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.