do you want to know that?”
When Tarja did not answer, she shrugged, as if too tired to argue with him.
“They’re orphans, mostly. Their parents were accused of being heathens, or worse. Some were sentenced to the Grimfield or killed by Defenders. Not fighting, mind you, simply trying to save their homes from wanton destruction. I would ask that you tread carefully here, Captain. Most of these children associate that uniform with death.”
Tarja and Davydd followed the woman into the remains of the great hall, stepping carefully over the crumbling masonry. It had been a large hall once, but the roof had caved in and only the far end offered any shelter. Several children huddled around a small fire in a hearth so grand that he could have almost stood upright inside it. The children looked up at their approach, shying away from the Defenders.
“Don’t worry, my dears,” the woman assured the children with forced cheerfulness. “I’ll not let the red men harm you.”
“If it would be easier for you, we can stay outside,” Tarja offered, looking at the children with concern. One of them, a small girl of about five, was racked with painful coughs that made Tarja wince just to hear her.
“They’ll learn soon enough that there is no avoiding your kind, even in this remote place,” the woman replied with a shrug. “Perhaps if you leave without killing anyone or destroying anything, they may learn to hate the Defenders a little less.” She met Tarja’s gaze defiantly, but he refused to rise to her provocation.
“Why bring them out here?” he asked. “You can’t hope to survive the winter in such a place.”
“Where else do I take them, Captain... what’s your name?”
“Tenragan. Tarja Tenragan.”
The woman stared at him, her face suddenly pale, then turned on her heel and walked out of the hall. With a curious glance at each other, they hurried after her. She strode purposefully toward the trooper who was dividing the supplies.
“Don’t bother with that, soldier. I’ll not be needing any help from you, after all.” The man glanced at Tarja with a puzzled expression as the woman rounded on the two officers. “Take your provisions and leave, Captain. You are not welcome here.”
Understanding suddenly dawned on Tarja. “You know Joyhinia.”
The woman planted her hands on her hips. “You’re her son, aren’t you? I remember seeing you around the Citadel when you were a boy.”
Tarja was not surprised to learn that this woman had lived in the Citadel. Her accent betrayed her education. He nodded slowly, curious to learn what had turned her from the Sisterhood and what his mother had done to provoke such a reaction.
“Is my ancestry so abhorrent to you, that you would refuse my help?”
“Ever heard of a village called Haven, Captain?” she retorted bitterly.
“It’s a village in the Sanctuary Mountains, southwest of Testra,” Davydd said. He had a good grasp of geography as well as heathen customs it seemed.
“It
“Why?” Tarja asked in astonishment.
“You don’t know?”
“Should I?”
“She burned it to keep a secret, Captain. She burned it to cover her tracks and bury her lies.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Looks like she succeeded too, by the expression on your face. Have you no inkling?”
Tarja shook his head, glancing at Davydd, but the young man looked as puzzled as he was.
The woman glanced longingly at the supplies and then sighed. “I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. Nor should I let my anger get in the way of these children having a decent meal. I will take the provisions you offer, Captain. It makes up, in some small measure, for the actions of your mother.”
“You’re welcome to anything we have,” Tarja assured her, “but I want to know why... What possible reason could Joyhinia have for burning a village in the Sanctuary Mountains?”
She studied him closely for a moment, as if debating how much she should tell him, then she shrugged. “I suppose you have as much right to know as anyone. Come, let’s get out of this wind and I’ll tell you the whole story.”
They went inside the crumbling great hall and sat on the floor near the hearth. The fire gave little warmth, but Tarja barely noticed.
“Nineteen years ago, your mother was posted to Testra, just as I was, to administer the town and the surrounding villages. It’s what they train us for, you know. The Sisters of the Blade are the best-trained bureaucrats in the world.”
Bereth, that was the woman’s name, had shooed the children out to do their chores and help bring in the supplies that the Defenders had offered to leave them. The only child left was the little girl with the painful cough. She crawled into Bereth’s lap and stared at the Defenders with wide, frightened eyes.
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 rumored 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, rumor had it. She called the child Rochelle, or something like that.”
“R’shiel,” Tarja corrected softly, afraid that if he spoke too loudly, Bereth would not 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 learned 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 learned 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
