

“What about me?” Joyhinia demanded.

“Ah, now you we have special plans for, your Grace,” Garet told her in that calm, annoying and soft-spoken voice that even as a Defender Loclon had always loathed. “There's someone who is rather keen to deal with you personally.”

“Who?”

Garet smiled knowingly but didn't answer. With a sudden wave of nausea, Loclon guessed who it was. It accounted for the captain's confidence. It accounted for Garet's smug expression. Loclon knew she would come. It couldn't be anybody else. Not today. Not with Tarja's life in danger.

“R'shiel.” Joyhinia breathed the name fearfully, as though saying it aloud might cause her to suddenly materialise out of thin air.

“She's not here,” Mathen scoffed. “We've had priests watching for her. There's no way the demon child could have slipped into the Citadel without us knowing about it.”

“I think you'll be disappointed to learn your confidence in the priesthood is somewhat misplaced, Squire,” R'shiel told him, stepping into the room. Loclon felt the First Sister's knees give way as she turned to him. Behind her was another man he did not know. He had no time to wonder who it was.

He had envisaged her return so often that it did not seem real. She was not bound and helpless. She was not begging for mercy. She was standing there, staring at him with utter contempt. There was not a trace of fear in her eyes, only a quiet confidence that she finally and unequivocally, had him under her control.

“Get the Squire out of here, Captain.”

Mathen was bundled from the room, leaving R'shiel, Garet, the tall stranger and three other Defenders to deal with Joyhinia. She watched them warily. She knew what would happen next. They would tie the First Sister hand and foot and make her grovel before that Harshini bitch, who would take her vengeance as slowly and painfully as possible.

Loclon knew it was over. His reign as First Sister was done. He had no idea how the Defenders planned to deal with the Karien host, but men like Garet Warner didn't undertake suicide missions. They knew they could win.

The First Sister would die. And R'shiel was standing there, staring at him like she had been planning his suffering almost as long as Loclon had been planning hers.

But Loclon wasn't done yet. His mind occupied the body of the First Sister, but his own body lay empty and waiting in a room in the First Sister's apartments. That was far from this room and probably not worthy of the attention of the Defenders who were taking up arms throughout the Citadel and turning on their Karien masters.

Loclon didn't stop to think about it. With a wordless cry, Joyhinia charged at the nearest Defender. The startled soldier raised his blade in surprise as she threw herself onto it, welcoming the pain as it tore through her body - the old woman's body that Loclon was suddenly desperate to be free of.

“No!” he heard R'shiel scream in anger, realising what he was doing.

But he was too quick for her warning, and perhaps only she truly understood what was happening. The Defender jerked his sword clear and she collapsed on the ground with a smile of intense satisfaction.

“Brak! Help me! Don't let her die!” R'shiel cried, rushing to the First Sister's side. She dropped to her knees beside the body of her foster-mother, her eyes glistening with furious, unshed tears.

Joyhinia didn't die immediately. The old bitch may have been witless, but her body clung tenaciously to life. For a moment Loclon was afraid that the wound had not been fatal. That would have been the ultimate irony - to survive, trapped in an old and ruined body racked with pain. R'shiel grabbed at her shoulders and shook the limp body in fury, but she was fading fast - too fast for R'shiel to stop it; too fast for her to call on her power to save Joyhinia's broken body. Through a red wall of pain Loclon saw her, saw the look of anger and frustration in her eyes as he robbed her of the one pleasure she wanted more than anything else in this life - his death. It made everything worthwhile.

Then he felt a sudden jerk, as if he was being ripped apart - as if some giant hand had reached inside of him and turned his body inside out. Darkness smothered him and he let out a wordless cry of triumph.

Joyhinia Tenragan was dead.

CHAPTER 40

Tarja slept surprisingly well the night before his hanging. Perhaps it was because he was clean for the first time in weeks. Or perhaps it was just that his fate seemed so inevitable he had given up worrying about it.

Whatever the reason, he woke at dawn feeling remarkably refreshed and far too healthy to dwell on the fact that he would most likely be dead in a few hours. As the small square of sky he could see through the cell's only window changed from pink to blue, he dressed in the uniform Andony had left for him and sat down to wait, feeling nothing but a serene sense of fatalistic calm.

It did not last long. Voices sounded in the hall outside, followed by the sounds of fighting, then the door to his cell flew open. The young man who opened it was wearing a captain's uniform, panting heavily and grinning like a fool.

“Captain Tenragan, sir! Commandant Warner sends his compliments and wondered if you'd like to forgo your hanging for a good fight, sir? Oh, and R'shiel said to say hello, too.”

Tarja stared at the young captain. He was beyond being surprised. He had ceased being amazed by his ability to escape certain death some time ago - about the time he had gone to sleep a broken man and woken completely healed in this same cellblock more than a year ago. And he was long past being astonished at R'shiel's ability to appear when he least expected it. She got him out of trouble almost as often as she landed him in it. But he was relieved that she was not the one who had found him. He had been ready to face death, but he wasn't sure he was ready to face R'shiel.

“Find me a sword.”

The captain laughed and tossed Tarja his own blade. He was obviously having the time of his life. Tarja snatched it out of the air and followed him into the hall.

Sir Andony and his men were lined up with their faces pressed against the wall as a score of Defenders expertly disarmed them. The young Karien knight looked stunned. He saw Tarja emerge from the cell and made to turn, but the Defender who stood behind him pushed him back against the wall.

“How far you think you get?” he snarled over his shoulder.

“Far enough,” Tarja replied with a grin, catching the mood of the Defenders around him. Every one of them looked delighted. These men were not trained to deal with defeat and the last few weeks with the Kariens in control of the Citadel had been eating away at them like slow burning acid. Now that they were finally doing something about it, there wasn't a Defender in the room who could hide his glee.

“What are you going to do with them, Captain... ?”

“Throw them into the cells for the time being,” the young man replied. “And the name's Symin. You probably don't remember me. I was a Lieutenant when you...”

“When I deserted? It's all right, Symin, you can say it.”

“Well, I just didn't want it to sound as if... you know...”

Tarja smiled at the young man's discomfort. “Yes. I know.”

“You not get away with this!” Andony insisted in his broken Medalonian. Tarja looked at him and shook his head.

“Sir Andony, why don't you just shut the hell up,” he said in Karien, “before I decide to shut you up myself.”

“Kill me if you want,” Andony declared angrily in his own language, lacking the words in Medalonian to express how he felt. “I will be welcomed into the House of the Overlord! You, on the other hand, will perish and freeze in the Sea of Despair! Don't you think we were expecting something like this? By now the Citadel is swarming with Karien troops. You won't get past the front door.”

“Well, that's our problem, isn't it?” He turned to Symin. “You do have a plan for getting past the front door, don't you?” he asked in Medalonian.

“We're taking back the Citadel,” Symin told him happily. “The gates are locked and by now we should have control of every key position in the city. Now we've got you out, we have to free Lord Jenga.”

“Where's he being held?”

“We thought he was here with you, but he must have been moved.”

Tarja's brow furrowed. He kicked an overturned stool out of the way, grabbed Andony by the shoulder and turned him around.

“Where have they taken the Lord Defender?”

“Go to hell, you atheist pig!”

Tarja hadn't really expected any other response. Andony tensed, obviously expecting Tarja to hit him. It would have been a waste of time. Andony wanted to suffer for the Overlord. Dying simply meant granting his wish by sending him to meet his god sooner. But if Tarja couldn't threaten his life, he could threaten his soul, and that, he suspected, would frighten him more than any promise of physical violence.

“Symin, did you say R'shiel was here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then perhaps we should ask the demon child to have a word with Sir Andony,” he said in Karien to be certain the knight understood him. “How long do you think it will take her to corrupt his soul?”

Symin looked at him blankly, but Andony paled.

“I cannot be turned from the Overlord by any Harshini witch!”

“This isn't just any Harshini witch, Andony,” he said in a low, threatening voice. “This is the demon child. She is evil incarnate. She can turn you from the Overlord just by looking at you. If she touches you, your soul will belong to her forever. You cannot fight her. Even Xaphista fears her. One look from the demon child and you will drown in the Sea of Despair for an eternity.” He watched as Andony's eyes widened with fear. A part of Tarja could not believe that a grown man could be so gullible, while another part of him silently thanked the Overlord for making his followers so vulnerable. “Do you really care that much about the Lord Defender?”

Andony hesitated. Tarja met his eye and saw the defiance there. He shrugged and turned to Symin.

“Fetch the demon child.”

“No!” Andony cried in horror.

“Where is the Lord Defender?”

The young knight was torn between duty and his immortal soul. The decision was a terrible one. Finally his shoulders slumped and he looked at the floor in shame. “He's in the caverns under the amphitheatre. They moved him there last night in case there was an attack on the cells.”

“The caverns,” Tarja translated for the benefit of his comrades.

“What did you say to him?” Symin asked curiously.

“I threatened his soul.”

“Clever,” he said with an approving nod, although he clearly had no idea what Tarja was talking about. “Sergeant Donel! Let's get these Kariens into the cells. The Lord Defender is waiting for us!”

It was not far from the Defenders' headquarters to the amphitheatre. As they ran through the deserted streets the occasional sound of metal against metal echoed between the buildings. A shout of alarm, in Karien, reached them from the direction of the armoury, then suddenly it was silenced. Tarja didn't know if the civilians in the Citadel had been warned of the coup, but they must have instinctively known something was afoot. They did not see another soul on their journey. Even Tavern Street was deserted.

When they reached the tunnel that led into the caverns, Tarja held up his hand to halt the troop. Symin didn't seem to mind that he had automatically assumed command. He studied the entrance for a moment then waved his men forward. The tunnel entrance was deserted, as was the tunnel itself. They moved into the darkness cautiously, listening with every sense they possessed.

The silence of the caverns pressed on Tarja like an invisible weight. They had once been stables, according to legend; carved out of the natural hill to house the legendary Harshini horses. Reaching far into the darkness, they stretched endlessly in a circle under the amphitheatre like a giant rabbit warren.

Jenga could be anywhere.

He glanced at Symin and silently signalled to him. The young captain nodded in understanding and headed towards the caverns on the left, taking half the troop with him. The other half followed Tarja into the caverns on the right.

Torches mounted in brackets at uneven intervals pierced the darkness with puddles of flickering light. They moved swiftly and silently, checking the caverns as they went. Memories caught Tarja unawares as they inspected the caves. He smiled as the sergeant signalled the all-clear on the cavern where he had stolen his first kiss with a Novice whose name he could no longer remember; frowned as he passed the cavern where he'd broken the news to R'shiel about her true parentage. He knew these rooms well - he'd played here as a child with Georj. It was the best place in the Citadel to hide from Joyhinia. The best place to imagine they were heroes fighting off some implacable foe. They came here to practise their swordcraft, too, away from the critical eye of the Master at Arms. He could remember thinking he was quite a swordsman when he managed to slip his blunted blade through Georj's guard, while R'shiel, barely old enough to keep up with them, had demanded she be allowed to try, even though their practice swords were taller than she was.

“Captain!”

Tarja turned at the whispered call. Symin's sergeant, Donel, pointed ahead. A pool of light beckoned, brighter than the surrounding caverns. They were almost in the centre of the ring. If Symin and his men had moved at much the same pace, they would be approaching from the other side.

Tarja nodded and signalled the order to move on. They crept like thieves through the darkness. Straining to listen, the silence bothered Tarja. He expected to hear something - the guards talking among themselves, the creak of leather or the scratch of metal armour as the Kariens moved about in the central cavern. But there was nothing. No sound disturbed the silence save for the hissing torches and the sound of his own breathing. He halted the men and waited. Listening intently.

There was nothing to be heard, but Tarja could smell something in the air, something faint, and sweet, and disturbingly familiar. It took him a few moments to identify it. When he realised what it was, he dropped all pretence of stealth and broke into a run. He saw Symin coming from the other direction, apparently having reached the same terrible conclusion. Tarja skidded to a halt as he reached the cavern and let out a wordless cry of despair as the others rushed in behind him.

It was blood he could smell. Fresh blood. The cavern was painted with it. It splattered the walls and pooled on the floor beneath their boots. Jenga lay in the centre of the carnage, his head almost severed from his body. He must have put up quite a fight. Squatting down, Tarja ran his finger through the bloody puddle at his feet. It was still faintly warm. Whoever had done this had done it recently. So recently that they were more than likely still down here in the caverns somewhere. He turned at the sound of someone retching.

“Why?” Symin managed to ask in a voice strangled with emotion.

Tarja didn't answer him, although he knew the reason. This was the Kariens' punishment for their temerity. It was the act of a spoiled child who had lost the game then spitefully broken the winner's favourite toy so that nobody else could play with it. For a moment, he couldn't speak. The rage he felt robbed him of any facility other than the desire to seek vengeance for the death of the only truly honourable man he had ever known. Donel looked at him with concern and touched his shoulder to get his attention.

Tarja flinched and stood up so quickly the sergeant drew back from him in fear.

“Spread out. Search the caverns. Whoever did this is still down here.”

Nobody questioned him. The Defenders dispersed quickly, swords at the ready, and began searching again. Tarja stared at the gruesome carnage for a moment then turned away. Symin stood behind him, immobilised by shock. He looked as if he'd suddenly lost his innocence; as if he had only just realised this was not a game.

“Why?”

“Because they could,” Tarja told him. “Because Jenga personified the Defenders. Because they knew they'd lost the Citadel and they wanted to make a point. Take your pick.”

“Captain!”

Tarja and Symin both turned at the cry. Donel and two of the Defenders were returning. Between them they dragged a struggling man, but it was not a Karien they had caught. It was a Defender. His uniform was sprayed with a dark pattern of blood. Disbelief warred with a sort of resigned acceptance of the inevitable as Tarja realised who it was.

“Gawn.”

The man stared at him with the wild eyes of a fanatic. Tarja had known him on the southern border and thought him a poor example of the Defenders then. He could not imagine what had brought him to this. Nor did he particularly care. He carefully and deliberately handed his sword to Symin, then as Donel held him, he backhanded the younger captain across the face. All the rage he could not voice was behind the blow.

Gawn's head snapped back and he slumped in the arms of the sergeant, but when he focused his eyes on Tarja again, he was smiling. “That's your answer to everything, isn't it Tarja? Every time I get one up on you, you have to hit something.”

Tarja flew at him, determined to kill Gawn with his bare hands. It took Symin and two other men to pull him off. Donel hauled Gawn to his feet as the captain wiped away the blood from his nose. Symin flung himself between Tarja and Gawn, forcibly holding Tarja back.

“I know how you feel, Tarja,” Symin said urgently, as he strained to keep them apart. “But don't let him get to you. He'll hang for this. Justice will be served.”

Tarja took a deep, deliberate breath and relaxed. He shook off the men around him, took a step backwards and held up his hands in a gesture of peace. Satisfied that he had averted cold-blooded murder, Symin nodded with relief and turned to issue his orders.

As soon as his back was turned, Tarja snatched his sword from the young captain's grasp and with one fluid movement he swung it in a wide arc. Nobody had time to stop him, or even cry out in protest. He sliced Gawn's head from his shoulders, barely missing Donel as the sergeant ducked under the blow. Blood sprayed the room in a fountain of death as Gawn's head landed with a sickening thump and rolled to a stop at Symin's feet.

Donel threw the headless body away from him in disgust and stood there, drenched in blood, staring at it in stunned disbelief. The other Defenders did not move, frozen in shock. Symin wore a look of absolute incredulity.

Tarja threw the sword atop Gawn's headless, twitching body.

“Justice has been served,” he said.

Without waiting for an answer, Tarja turned and walked back into the darkness of the caverns.

CHAPTER 41

R'shiel reluctantly let go of Joyhinia's limp body as the full repercussions of her death hit. She slumped against the body and closed her eyes. Every muscle trembled and she was sweating profusely in the stuffy room. Brak squatted beside her.

“Are you all right?”

“No.”

She waited, expecting some snide remark, but he said nothing. She opened her eyes and looked at him curiously. “What's this? No reprimand?”

“There was nothing you could have done.”

“At least we won't have to worry about deposing the First Sister,” Garet remarked, as he looked down dispassionately at the body and the spreading stain on the rug.

“It's far from over, Garet,” R'shiel warned.

“It is for the First Sister,” he shrugged. “Now, if you will excuse me, we have some rather angry Karien dukes to take care of. Lieutenant, see that the body is removed and get that rug out of here, too.” He stepped back as the Defenders hastened to obey.

Brak stood up and held his hand out to her. “There's nothing more you can do here, R'shiel.”

With a last look at Joyhinia's body, R'shiel took his hand as he pulled her to her feet. Garet led the way out of the First Sister's office and down the broad staircase into the street. When they emerged into the sunlight, they discovered that pandemonium had broken loose in the city. The streets were crowded with people being held back by a line of red-coated Defenders who strained against the surging mob. Garet Warner walked into the centre of the small clearing that his men had forced, to confront the six dukes of Karien who had invaded the Citadel. Their faces were pale, their eyes glazed with shock. The crowd was shouting at them. R'shiel could only make out some of the words but their mood was ugly. There were quite a few Sisters of the Blade among them who were stirring up the passions of the mob. Through the raucous melee she heard the words “Karien pigs!” “Murderers!” and a few other insults that shocked her with their crudeness.

She glanced at Brak who shrugged with resignation. “You can't really blame them. The Defenders may have taken back the Citadel, but there's still a Karien army camped outside and a lot of people have lost a great deal since Medalon surrendered.”

A captain stepped forward to report to Garet. He spared R'shiel and Brak a curious glance then turned to the commandant.

“So it worked then?” Garet ask. There was no need to be specific.

“Yes, it worked,” the captain told him. “Almost everything went according to plan.”

“Almost?” Brak asked with a raised brow.

“I'll explain later.”

Garet nodded and stepped forward to address the Karien dukes.

“What do you hope to achieve, Commandant?” one of them yelled before Garet could utter a word. “You cannot hold out against our army.”

The man who shouted the question was a slender knight standing at the front of the Kariens with a canny look in his eyes. He seemed a little less overawed than his companions.

“Who's that?” she asked Garet.

“I am Lord Roache,” the duke announced, in answer to R'shiel's question. “And you cannot imagine the destruction you have brought down on Medalon by your actions.”

“The Overlord will protect us!” another duke blustered, but his words lacked conviction. He was a large man, but he carried more flab than muscle on his big-boned frame. He looked ridiculous standing in the street in a long flowing red nightgown. The Defenders must have dragged him from his bed.

“I hope for your sake your King is as keen to keep you alive as you seem to think your god is,” Garet remarked. Then he turned to the captain in charge of the squad guarding the dukes. “Put them in with the others for now.”

The officer saluted as R'shiel turned away from them, too tired and stunned by Joyhinia's death to care much about what became of the Karien dukes. She looked around for Brak and found him standing near the edge of the crowd, waiting for someone to push through to the front. For a moment the line of Defenders broke to let another officer through. R'shiel's disappointment fell away from her as she realised who it was.

“Tarja!”

She ran to him, but stopped short when she saw the expression on his face. He was splattered with blood and his eyes were haunted. He showed no evident pleasure at the sight of her.

“R'shiel.”

“Tarja, I...” She could not think of anything to say. He was whole, and unharmed, despite the blood which she guessed was not his, but there was nothing welcoming in his demeanour.

“You killed Joyhinia, I hear.”

“She killed herself,” Garet corrected, coming up behind them. “That's not your blood, I hope, Captain.”

“No.”

“Good. Then let's get these streets cleared.” He turned to another officer and began issuing orders to push the mob back. It was a futile gesture. There were too many people and not enough Defenders.

R'shiel watched their useless efforts as the crowd shouted obscenities at the Kariens. Someone hurled something at Lord Roache. He ducked instinctively as a piece of rotting melon landed harmlessly against the steps. Hurt from Tarja's cold reception and distressed beyond belief by the fact that Loclon had eluded her, she felt her ire rising. Impatiently she grabbed at the power and turned on the crowd.

“Go back to your homes!” she shouted, using the power to amplify her voice. “Leave now, before I show you what the Harshini are really capable of!”

The crowd was stunned into silence. Faced with her Harshini black eyes that blazed with rage, the citizens of the Citadel had a sudden change of heart. With barely a muttered protest, they began to melt away. The Defenders took advantage of the impetus she had provided to push the rest back. Her eyes still fiercely burning, she turned to Tarja and Garet. Tarja took an involuntary step backwards as if she repelled him.

She could not believe how much that one small step hurt.

Perhaps Brak sensed something of her pain, or perhaps it was because he was linked to the same power. He stepped in front of her, blocking her view of Tarja.

“Let it go, R'shiel,” he said softly. “There's no need for it.”

Reluctantly, she did as he bid. He smiled at her. “Good girl.”

“Don't treat me like a child, Brak.”

“Then don't behave like one.”

She glared at him for a moment, then nodded. “It's all right. I'll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. “Yes. I'm sure.”

He waited until he was satisfied that she had her emotions - and more importantly, her power - under control, then stepped back. Tarja was talking to Garet Warner. He seemed determined not to look at her. Garet turned as they approached, his expression concerned for the first time since they had begun this coup.

“What's wrong?” Brak asked.

“As the captain said, almost everything went according to plan. The Sisters are demanding they take control, but we can deal with them. Unfortunately, Jenga's dead.”

“And what about Loclon?” R'shiel demanded. “Did they find him?”

“I told you days ago that no one has seen him since the last Gathering. He's a deserter. He's probably halfway to Fardohnya by now.”

“No! You don't understand!” She turned to Brak desperately. Only he could fully appreciate what she feared.

“We have to find him,” Brak agreed.

“I've got a lot more to worry about than one miserable deserter, R'shiel. This,” he pointed out with a wave of his arm that encompassed the chaotic street before them, “is just the beginning.”

“Then I'll find him on my own!”

“I can't allow that.”

“I don't recall asking your permission.”

“Let her go, Garet,” Tarja said. His voice was dull, as if the life had gone out of him. “She needs to do this and there's nothing at present that requires her help.”

“Very well, go look for Loclon, if you must. We've more important things to take care of. If you tire of such a fruitless task and you wish to join us later, we'll be in the First Sister's office.”

Garet turned away in annoyance. Tarja followed him without looking back. R'shiel wasn't sure if he'd spoken up because he supported her, or was simply trying to be rid of her.

At that moment, she didn't care. Joyhinia was dead, which meant Loclon was free to return to his own body. Somewhere in the Citadel, he was on the loose. She was determined that he would not escape her this time. Not if she had to tear the Citadel apart stone by stone to find him.

CHAPTER 42

Tarja leaned his head tiredly against the cool pane of glass on the long windows of the First Sister's office. They would have to think of another name for it soon, he thought idly. The position of First Sister no longer existed.

The Citadel was quiet. A light rain blurred the view and trickled down the small panes of glass, distorting the world outside. He could see nothing in the darkness but squares of yellow light from the windows of the library building across the street. There were Defenders on guard there tonight to prevent the Sisters of the Blade gaining entrance and destroying documents they did not want to fall into the hands of the Defenders.

Harith had already been to see them, demanding that Garet hand over the Citadel, now that the Defenders had control. She had been shocked beyond words when he refused. It had been a fairly ugly confrontation, and although they had won this round, Tarja knew the Sisters of the Blade would not fade into oblivion quietly. In a way, they were liable to be more trouble than the Kariens.

He heard the door open but did not turn to see who entered. Garet could deal with them. The commandant was good at that sort of thing.

“We've moved all the Kariens we rounded up into the amphitheatre, sir,” the officer reported.

It was Symin, the young captain who had rescued him - when? Only this morning?

“I've assigned enough men to see they don't escape, but we're pretty thin on the ground elsewhere because of it. The priests have been separated from the others. We're holding them in the caverns.”

“What did you do with their staves?”

“We piled them up in one of the caverns. I posted a guard on them. They look pretty valuable.”

“A priest doesn't like being separated from his staff,” Tarja remarked, still staring thoughtfully out of the dark windows.

“That's true enough,” Symin agreed. “They made quite a fuss when we confiscated them. But the rest of the Kariens are docile enough. I think the weather has dampened their spirits somewhat. I told them they'll be released in the morning if they want to go home.”

“Who's in command there now?”

“Captain Grannon.”

“Then go and get some sleep, Captain. You've earnt it.”

“Thank you, sir. Goodnight. Goodnight, Tarja.”

“Goodnight Symin,” he said.

The captain saluted without meeting Tarja's eye and left the office. Tarja watched him go with a frown.

“He doesn't know whether to worship you or run like hell,” Garet remarked.

“I'm glad you think it's funny.”

The commandant leaned back in the First Sister's chair and stretched wearily. “Stop feeling so bloody remorseful, Tarja. Gawn deserved to die. I'd have done the same thing in your place. No... actually, that's not true. I'd have tortured the miserable little bastard for a month or two before I killed him. That's the difference between you and me. You prefer pure, uncomplicated justice. I'm more of 'the end justifies the means' ilk. And I'm very patient. I can wait a very long time before I get my vengeance.”

“Time is one thing we don't have,” Tarja reminded him. “The Kariens outside will attack as soon as they realise what's happened, and then we're going to be facing an even bigger problem.”

“That's where your Harshini friends come in,” Garet mused. “I hope R'shiel remembered to get a message to Hythria before she went chasing off on her damned fool quest to find Loclon.”

There was no point trying to explain to Garet why R'shiel thought finding Loclon was so important, so Tarja let the matter drop. He moved away from the window and took one of the deep leather chairs on the other side of the desk, stretching his feet out. He rubbed eyes that were gritty with exhaustion and looked at Garet questioningly.

“So, what happens now? With Jenga gone, we've no one to take command - unless you fancy the job.”

The commandant shook his head. “Not me. I have neither the ability nor the presence to hold Medalon together. We need someone the people know. I've made a career of keeping a low profile. If you issued a decree in my name, the entire population would stare at you blankly and say 'Garet who?'”

“Then who else is there?”

“There's you.”

“That is not even remotely amusing, Garet.”

“I wasn't joking.”

“Nobody would follow me, even if I wanted the job, which I don't.”

“You underestimate yourself, my friend. You are the most notorious Defender that has ever lived and your reputation is that of a fearless —”

“Don't be absurd!”

“Hear me out, Tarja. You deserted the Defenders because you refused to serve under Joyhinia, and she turned out to be the most savage, uncompromising bitch that ever put on the First Sister's mantle. You publicly defied her. You helped the rebels who challenged her. You got caught. You escaped. You fought the Kariens and then led the resistance against them, too. Every ill-advised, impetuous, accidental thing you've done since you refused to swear that oath to Joyhinia has made you a hero, like it or not.”

“That's ridiculous!”

“As a matter of fact, it is, but it doesn't make it any less real. You are the only man in Medalon the Defenders, the people and the pagan rebels will follow. You count the High Prince of Hythria as a friend and we're going to need him. He'll come to our aid because you asked him. I'm damn sure he wouldn't come if I did.” Garet smiled then and added, “Even half the damned Sisterhood will fall in behind you - at least the younger ones who devoted a good part of their Novitiate to trying to catch your eye.”

Even Tarja allowed himself a smile over that. As a Cadet, Garet Warner had once called him in to his office to inform him that he and Georj were no longer permitted to study in the library when the Novices were in class, as Sister Mahina considered their presence “disruptive”. His smile faded and he shook his head.

“I don't want to rule Medalon, Garet. Not even temporarily.”

“I know. That's why I'm offering you the job. If I thought for a moment that you had your eye on the post, I would never have mentioned it. We need someone who cares about setting things right. I've had enough of people who hunger after power for its own sake. That's the whole point of getting rid of the Sisterhood.”

“You can't make me do it.”

“Fine. Then give me a name. Find me one man in the whole of Medalon that can do what you can do, and I'll never bring the subject up again.”

Tarja sighed. “Let me think about it.”

“We don't have time. Tomorrow morning, when the Citadel wakes up, we'd better be damned sure we know what we're doing or Harith will have the Sisters of the Blade back in charge so fast your feet won't even touch the ground between here and the nearest gallows.”

Before he could answer, the door banged open and R'shiel stormed into the office with Brak on her heels. She barely even glanced at him, for which Tarja was grateful. The inevitable confrontation between them had once more been delayed. Her quest to find Loclon had kept her out of his way all day.

“How nice of you to join us, demon child,” Garet remarked.

R'shiel did not seem to notice the sarcasm. “I just spoke to Symin. He said you're going to release the Kariens tomorrow.”

“That's always been our plan.”

“You can't open the gate. I haven't found Loclon yet.”

“I'm not going to hold two thousand Kariens prisoner on your whim, R'shiel. The priests and the dukes will be enough.”

“This is not a whim. He's more dangerous than you know. We have to find him.”

“Then I'll post extra men on the gate to see that he doesn't slip through, but the Kariens are going, R'shiel, and that's final.”

She looked over her shoulder at Brak, seeking his support. She did not look at Tarja.

“I can appreciate your desire to get the Kariens out of the Citadel, Commandant,” Brak agreed reasonably. “But R'shiel is right. Loclon poses a danger that you would be unwise to ignore.”

“A danger to whom, exactly?” Garet asked. “He's your enemy, not mine.”

“Don't you understand?” R'shiel cried in frustration. “Loclon was the one controlling Joyhinia's body! It was Loclon who was aiding the Kariens ever since we tried to remove Joyhinia at the Gathering. Founders, Garet, he's the single, most heinous traitor ever to draw breath in Medalon!”

Suddenly she turned on Tarja. “Tell him, Tarja! Tell him I speak the truth!”

The pain in her eyes almost broke his heart. She needed his support. But finding Loclon in the Citadel would be like sifting through a pile of sand looking for one particular grain.

“She's right,” he admitted. “He's a traitor, and if we can find him, we should.” R'shiel smiled at him gratefully, which made him feel even worse, knowing what he was going to say next. “But we can't afford to hold those Kariens. We don't have the men to guard them, or the resources to feed them. Until we're relieved, every mouthful of food in the Citadel is going to be rationed. I'm sorry, R'shiel. I know what this means to you and I want to see Loclon brought to justice as much as you do, but I agree with Garet. We open the gates tomorrow.”

She stared at him, stunned by his response. Brak stepped forward and placed his hand on her shoulder, as if preparing to restrain her. Tarja wondered for a moment about the half-breed Harshini. For all his laconic scepticism, he seemed to truly care for R'shiel. There was a time when Tarja thought Brak loathed her.

“There! You have it from the Lord Defender, himself. The Kariens leave first thing tomorrow.”

“From who?” R'shiel demanded, shaking Brak off.

“The Lord Defender,” Garet repeated calmly.

“Tarja is the Lord Defender? When did that happen?”

“Just now. The position became available, and as the ranking officer in the Citadel, I decided to appoint him.”

“You're going to let Loclon get away with everything he's done to you, to me, to Medalon, just so you can be the Lord Defender?” She was trembling with suppressed rage. Her violet eyes glistened with unshed tears.

“It's not like that, R'shiel.”

“Isn't it?” she asked bitterly. “You've been marked as the next Lord Defender since the day you joined the Cadets, Tarja. Everybody in the whole damned Citadel knew you'd eventually get the job. Well, I hope the title makes you happy. I never thought you would stoop so low to take it.”

She turned and fled the room. Tarja expected Brak to follow her, but he did not move.

“Sort this out now, Tarja,” he advised. “It'll only get worse if you don't.”

Tarja stared at him for a moment then swore softly as he rose to his feet to follow her.

“R'shiel!” he called as she ran down the wide marble staircase leading to the dark deserted foyer. “Damn it, R'shiel! Wait!”

She turned to look up at him. The torches set high in the wall sconces cast deceptive shadows over her face. He stopped several steps above her, panting from the chase.

“I didn't mean to hurt you, R'shiel. I'm sorry.”

“No, you're not.”

“Then what do you want me to say? Don't you think I want Loclon as much as you do? But Garet's right, and you damned well know it. We can't hold the Kariens here.”

“There was a time when you would have done anything for me.”

He found he couldn't answer her. Memories flooded through him, reminding him that she spoke an awful truth he was not prepared to face. She studied his face, reading the conflict, the confusion, and even the self-loathing that had plagued him since he recovered from the wound he received trying to save her from the Kariens.

“That time is past, now, isn't it?” she said softly, bitterly. She knew about the geas, he realised. And that he was no longer bound by it.

“R'shiel...” he murmured helplessly. He had no idea what to say. No words to express what he felt.

She nodded, as if accepting the inevitable. “The irony is, I saved your life because I couldn't bear the thought of being parted from you and I ended up losing you, anyway. Did you ever truly love me, Tarja?”

For a long, dreadful moment, he did not answer her. In the end, he settled for the truth. “I don't know.”

She looked away for a moment, perhaps to prevent him seeing her pain. When she turned back to him, her eyes were cold.

“Free the Kariens if you must, Tarja. I'll just have to keep a watch on the gate for Loclon myself.”

“We'll find him, R'shiel,” he promised.

She shook her head sadly. “No, Tarja, we won't be doing anything together any more. I'll find Loclon and deal with him on my own. You're the Lord Defender now. You have Medalon to rule.”

Like a man donning chain mail before a battle, she had surrounded herself with an impenetrable shell, constructed of bitterness and pain. Relief warred with a sense of inexplicable loss as he watched the transformation. He knew then that the R'shiel he had known was gone forever. In her place was a hard, determined and powerful young woman who would never let anyone close to her again.

As she turned and slowly walked down the stairs away from him, Tarja felt he was staring at a stranger.

CHAPTER 43

For a long time, R'shiel walked blindly through the deserted streets of the Citadel, paying no attention to where she was going. She was calm - even serene - uncaring of the light rain that fell softly on the glistening cobblestones. Her mind did not seethe with grief for her loss, or rail at the tragedy of unrequited love. She was numb; totally devoid of any human emotion that could rise up and cause her anguish.

R'shiel wondered if this was what it felt like to be fully Harshini.

After a while, she discovered that her wandering had led her to the Lesser Hall of the Citadel. Without any conscious decision, she climbed the steps and pulled open the massive bronze door, letting it swing shut behind her with a hollow boom that echoed through the empty darkness. Night was trapped within its walls, the whitewashed ceiling lost in the shadows. She tried to recall the picture Brak had painted in her mind of the Great Hall, the Temple of the Gods, when it had dazzled the world with its glory and wondered if this smaller temple once dedicated to the Goddess of Love had been just as impressive. She could not do it. The Lesser Hall was nothing more than a big, cavernous room with no life or beauty to recommend it.

“Why, Kalianah?” she asked the darkness.

A pillar of light pierced the shadows as she named the goddess. Assuming the form of a child, the Goddess of Love crossed her arms and glared at her. R'shiel stared at the goddess, oblivious to the aura of adoration that surrounded the pale little girl whose feet hovered just above the ground.

“Why?”

“Don't you know that it's extremely ill mannered to summon the gods as if they were —”

“Why did you make Tarja fall in love with me?”

“Oh!” the Goddess said with the guilty air of a child caught playing with something she was forbidden to touch. “That.”

“Yes, that! Why did you do it? What gives you the right to interfere in my life?”

“I was only trying to help.”

“You're supposed to be the Goddess of Love. How can you cause such pain?”

“Well, whose fault is that?” the Goddess asked petulantly. “You destroyed the geas, not me.”

“How?”

“You asked the demons to substitute for Tarja's blood. How was I supposed to know what you were planning?”

“You sent Dace with a message, reminding me I could use the demons to heal him.”

“Yes, but I didn't expect you to use them like that! Any Harshini could have told you something like that would break my geas.”

“Perhaps they would have, if they'd known about it.”

“Well, Brak certainly knew. He was there when I did it. Why don't you ask him why he didn't say anything?”

The news surprised her. He had never warned her, never even hinted that something was amiss.

“I want your promise, Kalianah, that you will never, ever, do anything like this to me again. Or to Tarja.”

“You can have that!” she sniffed indignantly. “If this is what you call gratitude, I'll never even think of trying to help you again. Then you'll see how hard it is to love anybody without my blessing!”

“I don't want to love anybody, Kalianah, so I don't mind at all.”

Kalianah's eyes narrowed and she began to change form. A tall, fair-haired young woman suddenly took the place of the little girl.

“You can live without love?” the goddess asked. “Is that what you think? You might be able to tame the God of War with your meddling, R'shiel, but my power is beyond your reach.”

“What makes you think I'm trying to tame the God of War?”

“I am not blind, demon child. Hythria and Fardohnya are united for the first time in centuries. Zegarnald already grows weaker. But don't think that by hardening your heart you can do the same to the Goddess of Love. Humans prosper without war. They will shrivel and die without me.”

“Do you personally take a hand in every romance? Do you make every mother love her child, every man love his brother?”

“Of course not!”

“Then why do they need you?”

“They need the hope I represent.”

“What hope?” she demanded. “You're a spoiled, petulant child who helps or hinders the course of love on nothing more than impulse. You interfere because you can, Kalianah, not because some human petitioned you for aid and you found his cause worthy.”

Kalianah was incapable of real anger, but she was as close to it as her essence allowed. “Your task is to destroy Xaphista, demon child, not impose your own atheist bigotry on the rest of us. Do what you are destined for and leave the Primal Gods to do what we are meant for.”

“And once I've destroyed Xaphista, what then?”

The goddess looked away, unable to meet her eye. “That is not for me to decide.”

“You decide who will love me easily enough.”

“It is not for me to decide,” Kalianah insisted stubbornly. “And you should not waste time dwelling on such things. You must turn your attention to Xaphista. If you devoted as much time to defeating him as you do to making things difficult for the Primal Gods, he'd be as weak as a newborn pup by now.”

“Xaphista will weaken.”

“Not in your lifetime,” Kalianah scoffed. “You have to tackle the core of his power, not nibble at the edges like a terrier trying to chew up a mountain. If you don't, then the moment Xaphista realises what you're doing, he will fight back with every iota of power at his disposal.”

“Then what do you suggest I do, Divine One?”

“If I knew that, demon child, I would have done something about Xaphista myself!”

Kalianah vanished, plunging the hall back into darkness. R'shiel stood unmoving, staring at the space where she had been. Something Kalianah said bothered her, but the thought was too elusive to grasp. Something about tackling the core of Xaphista's power...

With a flash of inspiration, R'shiel knew what she had to do. Kalan had given her the first inkling in Greenharbour. She had no idea exactly how she was going to do it, but the secret of bringing Xaphista to his knees was suddenly so obvious that she could not believe she had taken until now to realise it.

R'shiel pounded on Brak's door until he opened it.

“What is it? Have you found Loclon?”

“There's something I need to ask you.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is, R'shiel?”

“What do you care?” she asked, pushing past him into the apartment that Garet had allocated him. “You're Harshini. You don't need to sleep.”

He closed the door and turned to look at her with a frown. “We don't need as much sleep as humans, R'shiel. That doesn't mean we don't need to sleep at all. A point you would do well to remember. When was the last time you slept?”

“I can't remember.”

“Well, I can. It was four days ago. I'm seven hundred years old. I need my rest.”

She smiled at him. He was fully dressed and alert and every candle in the room was alight. The fire was crackling cheerfully and an open book lay on the table beside the large chair near the hearth. He had not been sleeping.

“Well, demon child, what is so damned important that it can't wait until morning?”

“I have to destroy Xaphista.”

“Really?” he asked with wide-eyed astonishment. “And it's taken you exactly how long to come to this startling conclusion?”

“Don't make fun of me, Brak. You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do, but I can't understand why it's so important at this hour of the night.”

“I think I've figured out a way to do it.”

“How?” he asked, with no trace of mockery.

“I was just talking to Kalianah. She said I had to tackle the core of his power, not nibble at the edges like a terrier trying to chew up a mountain.”

Brak smiled. “That sounds like Kali. What else were you two discussing?”

“We had words,” R'shiel admitted, “about what she did to Tarja.”

“That must have been interesting.”

“She said you knew about it,” she accused.

He nodded and moved away from the door. R'shiel followed him with her eyes, but he was impossible to read when he didn't want her to know what he was feeling.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“It wouldn't have made a difference.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I've seen it before. A geas is no small thing R'shiel. Tarja was smitten and there was nothing to be done about it.”

“What about me?”

“You were never under Kalianah's geas. Not even the Goddess of Love would have risked such a thing for the demon child.”

“But I loved him,” she said, afraid her voice had allowed some hint of the pain she was trying so hard to deny.

“You didn't need Kalianah for that R'shiel. You grew up worshipping the ground Tarja walked on.”

“If she hadn't interfered, would he... ?”

“Would he have truly loved you in return?” Brak finished for her with a shrug. “I don't know.”

“He despises me now.”

“No, he doesn't. He just doesn't know how to cope with what's happened. The fact that he doesn't actually believe in the gods who did this to him won't make it any easier on him, either.” He poured two cups of wine and crossed the room, holding one of them out to her. “He'll get over it eventually. Drink up. Lost love always looks better through the bottom of a glass.”

“I don't want a drink.”

“Well I do, and it's bad form to drink alone. Humour me.”

She took the cup and sipped the wine sullenly, letting its warmth spread through her. Despite Brak's assurances, it made absolutely no difference to how she felt. Brak resumed his seat by the fire and took a long swig from his glass.

“So, are you going to tell me what this brilliant idea is, or do we have to keep rehashing the story about poor old Tarja for a few more hours?”

“Why do you take such delight in ridiculing my pain?”

“Because you're a lot tougher than you realise, demon child. I know you're hurting, but deep down you knew this would happen. As soon as Xaphista told you about the geas, you knew that Tarja didn't love you willingly. For all your human failings, you have an innate sense of what is right. It's part of being Harshini. You might lament losing him, but you know, in your heart, that it's better this way. The sooner you admit it openly, then the sooner you'll get over it.”

“Better?” she asked bitterly. “How could it be better?”

“Tarja was the chink in your armour, R'shiel. Xaphista would have exploited that weakness to its fullest. Don't you remember what you told me about Xaphista when he tried to seduce you into joining him? He used Tarja then, and you almost gave in.”

R'shiel had no wish to be reminded of that dreadful journey through Medalon, but she could not deny the truth of what Brak told her. She sank into the chair on the other side of the fire and stared at the flames, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing that she knew he was right. She need not have bothered. Brak knew her too well.

“A moment ago you were bursting to tell me how you could bring Xaphista down. Do we really have time for you to sulk?”

She hurled the goblet at him. He ducked it easily and the glass shattered harmlessly against the far wall.

He smiled. “Feel better now?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don't. You just hate the fact that I'm right.”

“It's the same thing.”

Brak sighed, as if his patience was wearing thin. “Ask me what you came to ask, R'shiel. I really do intend to get some sleep in what's left of this night.”

“I have to attack the core of Xaphista's power,” she told him with considerably less enthusiasm than she had had when she burst into his room earlier.

“So you said before.”

“We have to go after his priests.”

Brak frowned. “You won't turn a single Karien priest, R'shiel. Even if you managed to win their minds to your cause, Xaphista owns their souls. Each priest is linked to the Overlord through his staff.”

“Then that is their weakness. If I can use that link, I can reach every priest in Karien and cripple Xaphista overnight.”

“In theory, yes, but how are you going to do it?”

“Kalan had an idea that set me thinking. I have to get a close look at a staff, though. I want to see how it works.”

“I'll tell you how it works, R'shiel. Very, very well. Don't you recall what happened the last time you had a close encounter with a Staff of Xaphista?”

“I'm never likely to forget. But you told me the staff destroys magic. Well, if it can do that, then the staff has to use magic, too. And if it can use magic, maybe I can do something to change its purpose.”

Brak sighed and climbed to his feet. “Come on then.”

“Where are we going?”

“You want to take a look at a Staff of Xaphista? Garet Warner has more than a hundred of them piled up in a cavern under the amphitheatre.”

She jumped to her feet in astonishment. “You think it'll work?”

“No. I think it's the most misguided excuse for a plan that you've ever come up with, but I know you won't let it go until you've discovered that for yourself.”

She hugged him impulsively. “I knew you'd help me.”

He pushed her away gruffly. “Don't get too excited, R'shiel. I'm doing this to prove you wrong.”

“I'm not wrong. I know this will work.”

He picked up his cloak from the back of the chair where he had discarded it earlier and looked at her sceptically. “A few more burns from touching those staffs might convince you otherwise, demon child.”

Two determined-looking Defenders barred the entrance into the tunnel that led into the caverns under the amphitheatre. R'shiel demanded entry to no avail, but the ruckus brought out the officer in charge to see what all the fuss was about. He recognised R'shiel and frowned. Shorter than the average Defender and prematurely grey, he was renowned for his organisational abilities, rather than his fighting skills. He was also an old friend of Tarja's.

“You can't see the prisoners, R'shiel.”

“We don't want to see the Kariens, Captain Grannon. We just want to have a look at the staffs you took from the priests.”

He frowned, but could see no harm in her request. As far as Grannon was concerned, the staffs were just useless, if rather valuable, religious frippery.

“Very well. Go with them, Charal. And stay with them,” he added with a disturbing lack of trust.

The sergeant took a torch from the wall and led them through the tunnel into the caverns on the left. The staffs were piled in a careless heap in a room near the entrance. There were another two Defenders posted outside, who stood aside to let them enter. Charal went in first and held the torch high. The flames reflected off the staff heads like myriad tiny jewels. R'shiel and Brak stared at the pile, careful not to get too close.

“Can you pick one up for me?” she asked Charal.

“Captain Grannon didn't say you weren't allowed to touch them.”

“We can't touch them.” Brak explained. “They're specifically designed to harm anyone with Harshini blood.”

Charal looked sceptical, but he turned to the wall and dropped the torch into a metal bracket before bending down and picking up a staff at random. He thrust it at R'shiel, who took an involuntary step backwards.

“Careful!”

Swallowing a sudden lump of fear, R'shiel stepped closer and studied the hated symbol of Xaphista's power. The shaft had been treated with something that stained it black and made the metal suck in the light around it. The head of the staff was made of gold; shaped like a five-pointed star and intersected by a lightning bolt crafted of silver. Each point of the star was set with crystal and in the centre of the star was a larger gem of the same stone.

Charal looked at the staff curiously, his eyes alight with greed. “Are they real diamonds, do you think?”

“No,” Brak said. “They're crystals of some sort.”

“They look like the Seeing Stone.”

Brak stared at her. “What?”

“I said they look like the Seeing Stone. You know, the big crystal they have in the Temple at Greenharbour?”

“I know what the Seeing Stone is. Bring it closer to the light.”

Charal moved the staff until it caught the flames of the torch. R'shiel stepped closer, studied it for a moment, and then tentatively reached out towards the staff head.

“What are you doing?” Brak cried in horror.

“Putting a theory to the test.”

She lightly brushed her fingertip over the centre crystal. No bolt of agony shot through her, not even a whisper of pain.

“How... ?” he gasped in astonishment.

“I didn't touch the staff, just the crystal. Try it yourself.”

Reluctantly, Brak reached out to touch the sparkling jewel, jerking his hand back instinctively in anticipation of the torture he was certain awaited him. When nothing happened, he gingerly laid his finger on the stone and looked at R'shiel in wonder.

“I don't understand.”

“Watch,” she commanded. He stepped back as she reached for the staff once more, this time with her eyes blackened by the power she drew. She placed her finger on the centre crystal and the room flared with light as every stone in every staff on the floor began to glow in response to her touch. Charal dropped the staff with a cry of alarm. Brak jumped clear of it as the room was plunged back into relative darkness as soon as her contact with the crystal was severed.

“But how... ?” Brak asked, looking at the now quiescent pile of staffs that lay on the floor beside them.

“I think they're chips off one of the missing Seeing Stones.”

“I hate to admit it, R'shiel, but you may have been right, after all.”

“I can use the staffs to influence the priests, can't I?”

He glanced at the pile. “That's what you came to ask me? I suppose. Provided you can access a Seeing Stone to control them.”

“The Citadel's Seeing Stone is lost,” she reminded him, glancing at the pile of staffs. “But Kalan said it couldn't be destroyed. It has to be somewhere.”

He did not seem to share her optimism. “I suppose, although where you would hide something as large as a Seeing Stone is beyond me. And have you considered the possibility that these crystals might be all that's left of the Citadel's Stone?”

“I'm guessing if a Seeing Stone was broken down into smaller stones, it's the one from Talabar. The Sisterhood would only care about destroying it or hiding it. Only the Fardohnyans would think of selling it.”

Brak nodded thoughtfully. “Which would explain Hablet's determination to keep the Harshini out of Fardohnya. He wouldn't want us to realise what had happened to it.”

“And only a god would have the power to break the Stone up. It makes sense, I suppose, although it must have cost Karien a fortune. I always wondered how Fardohnya got so rich so quickly. But what about Loclon?”

“We'll look for him, but without help we're not going to find him.” Her expression hardened. “The new Lord Defender has other priorities.”

Brak studied her determined expression and shrugged. “All right then, that just leaves one rather pertinent question to be answered.”

“What's that?”

“Where does one hide several tons of magic crystal?”

CHAPTER 44

Loclon jerked back to consciousness with a start, and for a long time could not decide where he was. His mind was filled with so many images, so much pain, that he could not gather his thoughts into anything remotely resembling coherent thought. He stared at the strange room, at the heavy drapes over the bed and the softly glowing walls, trying to recall how he came to be there. His head was weighted down with pain and he could not move his limbs. He could not even remember who he was.

It came to him, after a time, although how long was impossible to judge. He gradually remembered being Joyhinia Tenragan. He remembered the power he had wielded in her name. He remembered R'shiel standing over him, demanding that he live.

And he remembered dying.

The feeling stayed with him like a shadow looming over his soul. The pain seemed almost irrelevant when compared with the overwhelming terror he experienced when he recalled throwing himself on some nameless Defender's sword in the First Sister's office to escape the fury in R'shiel's eyes.

In hindsight, it was the most courageous thing he'd ever done - perhaps the only courageous thing he'd ever done.

He did not lament the death of Joyhinia, and his grief was inspired more by annoyance than guilt. He had lost the only true taste of power he was ever likely to have. Now he was nothing more than a fugitive.

As that thought occurred to him, he experienced a moment of blind panic. A fugitive was exactly what he was and he knew that R'shiel would not rest until he had been found. He had to get out of here, out of this room, out of the Citadel.

Loclon tried lifting his head and was appalled to find the task almost beyond him. His body had lain dormant for months and the muscles had wasted almost to the point of atrophy. He had no strength, no control, not even the ability to push himself off the bed.

It had never occurred to Loclon that his body might be wasting away in his absence. He knew it was alive - and as long as his body lived, so did he. Mathen had assured him the priests were taking care of it, but he had never been permitted to view the body himself, the priests claiming such a confrontation would undo whatever magic they had worked to transfer his mind into Joyhinia's body. To awaken, in this thin, emaciated body, with barely enough strength to lift his head from the pillow, seemed the ultimate irony.

R'shiel could not have planned it better if she tried.

A sense of urgency overwhelmed him, for a moment swamping even his despair at finding his body so useless. R'shiel was looking for him. She would not rest until she had him in her power.

Anger warred with fear as he thought of R'shiel. She had no right to come back, he decided, even though, as Joyhinia, he had done everything in his power to ensure that she would. If the Kariens had done as they promised she would have been dead by now - burned at the stake in Yarnarrow for the Harshini sorcerer she was. But not even the Karien god could hold her, and Loclon was not so foolish as to think that if she possessed the strength of purpose to face down a god that he could escape her wrath.

That thought finally spurred him to action. With a panic-driven burst of strength, he threw himself off the bed, landing heavily on the floor. He lay panting, exhausted by even that small effort. He could see the door, a mere five paces from where he had fallen. The distance stretched before him like a vast canyon.

For a long time, he simply lay there, gathering what little strength he had to cross the gap. He did not think of anything but the urgency of his mission. He had died once already today. He did not intend to let it happen again.

Loclon pushed himself up onto his elbows and began the painstaking task of dragging his useless body towards the door. He had barely moved a pace across the floor when he heard footsteps in the hall outside. Terror lent him another burst of strength. He slithered painfully over the polished floorboards, filled with an unnamed dread. His arm slipped out from under him and he banged his chin, making black lights dance before his eyes. The door loomed in the distance, seemingly no closer, despite his desperate efforts. The footsteps drew closer, louder. Sweat beaded his brow and left clammy handprints on the floor as he clawed his way painstakingly forward.

He collapsed in exhaustion, his breathing ragged. Tears of fear and frustration blurred his vision. The door might as well be on the other side of Medalon. He would never make it. Any moment now it would open and R'shiel would be standing there, ready to even the score for every insult, real or imagined, that he had inflicted on her. He sobbed with terror and stared at the panelled door; watched it open with a feeling akin to having hot lead poured into his stomach. The door slammed against the wall. Loclon let out an unintelligible cry for mercy; tasted the acrid smell of urine as his bladder let go.

“Oh, for the gods' sake, stop blubbering!” Mistress Heaner declared impatiently. “Pick him up, Lork.”

The old woman looked down on him, staring at the spreading stain on the front of his loincloth in disgust. As usual, she was dressed in black, clutching an expensive cape around her shoulders. Her small eyes set amid the folds of her thin, leathery face were filled with distaste. Lork stepped forward and scooped Loclon up from the floor. Even he screwed up his nose.

“You should be grateful, Captain. They're turning the Citadel inside out looking for you.”

Loclon did not reply. He was too relieved by his rescue and too frightened by its source. Owing Mistress Heaner anything was dangerous in the extreme. She demanded a finger for an unpaid gambling debt. Loclon was afraid to think of what she would charge for his life.

Bathed and fed, Loclon began to feel better now he knew he was safely within the walls of Mistress Heaner's house. His only care was to hide until he could escape the Citadel.

Later that evening, Mistress Heaner came to his room. When she opened the door Loclon noted, with some alarm, that Lork was on guard outside, standing there with that implacable, witless expression that seemed to respond only to Mistress Heaner. There was a boy of about twelve with her, with sandy hair and a sly, but beautifully innocent face. Loclon remembered him as one of Mistress Heaner's more exotic playthings. Lork closed the door behind them and the boy carried the tray he was holding to the small table beside the bed. The tempting smell of roasted meat escaped from under the domed cover on the plate.

“The Defenders have control of the Citadel,” she told him as she lit the lamp. “They've imposed a curfew until tomorrow at sunrise. You can go now, Alladan.”

“Who's the new First Sister?” he asked with a twinge of professional jealousy as the boy slipped silently from the room.

“There isn't one,” the old woman shrugged. “Nor will there be, if you believe the rumours.”

“You mean the Defenders have taken over the Citadel? Without the Sisterhood?”

“So it would seem. I hear Garet Warner masterminded the whole thing. That's not surprising. He's a slimy little bastard. Jenga's dead though,” she added, with no more emotion than she might tell him of a change in the weather.

Loclon felt no remorse over the loss of the Lord Defender. “So Warner's in charge?”

“He'll probably name himself Lord Defender in the morning.”

“I have to get out of the Citadel.”

Mistress Heaner nodded. “Squire Mathen left instructions in case something like this happened. You're to be taken to Karien.”

Loclon's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because you were the First Sister. You have information the Kariens will need to take back the Citadel.”

“There's a hundred thousand men outside the walls. They don't need me.”

“The Defenders are holding all the dukes hostage. There is an army out there, certainly, but no one to lead them.”

She spoke matter-of-factly; as if she were repeating some idle gossip about a neighbour, not telling him that his entire world was falling apart.

“Then she's still here?”

“Who? R'shiel? Oh yes, she's still in the Citadel.”

“She wants to kill me.”

“So would every Defender in the Corps, if he knew what you'd done,” Mistress Heaner pointed out with infuriating smugness. “Fortunately for you, your brothers-in-arms don't believe in magic, therefore they're not likely to seek vengeance for an act they cannot conceive.”

“Can you get me out of here?”

She smiled. It was a cold, calculating smile. It made him shudder.

“For a price.”

“How much?”

“It's bad manners to discuss such things over a meal,” she replied, glancing around to ensure everything was to her satisfaction. She had put him in the Blue Room. The hint was not lost on Loclon. This was where he had killed that whore... what was her name? Peny? This was the room where Mistress Heaner found the leverage she needed to turn him into a traitor. “We'll talk about it later.”

“How am I going to get out of the Citadel?” he asked, lifting the cover off the platter and nodding appreciatively. He was starving.

“Through the gate, how else?”

“But isn't it closed against the Kariens?”

“For the moment. They're opening it in the morning to let the Kariens go.”

Loclon looked up from the plate with astonishment. “They're letting them go?”

“They seem to think we're going to be under siege for quite some time,” Mistress Heaner shrugged. “They've told the Kariens they can leave and anyone else who would prefer to go with them. I doubt they're planning on releasing the dukes, but they want to be rid of the rest of the Kariens. Clever thing to do, actually. A lot less mouths to feed.”

“R'shiel will be there,” Loclon predicted with dread certainty.

“Probably.”

“She'll recognise me.”

“Don't worry, Captain, we'll give the demon child something else to think about.” She walked back to the door and knocked on it twice. Lork opened it with a key. He was a prisoner, he realised with despair, but a prisoner with some value at least.

The question was: how much was Mistress Heaner going to charge?

CHAPTER 45

Tarja assigned a squad of Defenders to aid R'shiel in her search for Loclon. He even made a point of picking men who knew Loclon on sight. It was a thoughtful gesture, but not enough for R'shiel to forgive him for opening the gate. Particularly when she learnt he had ordered the men to look for Loclon, but not hinder the Karien exodus. R'shiel wanted to stop every man leaving the Citadel. She wanted to examine each soldier and knight closely, search every wagon, every sack, and every woman's purse, to ensure that Loclon did not get past her. When the officer in charge of the squad repeated his orders, R'shiel turned on her heel furiously and made her way straight to the First Sister's office.

Tarja met her rage with silent fortitude. He was wearing a new red jacket bearing the sword and shield insignia of the Lord Defender. Despite the fact that it was before sunrise, the First Sister's office was full of Defenders. They cleared a path for her warily and avoided her gaze. None of the Defenders in the office appeared concerned that Tarja had been promoted over them to the Lord Defender. They acted like men who were glad that the ultimate responsibility for their fates had been shifted to someone else. A small part of her understood how they felt. This coup was still very new, and although they controlled the Citadel, Medalon was a long way from being secure. If it fell apart on them, Tarja would bear the brunt of any reprisals.

“Garet said we could check everyone leaving the Citadel!”

“Actually, he said that we'd post extra men on the gate to see that Loclon doesn't slip past. There was never any suggestion that we would allow you to stop and search every single person trying to get through the gate.”

“There are thousands of people down there! We'll never find him!”

“Then I'm sorry, R'shiel. I've given you all the men I can spare.” His tone was implacable. It was as if he had assumed some of Jenga's dignified gravity along with his rank.

“And if I find Loclon? Your men do have orders to arrest him, don't they, my Lord Defender? Or did you want me to just give him a friendly pat on the back and wish him a safe journey?”

He frowned, impatient with her sarcasm. “Take the men I gave you, or not, R'shiel. I've neither the time nor the inclination to argue about it.”

“Is this your idea of helping me?”

“Would you care to discover what not helping you feels like?”

They glared at each other for a tense moment.

“If he gets away from me, I'll never forgive you, you know that, don't you?”

“It's getting light out there,” he said, turning his attention to his men. “If you want to be at the main gate when it opens, I suggest you get a move on.”

The wind was biting when she emerged into the light on the broad ledge that circled the towering white walls of the Citadel. R'shiel had not been up here since she was a child, when Tarja had brought her to the walls to show her the rare spectacle of the high plains covered in snow. She was only five or six years old at the time and snow on the plains, while not unheard of, was unusual enough that she had cried out with delight at the sight of it. That Joyhinia had beaten her afterwards for sneaking out with Tarja had not lessened the thrill, and she had held on to the memory as she sobbed in her room, hungry and cold, her legs throbbing from the cane. She could remember thinking that it had all been worth every savage blow. It didn't matter that she had been sent to bed without dinner. She didn't even care when Joyhinia had declared that as she seemed to like the cold so much, she could get a taste of what it really felt like in the snow and had the fire in her room extinguished and the blankets removed. It didn't matter that her legs were black and blue. She had stood on the wall-walk in the still, cold air and looked out over the countryside blanketed in white, the shallow Saran River frozen with a thin coating of ice, and thought she was standing on top of the world.

A trace of the same feeling came back to her as she looked down, but this time no peaceful layer of snow softened the view. The plain crawled with humanity as far as the eye could see, even as far away as the small village of Kordale, whose smoking chimneys R'shiel could just make out in the distance. From this high up it was impossible to make out individual details, rather the ground below rippled like some strange, poisonous ocean that lapped at the walls of the Citadel.

“Are you all right?” Brak asked with concern.

“Why wouldn't I be?”

He did not answer for a moment. He was sitting with his back to the wall with his booted feet stretched out in front of him on the ledge, cleaning his fingernails with the tip of his dagger. Scattered clouds left over from the rain during the night hung motionlessly in a sky tinted the colour of washed-out blood.

“If you happen to find Loclon, just be careful, will you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that if you're planning to use your power to restrain him, try to do it as quickly as possible. You'll be drawing on the same power as Korandellan. He'll have to fight you for his share of it.”

Brak did not need to add that if she drew too much, Korandellan's ability to hold Sanctuary safely out of time would be compromised. She had seen his weary face in the Seeing Stone in Greenharbour. R'shiel knew how close to exhaustion he was.

“You make it sound as if I actually have control over it.” She closed her eyes, letting the chill air clear her mind then looked down from the wall-walk over the mass of humanity swarming to be let out of the Citadel. “This is hopeless!”

“You knew that before you came here,” Brak pointed out.

“Aren't you going to help?”

“What do you want me to do?”

She muttered something unintelligible and looked back over the crowd. The Defenders were pushing the people back to clear a path for the gates to open. On the other side of the wall, the plain was littered with the Karien army. There was a sizeable gathering outside the gate, waiting for their comrades inside the Citadel to be released.

A truce had been arranged the previous day, although with their leaders now hostages in the Citadel, it had taken some time to sort out the Karien chain of command and find someone capable of making a decision. The wall-walk was lined with archers to discourage the Kariens from attempting to break the truce. The Defenders could not hope to fend off a well co-ordinated attack, but they were enough to deter the disorganised and bewildered Kariens from trying anything stupid. They seemed incapable of understanding that the Citadel was lost to them, or that their leaders had been taken prisoner. The Overlord would not allow such a thing.

“Isn't there something magic we can do?” she asked, turning her back to the Kariens.

He raised a brow at her. “Something magic?”

“You know what I mean.”

Brak sighed with long-suffering patience. “You still have no idea what you're dealing with, do you?”

“I don't want a lecture, Brak. I just want to know if there is anything we can do to find Loclon more easily.”

“You could make every person leaving tell the truth then ask their names as they pass through the gate,” he suggested.

“That won't work. Tarja won't let us stop them.” She was scanning the crowd and did not see Brak's smile.

“I was joking, R'shiel.”

“I'm beside myself with mirth. Do you have any other brilliant suggestions?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Brak sheathed his dagger then climbed to his feet and came to stand beside her. The gates swung open ponderously as the Defenders shouted orders to the crowd. The first to leave were the troopers that had been posted around the city, and they made up the bulk of the occupation force. They looked cold and miserable, having spent a night in the damp weather confined to the amphitheatre. Most of them were simple peasants dragged into this war because their masters owed a fealty to the Karien King. They were at the mercy of their god, their King and their dukes.

“They don't look very happy, do they?” Brak remarked.

“Can you blame them?”

“You're not feeling sorry for them, are you?”

“A little bit. Most of them would much rather be at home getting ready for the spring planting, I think. Not stranded here in a foreign country fighting a war they probably don't even understand.”

“Well, if you think the peasants are unhappy, imagine what that lot must be feeling.” Brak pointed up the street.

The next group waiting to be let through was the knights. Tarja had permitted them their mounts, but other than that, they were leaving empty handed. Their faces were cold and haughty, as if they were leaving of their own free will, not being forced out like beggars who couldn't pay the rent. Sir Andony sat at the head of the small column. R'shiel could not make out the others from this height. She watched them curiously, wondering what they were thinking. Were they plotting revenge? Were they already planning to return?

“My Lady! My Lady R'shiel!”

R'shiel glanced down at the street and discovered an urchin waving up at her. She did not know the child, but he was panting heavily, as if he had run all the way to the gate.

“What is it?” she called.

“That man you're looking for? The one with the scars? I saw him!”

“Wait here!” she told Brak, heading for the stairs that led down into the gatehouse at a run. When she reached the street, she had to push through the crowd to find the child. The boy was waiting for her by the gatehouse wall. He had the most beautiful face R'shiel had ever seen on a child.

“Who are you? Where did you see Loclon?” she demanded.

“My name is Alladan. I work for Mistress Heaner.”

“Who is Mistress Heaner?”

“She's... she's... my employer,” the boy said, a little uncertainly. “But I saw the man you're looking for. He was at Mistress Heaner's last night.”

“Is he still there?”

Alladan nodded. “I think so. Did you want me to show you?”

She glanced up at the wall-walk where Brak was looking down at her and debated calling him. Although she was certain he was telling the truth, the child might be wrong, and she could not risk letting Loclon slip past her. She waved reassuringly to Brak then turned back to Alladan.

“Show me.”

As she pushed through the crowd behind the boy, she faintly heard Brak calling her back, but she ignored him. The idea that she might have found Loclon consumed her, swamping caution and common sense. They broke through the crowd after a great deal of pushing and shoving, turning towards the warehouse district. The boy ran ahead, looking back over his shoulder occasionally to ensure that she was still with him.

When the boy finally reached his destination, it proved to be a narrow gate with a small hatchway at eye level, jammed between two dilapidated warehouses. He stopped and waited for her to catch up and then jerked his head in the direction of the door.

“He's in there.”

“Are you sure?”

“He was this morning.”

“How did you know I was looking for him?”

Alladan shrugged innocently. “The whole Citadel knows, my Lady.” Then he grinned and added, “Is there some sort of reward for finding him?”

She smiled at the boy's expression. “We'll see.”

“I was... well, I was hoping I could get it now,” he said. “I mean, you never know what's going to happen...”

“Go back to the gate and ask for Lord Brakandaran. He'll see you're rewarded.”

Alladan looked a little disappointed, but he did not press the point. He ran off without another word. R'shiel watched him leave with a shake of her head. He certainly was an enterprising lad.

Turning back to study the small gate, R'shiel carefully drew on her power and pushed at the gate with a thought. It creaked open to reveal a lane strewn with litter. She could not sense anyone in the lane, so she stepped through cautiously, gagging on the smell. She stepped silently over the rubbish towards another doorway at the end of the alley. It stood open and inviting. When she entered the room beyond she gasped with astonishment.

It was sumptuous - decorated with no thought to expense, or good taste. There were velvet-upholstered couches scattered about the room, each one sectioned off by diaphanous sheer curtains. The carpet was as thick as the grass in the garden behind the infirmary. Fardohnyan crystal chandeliers hung unlit from the ceiling. There was a smell about the place, too, something she could not identify, although it was annoyingly familiar. R'shiel looked around her wide-eyed, wondering what such a place was doing hidden down here in the warehouse district - and who would frequent it.

The answer came to her as she checked the deserted rooms along a narrow passage leading off the main room. The first was innocent enough - simply a room with a large double bed, decorated in blue to match the colour of the door. But as she opened each door along the hall, the purpose of the rooms became clear enough. There was one room sporting a huge tub, another with a bed big enough for six and then another containing nothing more than two velvet-lined, metal cuffs hanging from the ceiling by chains and enough instruments of torture to make the Defenders' interrogation chamber look positively inadequate. Feeling a little queasy at the thought of what might go on in this place, R'shiel wondered about Alladan. Was he part of the entertainment? The idea made her sick.

At the end of the hall was a smaller door, which opened at a touch and led down into the darkness. Stepping through, R'shiel called up a finger of flame to light her way, rather pleased with herself. When Brak had tried to teach her how to call fire one evening on their journey here from Vanahiem, she'd almost consumed them both in a ball of flame. The short steps opened into a cellar with an earthen floor. She made the flame brighter and stared at the altar by the far wall, letting out a yell of outrage as the star and lightning bolt of Xaphista stared back at her.

With a sudden thump, the cellar door slammed shut behind her. She ran to the door and pounded on it, but it was shut fast, locked from the other side. Furiously, she called on her power and blasted the door out of her way, only to discover her way blocked by a wall of fire. She remembered now, what that smell was. Oil. Whoever had set this trap had soaked the building in it, hoping to send her to a fiery death.

R'shiel took a step back from the roaring flames. If this fire spread, here in the warehouse district, it would destroy the city. Even if it only spread a little way, all their supplies, all the food they had stored to see them through the coming siege would be destroyed. Without thinking, she drew even deeper on the Harshini power, pulling as much as she could handle and sent it outwards from the cellar. The blast of air shook the surrounding buildings and almost brought the roof of the cellar down on top of her. But the flames were blown out like candles in a strong draft.

Panting with the effort of her exertions, she clambered through the debris until she reached the ground floor. The building was flattened, its roof gone, the walls blown out and laying flat on the ground. The warehouses on either side were in no better shape, and beyond them she could see the broken windows and fractured walls of the other buildings that had been in range. There were shouts in the distance and voices yelling orders. The Defenders come to investigate the source of the explosion, no doubt. She looked around at the devastation she had caused with a sigh. She had simply meant to blow out the flames. She hadn't expected to level everything in sight.

It was Brak who reached the scene first. She was still standing there, dazed and bewildered as he leapt over the rubble to get to her.

When he reached her, Brak helped her sit down, his expression a mixture of anger and concern. “What, in the name of the gods, do you think you're doing?”

“It was a trap,” she told him dully.

“No kidding.”

“I didn't mean to...” she said, looking around her at what was left of the warehouse district.

“You never do, R'shiel. That's what makes you so bloody dangerous.”

“You're mad at me, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

R'shiel took a deep breath and held out her hand to see if it had stopped trembling, then looked up and smiled wanly at Brak.

“I'm sorry.”

“You and I need to have a little talk about restraint,” he said with a frown. “You can't go drawing on that much power every time you want to do something. There is such a thing as overkill, you know.”

“But I had to put out the fire. I didn't know how much it would take.” For that matter, even if she had known, she still lacked the finesse to limit what she drew on, but she decided not to remind Brak of that.

“I feel exhausted, but somehow more aware. Isn't that odd?”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm not sure. It's as if I can feel everything more clearly. I can even feel Sanctuary like it was right here.”

“That will be with you wherever you go, R'shiel.”

“I know. I've felt it ever since I left the place, but this is different. It's stronger somehow... I don't know... clearer... Brak?”

She blanched at the expression on his face. Suddenly, he wasn't listening to her. He rose to his feet slowly and turned to stare blankly towards the west, reaching out with his senses, rather than his eyes. R'shiel struggled to her feet and stood beside him, following his gaze, seeing nothing but the flattened buildings and the Defenders coming towards them, demanding to know what had happened.

“What is it? What's wrong?”

“I can feel it too.”

“Sanctuary?”

He nodded.

“But why is it so strong? Normally it's just like a vague impression in the back of my mind that I hardly even notice any more.”

“That's because normally, Sanctuary is hidden out of time.”

“Then it's back? Why would Korandellan do that?”

“He wouldn't. Not willingly.”

He glanced at her grimly and she suddenly realised what he meant. Korandellan had brought Sanctuary into real time because he was no longer capable of holding it back. R'shiel stared around her with horror. She had drawn on the magic of the Harshini with no thought to the amount that she was consuming.

It was her fault the Harshini were no longer hidden.

“Oh Founders, Brak,” she said with quiet desperation. “What have I done?”

By mid morning the last of the Kariens, as well as the civilians who did not want to stay in the Citadel, had filed through the gates and they were closed against the army outside. The Defenders had dutifully searched the crowd for Loclon's familiar face, but they paid no attention to the huge, simple-looking man hauling a handcart through the gate piled with old blankets, or notice the thin, sharp-eyed old woman who walked beside him. Nor did they inspect the cart. The rugs smelled old and the woman openly wore the symbol of Xaphista on a chain around her neck. Another fanatic leaving and good riddance to all of them, they decided. The Defenders turned their attention to the crowd, scanning the faces for Loclon's distinctive scar.

The huge man with his handcart, the beautiful young boy and the old woman left the Citadel unmolested.

CHAPTER 46

“What happened at the warehouse district?” Tarja asked as soon as R'shiel appeared in the doorway of the First Sister's office. He was alone with Garet Warner and a young woman that she did not recognise at first. The woman had long blonde hair and was dressed in homespun trousers and a rough linen shirt, with a Defender's cloak, of all things, thrown carelessly back over one shoulder. The fire burned brightly in the hearth and the room was almost uncomfortably warm. For a fleeting, gut-wrenching moment, R'shiel remembered this office, so hot and stuffy, when Joyhinia had ruled here. She shook off the feeling impatiently. Joyhinia was dead.

“There was a bit of an altercation,” she shrugged as she stepped into the office with Brak on her heels. The woman with Tarja turned as she spoke and studied R'shiel curiously.

“Hello, R'shiel. Hello, Brak.”

“Mandah!”

“You sound surprised to see me, demon child.”

“Don't call me that,” she snapped automatically. “What are you doing here?”

“What I've been doing since long before I met you, R'shiel. Helping my people.”

Her people, R'shiel knew, were the pagan rebels. “I didn't expect to see you here. You were supposed to be heading into Hythria with the Defenders.”

“I chose to stay and help Tarja,” Mandah told her with a smile in Tarja's direction. R'shiel recognised the look and felt an unexpected spear of jealousy pierce her chest.

“How convenient for you that the new Lord Defender is someone sympathetic to your cause.”

“There's nothing convenient about it, R'shiel,” Garet remarked, looking up from the map spread out over the desk. “It's one of the reasons Tarja got the job. What exactly do you mean by an altercation?”

“Someone tried to set fire to the warehouses. I... caused a bit of damage, but the fire is out.”

“Did you find Loclon?” Tarja asked.

“No. And I don't think we will. But that's not why I'm here. We have another problem.”

“What now?” Garet asked, folding his arms across his chest.

“The Harshini are in danger.”

“The Harshini have been in danger for the past two centuries.”

“This is more than just the threat of discovery, Garet. Sanctuary is no longer hidden. The Kariens can find them now.”

“I'm heartbroken,” the commandant told her unsympathetically, returning his attention to the map.

Tarja frowned at Garet. He appeared a little more sympathetic. “How long have they got?”

Brak shrugged. “Before the Karien priests locate Sanctuary? They've probably pinpointed it already. It will take them some time to get there, though. A few weeks, maybe.” He noticed Garet's sceptical look and continued his explanation looking straight at the commandant. “The reason the Sisterhood could never completely eradicate the Harshini was because Sanctuary was taken out of time. I won't try explaining how - you probably wouldn't believe me, anyway. Suffice to say that the strain of keeping it hidden has finally taken its toll on King Korandellan. Sanctuary is back in real time and the Kariens will be at its gates within weeks.”

“That would be convenient,” Garet remarked. “It might get them away from ours.”

“But can't the Harshini simply hide Sanctuary again?” Mandah asked, with a glare at Garet. She was a pagan and worshipped the Harshini along with their gods. R'shiel found herself with an unexpected ally.

Brak shook his head. “If Korandellan let it return, then he's exhausted. Keeping Sanctuary out of time takes a lot less effort than actually sending it there.”

“I can't spare the men to go trekking off into the wilderness, or wherever Sanctuary is to help them, R'shiel,” Tarja told her. “Even if we could get past the Kariens.”

“Then we have to bring the Harshini here. To the Citadel.”

They all turned and looked at her.

“What?” Garet demanded in horror.

“The Harshini can't be killed here. The Citadel won't permit it.”

“And you think we're going to let you bring the Harshini into the Citadel? Absolutely not!” Garet snapped before anyone could say a word.

“But you must!” Mandah cried. “The Harshini will be slaughtered if you deny them shelter.”

“Young woman, every Defender in Medalon has been trained to hunt the Harshini down and kill them on sight. And you expect us to let them back into the Citadel?”

“Tarja?” Mandah begged, her green eyes moist. R'shiel watched her with interest, and more importantly, Tarja's reaction. He seemed decidedly uncomfortable. Was Mandah the reason Tarja found it so easy to deny the geas? She forced the thought from her mind. She had other, more important things to deal with.

“Even if I agree, what makes you think the Harshini will want to come?” Tarja asked.

“It's that or die in Sanctuary. They can't willingly take their own lives and staying at Sanctuary would be tantamount to doing that, if there was a chance they could return here to safety.”

“What about Loclon?”

“He'll keep.”

“You were burning with vengeance a couple of hours ago.”

“A couple of hours ago I hadn't inadvertently put several hundred innocent lives in danger.”

“You bring the Harshini back in here and we'll be neck deep in pagan rituals within days,” Garet warned.

“We have a common enemy, Garet,” Tarja pointed out. “I'm inclined to let them come, simply to frustrate the Kariens.”

“If you don't let them come, you'll have the blood of the Harshini on your hands,” R'shiel added.

Garet laughed sourly. “Do you know how many Harshini the Defenders have killed in the last two hundred years, R'shiel? There's plenty of blood on our hands already. A bit more won't make that much difference.”

“Then it is time to undo some of the damage,” Mandah declared. “You must let them back, Tarja! If you want the pagans to follow you, you can do nothing else.”

“It didn't take you long to learn the art of political blackmail, did it?” Garet snapped at Mandah, and then turned to Tarja. “It's your decision. You're the Lord Defender now. Just so long as you understand the trouble you're bringing down on us if you agree.”

Tarja nodded, but did not answer. Instead, he turned to Brak. “Where is Sanctuary, exactly?”

“In the Sanctuary Mountains.”

Tarja glared at him.

“It's north-west of Testra,” Brak added. “That's about as specific as I'm willing to get.”

“Then how are you going to get them out of there? I wasn't kidding when I said I don't have the men to spare, and it's too early in the spring for the passes to be cleared of snow, in any case. Even if we didn't have half of Karien camped around our walls, I have a list as long as my arm of Sisters we need to arrest before they can get organised against us. I don't know that I can help you, even if I was inclined to.”

“They can fly,” R'shiel said. “On dragons.”

“Oh, well that should reassure the population,” Garet remarked sourly. “A few hundred dragons landing in the Citadel loaded with a race we've spent two centuries convincing them we've eradicated.”

“Tarja, please,” R'shiel asked, ignoring Garet's sarcasm. She needed him to agree. She needed the Harshini safe. Her conscience would not permit anything else.

“I don't suppose there is any way you can do this discreetly?” he asked.

“You mean try to avoid a few hundred dragons landing in the Citadel loaded with a race that you've spent two centuries convincing your people you eradicated?” Brak asked drily.

“That would be a good start.”

R'shiel glanced at Brak, who thought for a moment then shook her head. “Not with the Kariens blocking their path.”

“Even if you can get them here in one piece,” Garet pointed out, “chances are they'll be attacked on sight, once our people see them.”

“Then you'd best make sure they're protected,” R'shiel warned. “You claim you want a different world from the one the Sisterhood left you. Learning to live with the original inhabitants of Medalon seems like a good place to start. You never know, Garet, you may even learn something from them.”

“I'm learning where your loyalties lie pretty quickly,” he accused.

“My loyalty is to Medalon.”

“You've an interesting way of showing it.”

“Enough, Garet,” Tarja sighed. “Arguing will get us nowhere. The Harshini can return, R'shiel, but only if you can promise me that they will not try to reclaim the Citadel or cause any more trouble than they have to.”

“Interesting that you suspect the Harshini of trying to reclaim the Citadel,” Brak said with a smile. “Have you considered what will happen if the Citadel tries to reclaim the Harshini?”

“What do you mean by that?” Garet asked suspiciously.

“He doesn't mean anything,” R'shiel cut in, before Brak could say anything further. “Do I have your word on this, Tarja?”

He nodded, but he did not seem very pleased with the decision.

“Then I'll summon Dranymire and the demons.”

“Will you send the Divine Ones a message?” Mandah asked. Her eyes were alight at the prospect of seeing a real demon and of meeting the fabled race that she so admired.

“No. I'm going to have to return to Sanctuary myself to convince the Harshini that any asylum they are offered in the Citadel is genuine.”

“Can't Brak go alone?” Tarja asked.

He shook his head. “I'm not the one who brought this on, nor I am going to be the one to convince Korandellan and his people that you have opened up the Citadel to the Harshini. It will have to come from R'shiel.”

She nodded and looked at Brak. “Will you come with me?”

“Don't I always?” he said.

“R'shiel!”

She stopped and turned, waiting for Mandah to catch up with her. The young rebel closed the door of the First Sister's office and hurried towards them along the carpeted hall.

“What is it, Mandah?”

“Could I speak with you?”

R'shiel shrugged. “I suppose.”

“About Tarja.”

“What about him?”

Mandah stopped before her, taking a deep breath, as if preparing herself mentally for what she planned to say. Brak walked on ahead, leaving them some semblance of privacy. “You know what happened, don't you? About the geas?”

“Yes, but how did you know about it?”

“You forget that I'm a pagan, R'shiel. I know more about the gods and the Harshini than you do.”

“That's not difficult,” she agreed with a wan smile.

“It's just... well, I wanted to know...”

“What? If I still have some claim on him?”

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“No, but I've seen the way you look at him. You've done it since we first met. Remember that night in the stables in Reddingdale, when you helped us escape the Defenders? You could have found a dozen other ways to hide Tarja, but you had to throw yourself down on top of him and start kissing him.” R'shiel smiled suddenly. “He's yours if you want him, Mandah. He certainly doesn't want me any more.”

“R'shiel, I don't want you to think that... well, that I'm benefiting from your misfortune.”

“Don't worry, Mandah. Tarja is yours if you can hold him. He's not mine. He never really was.”

Mandah studied her for a moment, as if trying to detect some glimmer of falsehood in R'shiel's assurance.

“You've changed, R'shiel. There was a time when you would have denied me out of spite.”

“There was a time I would have done a lot of things, Mandah,” she said. “But I know when I'm beaten. I won't stand in your way.”

“Then I have your blessing?”

“I wouldn't go that far.”

Mandah impulsively hugged R'shiel and then ran back towards the First Sister's office. And Tarja. R'shiel watched her disappear inside and turned to find Brak leaning on the banister at the top of the stairs, staring at her thoughtfully.

“What?”

“That was very noble of you.”

“You shouldn't have been listening.”

“Are you kidding? I wouldn't have missed that for the world.”

She stalked past him in annoyance. “Are you coming?”

“Of course, demon child,” he replied mockingly, as he followed her down the stairs. “Although, I have to say, you were wrong about one thing.”

R'shiel stopped and glared over her shoulder at him. “What was I wrong about?”

“You do not know when you're beaten, R'shiel.”