avoid a well-meaning lecture, if nothing else.
As Founders’ Day drew nearer, R’shiel became aware of something else that she could not even explain to herself, let alone Sister Gwenell. It happened the first time when she was sitting by the fire, waiting for Joyhinia to come home. She had dozed off in the warmth of the room, which was stuffy and overheated. Hella had come in, fussing about something or other. R’shiel opened her eyes and glanced at the old woman, startled to discover a faint shimmering light surrounding her, fractured with pale red lines and swirling with dark colors. She blinked in surprise and the vision disappeared, but she had seen it again, on odd occasions, about other people. She could not explain it or control it and was quite certain that if she mentioned it, Gwenell would produce another evil-smelling concoction to cure her of the spells.
But even more disturbing was something so intangible that she wondered if, like the auras she imagined around people, she was just inventing it. It had begun as a gentle tugging that caught her unawares as she was about to fall asleep one evening to the muted voices of Joyhinia and Harith plotting the downfall of Mahina in the other room. It was a feeling that someone or something was waiting for her, calling to her. A feeling that there was something just out of her reach and that if only she embraced it, it would make her complete.
The notion had grown steadily stronger in the past few weeks, until R’shiel had to consciously force herself to ignore it. It made no sense. Finally, R’shiel decided that it must be the result of her inability to prevent Joyhinia’s coup. Mahina may not be ruling Medalon the way Joyhinia liked, but she did not deserve to be unseated for it. Harith was, perhaps, genuinely concerned, but Joyhinia’s power grab was entirely selfish. Jacomina simply followed along in her mother’s wake. Francil, whom R’shiel had always considered the least corruptible member of the Quorum, had sold out for the promise of immortality.
Joyhinia had, as she predicted, quickly discovered the old sister’s price. Francil wanted to remain Mistress of the Citadel until she died. She wanted to name her own successor, and she wanted her name immortalized, in recognition of her long service to the Sisterhood. R’shiel was appalled when Francil had joined the others for the Restday dinner fully prepared to support them. On Joyhinia’s elevation to First Sister, the Great Hall would be renamed Francil’s Hall, the conspirators agreed. It was no wonder, R’shiel decided, that she was feeling as if the Citadel was suddenly alien to her. The honor of the Sisterhood had proved to be a commodity that could be bought and sold as easily as fish at the Port Sha’rin markets. She asked herself the same question that Tarja had posed in the Infirmary, over and over again. She was coming to think of it as The Question.
Three days before Founders’ Day, R’shiel was in her room, lying on her stomach across the bed staring at the Harshini mural. Losing herself in the forbidden mural meant not having to answer The Question. Every day she discovered something new in the picture, whether it was a den of snow foxes filled with playful, black-eyed cubs, or the solitary, golden figure who stood on the peak of a snowcapped mountain, reaching up with hands outstretched, to speak with the thunderstorm that hovered above him. Perhaps the man on the mountain was a sorcerer or a wizard and the clouds his magic? Was the storm meant to represent the Weather God, she wondered?
Did the Harshini have a Weather God? They seemed to have gods for everything else.
“R’shiel!”
She jumped guiltily. Joyhinia glared at the mural before turning to her daughter.
“Where are the wall hangings?” she asked, irritably.
“Hella sent them to be cleaned,” R’shiel explained, hurriedly climbing to her feet.
“That was weeks ago. Hella!”
The old maid appeared at the bedroom door wiping her hands on her apron. “My Lady?”
“Find out where the wall hangings for R’shiel’s room are,” she ordered. “At once! I want them back where they belong by this evening!”
“As you wish, my Lady.” Hella turned away muttering to herself.
Joyhinia ignored the maid and turned her attention back to R’shiel. “You’re still too thin.”
“Oh, so you noticed?”
Joyhinia seemed distracted. So distracted she did not rise to the taunt. “That’s what I came to see you about. You appear to be recovered, and I see no reason for you to stay any longer. You may move back to the Dormitories today. I will send for you when I need you.”
With a sinking heart, she realized her emancipation meant that Joyhinia’s plans were so well advanced that she could do them no harm, even if she marched straight from the apartment to the First Sister’s office. “As you wish, Mother.”
Joyhinia nodded absently and glanced at the mural again. “Damned heathens. That wall makes my skin crawl.”
chapter 12
It took nearly two hours for the Founders’ Day Parade to wend its way through the streets of the Citadel to the amphitheater. The weather was perfect for the event: cool but sunny, not a cloud marring the cobalt blue sky. First Sister Mahina, her Quorum and their families, Lord Draco, and the Lord Defender watched the parade from the steps of the Great Hall. The Defender’s drum band led the parade; their crisp marching tattoo almost drowned out by the cheering spectators who lined the route five deep on either side of the street. They were followed by every Defender in the Citadel not engaged in controlling the crowd that had flocked to the Citadel for the parade.
Following the infantry, who marched ten abreast in precise unison, the cavalry appeared, their perfectly groomed horses stepping proudly on the cobbled street, bringing an even louder cheer as they rode by. Jenga’s stern expression softened a little as he took the salute, his fist over his heart. The Defenders were his life, and the sight of them, in their full dress uniforms, their red jackets pressed, silver buttons glinting in the sunlight, never failed to touch him. Mahina stood beside him and smiled at him as the cavalry passed.
“Your Defenders do us proud, my Lord,” she said. “They are
“Then they do us both proud,” she agreed graciously.
Jenga bowed to the First Sister and turned back to watch the Parade.
Following on the heels of the cavalry were the floats of the Merchant Guilds. The first was a huge wicker pig on a flower-draped wagonbed drawn by ten burly men, all dressed in matching green aprons, their thick leather belts displaying an impressive array of dangerous-looking knives. Behind the Butcher’s Guild, the Brewer’s Guild and their float appeared. If they could not be first in the parade, then they were determined to be the most popular, Jenga decided. A number of young women, dressed in barely decent white shifts, were dipping into the barrels, passing out free tankards of ale to anyone within reach. The float had collected a tail of enthusiastic youngsters, eager to take advantage of this unexpected bounty.
On the tail of the raucous throng trailing the Brewer’s Guild, the float of the Musician’s Guild trundled into view, although he heard them well before they rounded the corner. Their wagon was packed with fiddlers, harpists, and flautists, belting out a merry air as their wagon trundled past the Great Hall, the melody interrupted sporadically as tankards of ale were passed along from the Brewer’s wagon in front. The parade was entertaining, but after ten or more floats had passed by, Jenga found his mind wandering to other things.
Five days ago Corporal Nork arrived with a message from Tarja warning that the Karien Envoy was probably on his way to the Citadel. There was no good reason why the Envoy would return to the Citadel so soon or why he would discomfort himself by traveling overland to do it. The only thing he could think of was that perhaps the Envoy had a deadline to meet. If Nork’s information was correct, and he had no reason to assume that it was not, then they should have arrived days ago. Had something happened to the Envoy? Or Tarja? Had they been delayed by accident? Or by design? The worry niggled at Jenga like a toothache. Even more worrying was that Mahina was not expecting the Kariens. When Jenga had passed on Tarja’s message, Mahina had been as surprised as he was.
To further add to his woes, Garet Warner was certain that Joyhinia Tenragan was up to something and had sought permission several weeks ago to investigate the matter.
Jenga’s responsibility was the defense of Medalon. He had no charter to investigate the goings on among the Sisters of the Blade. Nor did he wish to become involved in anything that Joyhinia Tenragan was mixed up in. She
