had been scheming and plotting for as long as he had known her, and even he was not immune to her machinations.
His brother had been gone from the Citadel these past twenty-three years, his crime forgotten. Dayan had hardly distinguished himself on the southern border, but he had kept out of trouble. Joyhinia remembered Dayan, though. The woman standing on Joyhinia’s left, Jacomina Larosse, the Mistress of Enlightenment, had her position because Joyhinia delighted in reminding Jenga that her testimony would see his brother hanged. The fact that Dayan had been little more than a foolish Cadet at the time and Jacomina a frivolous Probate, did not lessen his crime. Rape was a capital offense and Jacomina’s silence was the result of Joyhinia’s intervention. For that he had turned a blind eye to a great deal, and he did not want a man of Garet Warner’s piercing intellect investigating anything about Joyhinia, if he could avoid it.
He had refused Garet permission and been content with his decision, but since Nork had thundered into the Citadel on a horse that was almost foundered, Jenga wondered if he had done the right thing. Was Joyhinia up to something more serious than usual? Did it have anything to do with the sudden return of the Envoy? And where was he? Where was Tarja?
For all that he loathed Joyhinia and despaired of the hold she had over him, her unwanted son held a special place in Jenga’s affection. His mother had placed him in the Cadets at the tender age of ten – the youngest boy Jenga had ever accepted as a Cadet – and then only because Trayla had ordered him to take the boy in. Despite his misgivings about the boy’s ability to cope, Tarja had thrived away from his mother. If anything, Jenga suspected he had excelled to ensure that he was in no danger of being returned to her care. As an adult, Tarja was one of a handful of men whom Jenga trusted implicitly and among the even smaller number of men whom Jenga counted as a friend. He had missed Tarja sorely, when Trayla banished him to the southern border, although he had considered the young man lucky to escape the First Sister’s wrath so lightly. One did not insult the First Sister so publicly and expect to get away with it, no matter how much even Jenga had silently agreed with Tarja’s blunt and extremely tactless assessment of her character.
“Shall we join the people for lunch, my Lord?”
Jenga started a little at Mahina’s question, rather surprised to see the last float slowly disappearing around the corner of the huge Library building across the street. The crowd flowed into the street in the wake of the wagon, heading for the amphitheater and the banquet laid out for the citizens of the Citadel. For the next few hours the First Sister and the Quorum would mingle with the people as they partook of the bounty of the Sisterhood, until the amphitheater was cleared at sundown to allow the annual Gathering to take place.
“Of course, your Grace,” Jenga replied with a bow. He offered the First Sister his arm, and together they walked down the steps of the Great Hall, followed by the other dignitaries. As he turned, he caught sight of Joyhinia, muttering something to R’shiel. The girl had changed somewhat since her illness, he thought with concern. She seemed even taller than he remembered, her skin touched by an unfashionable golden tan, her once-violet eyes now almost black. The overall effect was one of strangeness, giving her an almost alien mien, and he found himself wondering again at her parentage. Who had really fathered Joyhinia’s child? No Medalonian, that was for certain. Had Joyhinia found herself a Fardohnyan paramour? They tended toward the same swarthy complexion. Or perhaps a Hythrun lover, although they were fairer than their Fardohnyan cousins. But the long-standing mystery of R’shiel’s paternity seemed unimportant at this moment. Joyhinia looked annoyed. Had R’shiel said something to upset her mother, or was Joyhinia’s concern the same as his, but for different reasons?
Jenga escorted the First Sister into the street and the cheerful, happy crowd. He saw Joyhinia glancing back down the street in the direction the parade had come from, toward the main gate, her expression for a moment unguarded. She was expecting something, he knew with certainty, feeling decidedly uneasy.
The sandy floor of the Arena had been set up with trestles laden with food for the celebrations. The people of the Citadel and the outlying villages, from as far away as Brodenvale and Testra, milled about the tables, loading wooden platters with slices of rare beef, minted lamb, fresh corn, potatoes roasted in their jackets, and wedges of fresh bread that had kept the bakers’ guild busy since early this morning. Jenga moved among the crowd, nodding to a familiar face here and there, keeping an eye on the men assigned to ensure that the food was distributed as evenly as possible in this chaos. Generally, once the citizens had their food, they moved up into the tiered seating around the amphitheater, more to avoid being trampled than for comfort. Still, it was early afternoon before the crowd in the Arena began to thin noticeably.
Jenga was on the verge of deciding he could risk trying to get a meal without being crushed when he spied Garet Warner striding purposefully toward him. He had not seen the Commandant all day and wondered where he had been. Even command of the Defenders’ Intelligence Corps did not exempt one from the Founders’ Day Parade, although Garet undoubtedly had a perfectly good excuse. As he did Tarja, Jenga trusted the man implicitly, but although he respected him, he would hesitate to call him a friend.
“Nice of you to join us, Commandant,” Jenga remarked dryly as Garet reached him. “Not keeping you from something important, are we?”
Garet did not even smile. “Actually, you are. Can you get away from here without attracting notice?”
“Whose notice in particular?” Jenga asked.
“Joyhinia Tenragan’s,” Garet replied.
Jenga frowned. “I specifically ordered you not to involve yourself in matters concerning the Sisterhood, Commandant.”
Garet did not flinch from Jenga’s disapproving gaze.
“Tarja’s back.”
Jenga had to force himself not to run.
Tarja’s disheveled appearance was in stark contrast to the parade-ground smartness of the rest of the Citadel’s Defenders. He was waiting in Jenga’s office, standing by the window looking out over the deserted parade ground behind the Defenders’ Building, with a young, brown-eyed lieutenant in an equally unkempt condition. Both men looked exhausted.
“Is the Envoy with you?” Jenga asked, without preamble.
Tarja nodded. “I had him taken to the guest apartments with his priest.”
“His priest?” Jenga asked in surprise. Lord Pieter rarely traveled with a priest. It inhibited his enjoyment of life outside of Karien far too much. “What’s he doing here? Why has he come back?”
“The Karien Envoy is here to denounce Mahina. He and Joyhinia have made some sort of pact.”
Jenga sank heavily into his leather-bound chair. “What does she hope to gain from such a display?”
“The First Sister’s mantle, probably,” Tarja said wearily. “But it gets worse. Joyhinia has agreed to let him have R’shiel in return for his support. According to Pieter, the Overlord spoke to the priest and told him to take R’shiel back to Karien.”
Jenga made no attempt to hide his shock. “That’s absurd! Surely you’re mistaken? Not even Joyhinia would stoop so low!”
“How little you know my mother,” Tarja muttered. “But it’s a little easier to comprehend when you realize that R’shiel is not her daughter. Or yours, for that matter.”
“I can assure you, I have always known she was not my child,” he said grimly. “Anyway, what do you mean – not daughter?”
Tarja folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the window. “You tell him, Lieutenant.”
With remarkable composure, the lieutenant related the tale of their meeting with Bereth and the orphans, although he omitted any reference to Bereth’s conversion to heathen worship. Jenga listened with growing concern as the young man told him of the fate of Haven. He spared Garet a glance, but the Commandant had heard the tale already, and his expression betrayed no emotion. Tarja stared out of the window at some indeterminate point, almost as if he wasn’t interested. When the lieutenant finished his report, Jenga sagged back in his chair, not sure where to start.
“Why would she pretend the child is hers?” he asked finally, of nobody in particular.
Tarja glanced at him, as if he should already know the answer. “The only child she gave birth to was inconveniently male. Joyhinia wants a dynasty. For that she needs a daughter. Acquiring somebody else’s child is a
