Tarja tore his gaze from the child and looked at Bereth. “I remember. She enrolled me in the Cadets and left me at the Citadel. I was only ten.”
Bereth nodded. “Joyhinia arrived in Testra with quite a reputation. She’d already had you and it was
rumoured that your father was Lord Korgan, although he always denied it. Four or five months after she arrived my mother died and I was called back to Brodenvale to settle the family’s affairs. Joyhinia volunteered to take over from me, doing my rounds of the outlying villages. We all thought it strange at the time. She loathed being away from her creature comforts and despised the cold. Taking over at that time meant wintering in one of the mountain villages until the spring thaw. But she had her eye on a seat on the Quorum, even in those days, and we weren’t exactly swamped with volunteers, so she got the job.”
The child in her lap began coughing again, and Bereth stopped her narrative to gently rub the child’s back. When the coughing fit subsided, Bereth resumed her tale.
“By the time I returned to Testra, it was spring and Joyhinia was on her way back from the mountains. She had wintered in Haven, which was a remote village populated with loggers and furriers, mostly. Hardworking, decent people, every one of them.” Bereth’s voice trailed off for a moment, as if she was lost in the past, then she looked at Tarja, her eyes hard and bitter. “Joyhinia returned to Testra with a child. A babe of a few weeks, which she claimed was hers and Jenga’s get, although anyone who knew Jenga doubted her claim. He was never a man for casual relationships, particularly with anyone as ambitious as your mother. And she’d shown no signs of being pregnant before she left for the mountains. Nor did she act the part. She had lovers aplenty, rumour had it. She called the child Rochelle, or something like that.”
“R’shiel,” Tarja corrected softly, afraid that if he spoke to loudly, Bereth wouldn’t finish her tale.
“R’shiel,” Bereth repeated, as if the word carried special meaning. “That’s a mountain name, by the way, not the name given to any child of the Citadel.
“Anyway, Joyhinia returned claiming she had been pregnant, and the child was of the right age, so nobody thought much more about it. Jenga never formally acknowledged the child, but his silence was confirmation enough for most, I suppose. To this day, I don’t understand why he has never denied it.
“So, I went back to my duties and thought little more about it. Haven is very remote, and even I only managed to visit it every couple of years or so. By the time I returned to the village, it never occurred to me to ask about Joyhinia’s visit or the child.”
“You said the village was burned only three years ago,” Tarja reminded her. “What happened?”
“I learnt much of the story from a woman in Haven, a furrier named B’thrim Snowbuilder. She was a widow who had lived alone for years, ever since her younger sister, J’nel, died the year Joyhinia wintered in Haven. The rest I learnt from the survivors, some of the older children. B’thrim had an accident about eight months before the village was destroyed. She got caught in one of her own traps and lost her left foot to frostbite. It meant she could no longer trap the snow foxes and the season before had not been a good one. She was on the verge of destitution. The last time I saw her, she told me she had sent a message to Joyhinia at the Citadel, asking for help, in return for the favour she had done her years before. Joyhinia’s response was to send a troop
of Defenders to burn the village. B’thrim was one of the first to be killed.”
“What favour?” Tarja asked. Bereth had told him much, but in reality she had told him nothing.
“B’thrim’s sister, J’nel, died in childbirth, Captain. She died giving birth to the girl you know as your sister.”
Tarja stared at the woman, stunned.
“Who is she, then?” Davydd asked, giving voice to the question Tarja was unable to ask.
“R’shiel? She’s the child of an illiterate mountain girl and an unknown father, I suppose. The story I got was that J’nel had disappeared into the Mountains at the beginning of spring and returned just before winter, heavily pregnant. She was frightened, hysterical and covered with blood when she returned, but refused to name the father. Haven was a superstitious village, and while they profess adherence to the laws of the Sisterhood, there were many who believed the Harshini still inhabited the Sanctuary Mountains. As no man in the village would own the child, they decided the child must be a sorcerer’s get and rejected it. Joyhinia didn’t care what the villagers thought. The child was the right age for her to invent her deception and an orphan that nobody wanted. All she needed was Jenga to go along with her. She probably thought the villagers would forget all about the child after a while.”
“Until B’thrim sent a message asking for help,” Tarja said.
“Taking an orphan in is one thing,” Bereth continued, “but to claim that child is your own and try to foist paternity onto the Lord Defender, goes
beyond the pale.” She glanced at Tarja thoughtfully. “The child must be almost grown by now.”
Tarja nodded. “She’s a Probate at the Citadel.”
Bereth shook her head. “So Joyhinia has a daughter to follow in her footsteps and I have a clutch of starving orphans, whose parents died to keep her secret. Most of those villagers in Haven would not have even remembered the child. That was her worst crime, Captain. It was so unnecessary.” The child in her lap had fallen into an uneasy sleep. She stroked her fine hair absently and looked at Tarja. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this. I suppose you have some affection for the girl, although if Joyhinia has succeeded in raising her in her own image, I doubt she is very lovable.”
Tarja shook his head. “Joyhinia tries, but she hasn’t succeeded yet.”
“That’s something to be grateful for,” Bereth sighed. “But perhaps now, Captain, you can understand my reaction on learning who your mother is.”
Tarja climbed the crumbling tower later that evening and looked out over the dark plain. The clouds were breaking up, revealing patches of blue velvet sky sprinkled with pinpoints of light. He leant on the cold stone, oblivious to the chill wind that cut through him, wondering what he should do with the information Bereth had given him. For that matter, would it even be his decision? Davydd Tailorson had heard the whole story and would report it to Garet Warner, without hesitation. That sort of information about a Quorum member was too important to keep to himself. He should have insisted on hearing the
tale in private. He would have, had he any inkling of what he would learn.
The consequences to Joyhinia, when her lies were revealed, bothered Tarja not one whit. Joyhinia deserved whatever punishment the First Sister deemed fit and the more severe the better. Expulsion from the Quorum, at the very least. She might even be forced into retirement. That prospect filled Tarja with savage delight. To see Joyhinia’s plans crumble at her feet like the ruins of this keep, was almost worth it.
Almost.
There was R’shiel to consider. Joyhinia’s fall would drag R’shiel down with her. She deserved to know the truth, but did she deserve to suffer for it?
Tarja turned at the sound of a boot scraping on the stairs. Davydd took the last two steps in one stride and joined Tarja on the tower, glancing out over the plain, his arms wrapped around his body against the wind.
“Looks like it won’t rain, after all,” the young man remarked.
“Looks like it.” He waited for Davydd to speak again; he had not climbed the tower to talk about the weather.
“I have to tell the Commandant,” he said finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “It would be treason to withhold what I learnt here.”
“Treason?” Tarja asked.
“The Commandant might not…” he began, but his voice trailed off. Both he and Tarja knew that Garet Warner would use the information against Joyhinia, as surely as Davydd would have to report it.
“He will. But he has to know the truth. So does R’shiel, for that matter, although I worry more about her than Joyhinia. My mother deserves whatever is coming to her.”
“I’ve seen your sister at the Citadel. She’s very pretty.”
“She is,” he agreed. “And apparently she’s not my sister.”
“At the risk of sounding trite, there’ll be a lot of officers at the Citadel quite pleased to learn that, sir.”
Tarja laughed, despite himself. “Including you, Lieutenant?”
“I…er…well, it’s not that I ever…” Davydd stammered, the first time Tarja had seen him lost for words.
“Don’t worry, Lieutenant. I’m sure your intentions are entirely honourable. But before you tell Garet Warner what we learnt here today, spare a thought for R’shiel. Once this becomes common knowledge, she’ll be an outcast.”
“It’s hardly her fault,” Davydd objected. “You don’t think people will hold it against her, do you? I mean, she’s a Probate. She’ll be a Sister within a couple of years.”
“You’ve a lot to learn about the Sisterhood, Davydd,” Tarja told him wearily. “They won’t care that Joyhinia lied to them. But they’ll be very put out that she has played them all for fools.”
“It doesn’t seem fair, sir.”
“That’s life, Lieutenant,” Tarja replied, more bitterly than he intended. The young man was silent for a moment, surprised at Tarja’s tone.
“Will you report this to Lord Jenga?”
“Jenga has a right to know the truth, too. Joyhinia has been trading on her supposed relationship with him for years.”
“Assuming he doesn’t already know,” Davydd remarked.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, someone in the Defenders sent those men to destroy the village. Joyhinia didn’t do that alone. Besides, the Lord Defender could have exposed Joyhinia years ago, unless he had a reason not to.”
Tarja stared at the young man, appalled by his suggestion. “Jenga would never order such a thing!”
Davydd shrugged. “You know him better than I do, sir. But unless Sister Joyhinia forged the orders and the Defender’s seal that authenticates them, there is at least one senior officer involved. And you have to admit, Jenga’s refusal to deny he’s R’shiel’s father does look suspicious.”
Was it possible? Tarja shivered in the darkness, but the cold that chilled him came from inside. Ever since he had been old enough to recognise it for what it was, Tarja had watched the Sisters of the Blade grow increasingly tainted by the stench of corruption, like milk slowly souring in the heat on a hot summer’s day.
For the first time, Tarja allowed himself to wonder if that corruption had spread to the Corps and reached as high as the Lord Defender.
Tarja spent a sleepless night in the ruined keep, listening to the heartbreaking coughs of the little girl by the fire and wondering who in the Defenders had followed Joyhinia’s orders to destroy Haven. Any Commandant, could, in theory, have issued the order. That narrowed the suspects down to about fifteen men, excluding Jenga, whom he was certain would never have countenanced such an act, despite what Davydd thought. Commandant Verkin, Wilem Cortanen, Garet Warner, and about a dozen more senior officers, had sufficient authority. It was a depressing train of thought. He resolved to question Bereth again in the morning before they rode out. Perhaps she knew the name of the officer in charge of the raid. If he could discover that, he might be able to track down the culprit.
They stayed in the keep longer than he intended. Tarja had hoped to get away at first light the following day. His mission was to check on the border villages and he had completed that task before riding out here on impulse to examine the ruined keep. It would be next to useless if Medalon were invaded. It was strategically ill-placed in the middle of
an open plain, and had been built, hastily and poorly, by men with no understanding of war. An invading army would simply swing past it into Medalon, as if it were no more of an obstacle than a rock in the road. In future, any defences constructed would be further north, right on the border itself, where the plain narrowed and the open grassland was flanked by the Sanctuary Mountains on the western side and the Glass River, where it emerged from the Jagged Mountains, on the east.
But his men undermined Tarja’s plans for an early departure, subtly and deliberately. First, Sandar, the trooper responsible for the packhorses and the supplies, announced that he thought he could possibly spare even more for the children, given time to sort through their provisions carefully. Then Nork, his corporal, suddenly announced that his horse had bruised his fetlock and would need a poultice to relieve it. One of the children had told him of a herb that grew wild on the plains that was ideal for the poultice, and would it be all right if he took several of the children and went in search of it? It wouldn’t take long and a lame horse would slow their journey, he pointed out reasonably. By the time Ewan asked if the captain would mind if he made some repairs to the roof over the end of the main hall while they were waiting, Tarja threw his hands up in defeat. He climbed the tower again and looked out over the grasslands towards the border, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t wasting time. Davydd followed him up the crumbling steps.
“Let me guess. You’d like to build a schoolhouse for them, while we’re here.”
Davydd smiled. “Actually, I thought perhaps a morning room, facing east, with a vine covered trellis, and maybe a solarium on the west wing”
Tarja shook his head. “Tell me Lieutenant, just exactly how are we going to explain the presence of these heathens to our superiors? Or the fact that we did nothing to evict them?”
“Heathens, sir? I’ve seen no altars, or sacrifices, or other signs of pagan worship. They are orphans in the care of a retired Sister, aren’t they?” Davydd had conveniently forgotten about the acorn amulet Bereth wore.
“You could be right. Besides, the keep is of no strategic value.” He leaned against the crumbling wall and studied the young man curiously. “I’m not sure what surprises me most, Lieutenant, your willingness to overlook this irregularity or the fact that every man here seems bent on aiding these children.”
The younger man shrugged. “Garet Warner’s first rule is to assess any situation according to the seriousness of the threat. A handful of orphans and a bitter old woman hardly constitute a danger to Medalon’s security, sir. As for the men, most of them have children of their own. There’s nothing sinister or treasonous in their reaction to the children’s plight.”
“There’s that word treason again. You seem to use it a lot, Lieutenant.”
“It’s this fort, I think. It has that effect on people.”
“I know what you mean. Perhaps we should name this place Treason Keep?”
Davydd smiled. “I imagine you’ll have some explaining to do if you put that in your report to Commandant Warner, sir.”
Tarja smiled thinly at the thought and looked back towards the border as a flash of sunlight reflecting off metal caught his eye. He scanned the horizon curiously until he saw it again. A cloud of dust hanging in the still air of the cool morning approached the keep, although it was yet several leagues away.
“What do you suppose that is?” he asked, pointing in the direction of the dust cloud.
The lieutenant moved to Tarja’s side and studied the plain for a moment. “Horses. Quite a few of them, I’d say. Coming in from the north, which means they’re coming from Karien. It could be a trading caravan.”
“Wearing armour?” Tarja asked, as the sunlight flashed like an irregular signal in the distance. “Still, it’s too small to be an invasion force.”
“A delegation, perhaps?”
“Possibly.” Tarja rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Lord Pieter prefers to travel by water. He doesn’t like the idea of overland travel.”
“But it’s also the long way round. Maybe time is more important than impressing a few Medalonian peasants with his big boat. The Fardohnyans might be making things difficult, too. King Hablet enjoys reminding King Jasnoff that Fardohnya controls Karien’s access to the only decent port in the north.”
“That’s assuming it is Lord Pieter.”
“It almost has to be,” Davydd told him. “No knight is permitted to leave Karien for fear of them being corrupted by the godless mores of the south—unless they’re at war, or have a special dispensation from the Church of Xaphista. Pieter is the only knight with a standing dispensation, due to his role as King Jasnoff’s Envoy to the Citadel.”
Tarja looked at Davydd. “You appear remarkably well informed about the Kariens, Lieutenant.”
“I’m an intelligence officer, sir. It’s my job,” the young man shrugged.
He nodded, willing to accept the lieutenant’s quiet confidence. “Get the men together, then. Tell Nork to take the second packhorse as a spare mount and head for the Citadel. He’s not to stop for anything. He must let them know what’s coming.”
“Do we know what’s coming?” Davydd asked curiously.
“Trouble,” Tarja told him with certainty. “Find the banner. It should be packed among the gear somewhere.”
“We’re going to meet them?”
Tarja nodded, glancing back at the advancing Kariens. “I want to know what they’re doing out here. I would also rather they avoided this keep. Besides, if they are trying to surprise us, imagine how annoyed they’re going to be to find themselves being met by an official guard of honour.”
Davydd saluted sharply and hurried down the perilous steps to carry out his orders. Tarja turned back to watching the Kariens uneasily, wondering what trouble their unexpected appearance heralded.
A single rider cantered forward to meet them as Tarja and his men rode to confront the interlopers. His initial instinct was confirmed as he noticed pennants being hastily unfurled and the party forming into some sort of official order as the Defenders approached. The rider wore a full suit of elaborately gilded armour, his helmet topped by an impressive plume of blue feathers.
His breastplate was adorned with a golden star intersected by a silver lightning bolt. The symbol of Xaphista, the Overlord.
“Halt and identify yourselves,” the armoured knight demanded as he neared them. His lance was topped with a blue pennant that snapped loudly in the cold wind.
“Identify yourself,” Tarja called back. “You are on Medalonian soil now.”
The knight slowed his horse and raised his faceplate to look at them. “I am Lord Pieter, Envoy of the Karien King, His Majesty Jasnoff the Third.”
Tarja bowed in his saddle. “Lord Pieter. I am Captain Tenragan. I believe we met at the Citadel on your last visit.”
The knight rode closer and studied Tarja for a moment, before breaking into a relieved smile. “Joyhinia’s son! Of course! You gave me quite a start there, young man. For a moment, I thought word of my visit had preceded me. It really wasn’t necessary for your mother to send an escort, although I appreciate her gesture. It augurs well for our future negotiations.”
“Time and discretion are of the essence, my Lord,” he replied, trying to give the impression he knew what Pieter was referring to. “We are here to ensure your safe and timely arrival.”
“Excellent!” Lord Pieter declared. “Let’s head for that ruin behind you and have some lunch, shall we?”
“That would be inadvisable, my Lord,” Tarja advised. “The ruin is in a dangerous state of repair, and I would rather forgo an elaborate meal for the chance to expedite your journey.”
Pieter sighed, but nodded in agreement. “You are right, of course. Your prudence does you credit, Captain. We shall place ourselves in your care.”
The remainder of Lord Pieter’s caravan had now reached them. It consisted of two heavily laden wagons, twenty men-at-arms and, to Tarja’s surprise, a number of veiled women riding side-saddle in front of the lead wagon. But the figure that caught his attention was a small, tonsured man, who glared at the Defenders suspiciously. Pieter turned as his party reached them and waved the priest to him. “Elfron! Come here! Joyhinia has sent her son to guide us to the Citadel.”
The priest rode forward and stared at the Defenders for a moment, before raising his staff and laying it expectantly on Tarja’s shoulder. When nothing happened, he withdrew the staff.
“He is who he claims to be,” the priest announced with satisfaction.
Tarja looked at the priest curiously. “Was there any doubt that I was not?”
Elfron’s expression darkened. “Only through eternal vigilance can the light of the Overlord be allowed to shine in its full splendour, Captain. The wicked glamours of the Harshini can be used to disguise one’s true nature. Had you been an agent of evil, you would be writhing in unbearable agony by now. Such is the power of the Overlord.”
“The Harshini are extinct. How do you know the staff works?” It was a dangerous thing to say. Xaphista’s priests were notoriously fanatical but he could not resist baiting him.
“You do not believe in the power of the Overlord?” the priest asked, a dangerous edge to his voice.
“Medalonians believe in no gods,” Tarja reminded him. “Not your god, nor the dead Harshini gods, nor anyone else’s. Loyalty to the state first is our creed, as well you know. I ask merely out of scientific curiosity.”
“Yes, yes,” Lord Pieter snapped. “Enough theology for now. You can convert him along the way, Elfron. We must keep moving. Tell me, Captain, how far is it to the nearest village?”
“If we make good time we can be in Lilyvale by this evening, my Lord.”
“Does this village have a decent inn? I am heartily sick of roughing it out here in the wilderness.”
“It’s small, but adequate,” Tarja assured him. With the prospect of sleeping in a bed tonight, Pieter would lose all interest in stopping at the keep. “I suggest we get moving, if we are to reach it by nightfall.”
“Yes, yes,” Pieter agreed. “By all means. Will you ride with me, Captain?” Pieter glanced meaningfully at the priest for a moment. “I find myself in need of some secular conversation.”
“I would be honoured, my Lord.”
Elfron wheeled his mount around so hard that Tarja winced in sympathy for the poor beast’s mouth. He turned his own mount and fell in beside Pieter as the caravan moved off, leading them on a wide route to avoid Treason Keep. Davydd and the Defenders waited until the wagons had passed, and then joined the caravan at the end of the line.
Once Elfron was out of earshot, Pieter leaned across to Tarja. “I would give my life for the Overlord, but I wonder at his choice in ministers, sometimes. I am sure Elfron has been set on me as some sort of test.”
“He seems very dedicated,” Tarja agreed, forcing himself not to smile. It was a relief that not all Kariens were as dedicated to the Overlord as Elfron. On the other hand, Pieter was Jasnoff’s Envoy. He was just as dedicated to the pursuit of power and territory as Elfron was to his god. It made the knight more dangerous than he appeared. At least the priest made no secret of his ambitions.
“Dedicated!” Pieter scoffed. “He’s a raving fanatic! It must come from such an unnatural upbringing. They all come from the same island, you know. The Isle of Slarn in the Gulf. It’s a godforsaken lump of rock and I’m sure it does something to their minds. If I hear one more word about sin on this journey, I shall go mad.”
“I have no experience with the concept of sin, my Lord, so I promise not to raise the subject,” Tarja assured him.
Pieter looked at him thoughtfully. “No experience with sin, eh? In that case,” he added, lowering his voice, although none of the party following them would be likely to overhear their conversation. “When we get to this inn, do you think you could arrange some…company, for me?”
“Company?” Tarja asked innocently.
“Don’t be obtuse man. You know what I mean!”
Tarja glanced over his shoulder. “Isn’t the company you have with you sufficiently entertaining?”
“They are nuns, Captain,” the Envoy complained. “Dry old virgins, every one of them. Sworn to the Overlord. I’d get more satisfaction out of a knothole in a tree stump! I need something young and plump and alive!”
“Lilyvale is a small village, my Lord,” Tarja warned. “There may not be any professional company available.”
“Find me an innkeeper’s daughter then, man! Somebody like that young Probate at the Citadel who was so willing on my last visit. She was most enthusiastic.”
Tarja remembered Pieter cornering one of the Probates at Joyhinia’s reception, but he hadn’t realised the man had actually bedded the girl. The thought made him cringe. The man was old enough to be her grandfather.
“I’ll see what I can do, my Lord,” Tarja promised, a little uneasily. He was a captain of the Defenders, not a panderer. He had no wish to find himself procuring women for this man all the way to the Citadel.
“I know you’ll do your best, Captain,” the Envoy said confidently. “I trust your presence here means that your mother intends to keep her promise.”