It was then that she noticed he was dressed in leather trousers and a linen shirt – human attire rather than the Harshini robe he had worn the last time she saw him. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes. Back out into the big bad world, I’m afraid. Between you and Tarja, you managed to turn the whole damned world on its ear. I have to find out what’s happening.”
The thought of Tarja left R’shiel with a warm glow of affection, but little else. “Will you see Tarja?”
“No, I’m heading south. I want to see what the Fardohnyans are up to.”
“Oh.”
He smiled at her expression. Even Brak smiled in this place. “Is there anything you want?”
“Meat,” she said, without hesitation. “I would kill for a haunch of venison this big, smothered in gravy.”
Brak’s smile faded. “Don’t use that word in Sanctuary, R’shiel.”
“What? Venison?”
“Kill. The Harshini cannot abide violence. Even the thought distresses them. As for the meat, I’ll see what I can do, but don’t go asking for it. The Harshini don’t eat meat and it upsets them to be reminded that humans do. It will also upset them if they think you’re not happy. Besides, it won’t hurt you to eat like a Harshini for a while.”
“They eat like rabbits,” she complained, but her smile took the sting from her words.
“Then you’ll just have to learn to like rabbit food.”
Another thought occurred to her then. “So if they can’t kill anything, where does all the leather come from?”
“It’s a gift.”
“From whom?”
“The animals who inhabit the mountains. When they die, they allow the Harshini to take their skins.”
“How do the Harshini know that?” she scoffed.
“They are Harshini, R’shiel. They communicate with animals just as easily as they do with humans. In fact they prefer it, I think. Animals haven’t invented war yet.”
“You know, I almost like you here, Brak. Why did you ever leave?”
But he refused to answer her and something about his eyes warned her not to inquire too closely.
Chapter 8
“How long has she been like this?” Garet asked.
They had settled in around the fire in the crumbling great hall, Garet in the chair that had been occupied by Mahina the previous evening. Tarja sat on the edge of the hearth near Jenga, who had taken the only other chair.
“Since Testra,” Jenga told him, staring into the flames, not meeting the eye of the other officer.
Damin stood leaning against the mantle, stoking the inadequate fire with an iron poker. Fuel was a major problem on this treeless plain, and a sizeable number of their force had been occupied gathering enough wood to see them through the coming winter. Were it not for the vast number of horses here, many of the camp’s fires would be sorry affairs indeed. It was a small extravagance to burn the wood, but Damin was grateful to be spared the sting of burning dung in the Hall.
“How did it happen?”
“I’m not certain.”
Damin laughed softly at the Lord Defender’s discomfort. “Dacendaran, the God of Thieves, stole her intellect, Commandant. The Lord Defender has some difficulty dealing with the concept.”
“A difficulty I share, my Lord. We do not believe in your gods.”
“Believe in them or not,” Damin shrugged. “It’s the truth. Ask Tarja.”
Garet turned his gaze on the younger man. “Tarja?”
“Somebody told me once that he believed in the gods, he just didn’t know if they were worthy of adoration. That sums it up fairly well, I think. The gods exist, Garet, and they took a hand in our conflict, as Joyhinia’s condition proves.”
“And you’ve been issuing orders in her name ever since?” It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking. He was a master in the art of inscrutability, Damin decided. He would have made a brilliant Fardohnyan merchant.
“Once the Karien Envoy was murdered on Medalon soil, the threat of a Karien invasion moved from a theory to a certainty,” Tarja explained. “Had Jenga returned to the Citadel with Joyhinia, the Quorum would still be in session, arguing about what to do next. At least this way preparations could be made.”
“Did you kill him?” he asked.
“No, but I led the raid. I suppose I’m responsible.”
Garet shook his head wearily and turned his attention back to Jenga. “I’ve known you a long time, Jenga. I’m trying to imagine what finally pushed you into this. By any definition, this is treason.”
The Lord Defender nodded heavily. “We discussed this once, you and I. I asked you what you would do if faced with an order you found morally reprehensible. I recall you said you would refuse it, and the consequences be damned. I find myself in that position now.”
Garet leaned back in his seat and studied the three men before him. “Knowing Joyhinia, I find that easy enough to believe, but how long do you think you can get away with this? The First Sister’s absence from the Citadel is causing a great deal of unrest. And the orders she’s sending are too strange to be accepted without question. You’ve pardoned Tarja. You’ve ordered an end to the Purge and freed half the prisoners in the Grimfield. You’ve ordered troops north. You’re spending money like the treasury is a bottomless pit and you’ve signed a treaty with a Hythrun Warlord. Joyhinia would never be a willing party to any of these actions.”
“The next Gathering is only months away,” Tarja pointed out. “Joyhinia will send a letter to the Quorum announcing her retirement and nominating Mahina in her place. With her vote, and the votes of Jacomina and Louhina, who will automatically vote for anything Joyhinia suggests, we should be safe.”
Garet shook his head. “It will never work, Tarja.”
“It has to work,” he insisted. “The alternative is a civil war, and that would leave us wide open to a Karien invasion.”
“We’re not trying to bring down the Sisterhood, Garet,” Jenga added, a little defensively. “Merely bring some sanity to it.”
“Sanity? That’s a strange word coming from men who think they can fool the world into believing that Joyhinia Tenragan is alive and well, when in fact she’s a babbling idiot.”
Damin listened to the discussion with interest. He was a Warlord and therefore absolute ruler of his province. He never had to justify anything he did to anybody, and it fascinated him, watching the Medalonians trying to convince themselves and each other that their actions were either honourable or necessary, or both.
“The fact is, my friends, you can argue the rights and wrongs of this until you’re old men,” he interjected. “What I’d really like to know is what you are planning to do about it, Commandant?”
Garet Warner looked up at him. “I have two choices that I can see. I can go along with this farce, or I can return to the Citadel and tell the Quorum what’s really going on up here.”
“No, you have one choice, Commandant. You can go along with this farce, or I’ll kill you.”
“Damin!”
“Be realistic, Tarja. If you let him go, he’ll be back here in a month with a full force of Defenders, and you’ll have the very civil war you’re trying so hard to avoid. Killing one Defender now may save you from having to kill a damn sight more of them later on. I’ll do it, if it bothers you.”
Garet stared at the Warlord for a moment. “A pragmatist, I see. Not a quality I expected to find in a heathen who believes in the Primal gods.”
“Then you sorely underestimate me, Commandant,” Damin warned.