“I don’t think, Captain,” Jenga told him stiffly. “And neither should you.” He frowned, daring the younger man to laugh at his rather asinine comment. “I am sure First Sister Mahina will be a wise and fair leader.”
R’shiel saw through his polite words. Jenga was obviously delighted by Mahina’s appointment. That augured well for what she had in mind.
“The expression ‘about bloody time’ leaps to mind, actually,” Nheal remarked, almost too softly for R’shiel to make it out.
“Don’t overstep yourself, Captain,” Jenga warned. “It is not your place to comment on the decisions of the Sisterhood. And you might like to tell your brother captains not to overindulge in the taverns tonight. Remember, until tomorrow, we are still in mourning.”
Jenga turned from the pile of embers and noticed R’shiel for the first time. As day broke fully over the amphitheater, bringing with it a hint of the summer heat to come, he walked stiffly toward the exit tunnel where she was standing.
“Lord Jenga?” she ventured as he approached.
“Shouldn’t you return to your quarters, R’shiel?” Jenga asked gruffly.
“I wanted to ask you something.”
Jenga glanced over his shoulder to ensure his orders were being carried out, then nodded. R’shiel fell into step beside him as they entered the cool darkness of the tunnel that led under the amphitheater.
“What will happen now, Lord Jenga?”
“The appointment of a new First Sister always heralds a change of direction, R’shiel, even if only a small one.”
“Mother says Trayla was an unimaginative leader, lacking in initiative. Actually, she used to refer to her as ‘that useless southern cow.’ ”
“You, of all people, should know better than to repeat that sort of gossip, R’shiel.”
She smiled faintly at his tone. “And what about Mahina? Joyhinia calls her an idealistic fool.”
“Sister Mahina has my respect, as do all the Sisters of the Blade.”
“Do you think her elevation means a change in the thinking of the Sisterhood?”
The Lord Defender stopped and looked at her, obviously annoyed by her question. “R’shiel, you said you wanted to ask me something. Ask it or leave. I do not want to stand here discussing politics and idle gossip with you.”
“I want to know what happens now,” she said.
“I will be called on to witness the Spear of the First Sister swear fealty to Mahina. It will undoubtedly be Lord Draco.”
“He’s supposed to be the First Sister’s bodyguard,” R’shiel pointed out. “Yet Trayla died at the hand of an assassin.”
“The position of First Spear is a very difficult one to fill – the oath of celibacy it requires tends to discourage many applicants.”
“So he gets to keep his job? Even though he did not do it?”
Jenga’s patience was rapidly fading. “Draco was absent at the time, R’shiel. Trayla fancied she was able to deal with a miserable pagan youth and ordered him out of the office. Now, is that all you wanted?”
“No. I was just curious, that’s all.”
“Then be specific, child. I have other business to attend to. I have an assassin to hang, letters to write, and orders to issue...”
“And banished officers who offended Trayla to recall?” she suggested hopefully.
Jenga shook his head. “I can’t revoke the First Sister’s orders, R’shiel.”
“The First Sister is dead.”
“That doesn’t mean I can rearrange the world to my liking.”
“But it does mean you can rearrange the Defenders,” R’shiel reminded him. She turned on her best, winning smile. “Please, Lord Jenga. Bring Tarja home.”
chapter 2
Tarja Tenragan lay stretched out on the damp ground, looking out over the vast empty plain before him. The earth smelled fresh from the morning rain and the teasing scent of pollen from the myriad wild flowers tickled his nose, daring him to sneeze. Nothing but the distant call of a hawk, lazily riding the thermals, disturbed the early afternoon. The rain had increased the humidity but done nothing to relieve the heat. Sweat dampened the linen shirt under his soft leather jerkin and trickled annoyingly down his spine.
The border between Medalon and Hythria lay ahead. It was unmarked – merely a shallow ford across a rocky, nameless waterway that everyone, Medalonian and Hythrun alike, simply referred to as the Border Stream. Tarja listened with quiet concentration. After four years playing this game he knew that out there, somewhere, was a Hythrun raiding party.
Suddenly, the silence was disturbed. He looked over his shoulder as Gawn marched purposefully toward him, his smart red coat stark against the brown landscape.
“I told you to get rid of that damned coat!” he hissed.
“I am proud of my uniform, Captain. I am a Defender. I do not skulk through the grasslands in fear of barbarians.”
“You do if you plan to survive out here,” Tarja told him irritably. His own jacket was tucked safely away in his saddlebag, as were the red coats of all his men. He was wearing an old shirt and comfortably broken-in leather trousers and jerkin. Hardly the attire for a ball at the Citadel but infinitely preferable to being shot by a Hythrun arrow. Tarja absently brushed away a curious beetle come to investigate his forearm and turned back to studying the ford, cursing Jenga. Gawn was only one of many stiff-necked, brand-new officers that Jenga had sent south over the last four years. He sent them to the border for combat experience. Most of them even survived. He had his doubts about Gawn, though. He had been here almost two months and was still trying to cling to the parade-ground traditions of the Citadel.
“What are we waiting for?” Gawn asked, in a voice that carried alarmingly on the soft breeze.
Tarja threw him an angry look. “What’s the date? And keep your damned voice down.”
“It’s the fourteenth day of Faberon,” Gawn replied, rather confused by the question.
“On the Hythrun calendar,” Tarja corrected.
Gawn frowned, still annoyed and rather horrified that the first task Tarja had set him to on his arrival at Bordertown was learning the heathen calendar.
“It’s the twenty-first... no, the twenty-second day of Ramafar,” Gawn replied after a moment. “But I fail to see what it—”
“I know you fail to see what it means,” Tarja interrupted. “That’s why you won’t last long out here. Two days from now it will be the twenty-fourth day of Ramafar, which is the Hythrun Feast of Jelanna, the Goddess of Fertility.”
“I’m sure the heathens appreciate the effort you put in remembering their festivals for them,” Gawn remarked stiffly.
Tarja ignored the jibe and continued his explanation. “Our esteemed southern neighbor, the Warlord of Krakandar, whose province begins on the other side of that stream, is traditionally required to throw a very large party for his subjects.”
“So?”
Tarja shook his head at the younger man’s ignorance. “Lord Wolfblade thinks that it’s far cheaper to feed the ravening hordes on nice, juicy Medalonian beef than cut into his own herds. It happens every Feast Day. That’s why you need to learn the Hythrun calendar, Gawn.”
Gawn still looked unconvinced. “But how do you know they’ll come through here? He could cross the border in any number of places.”
