Of course demanding warrants and quoting the law did not stop the Defenders, it merely slowed them down a little. It was obvious where the information had come from, but while annoying, it was hardly a reason to be concerned. It simply meant the Defenders had to act within the law. Their staunch determination to do so annoyed Joyhinia intensely. Her answer was to present Lord Jenga with a list of officers she wanted transferred and others she wanted promoted. If the officers in the Corps did not suit her, she would fill their ranks with men who did. No First Sister had ever interfered so directly with the Defenders before.
It was common knowledge that Jenga was counseling an end to the Purge. By the end of summer news came that Joyhinia considered the Lord Defender’s objections proof of his attempts to undermine her authority. She had dismissed his recommendations out of hand and threatened to have him removed if he continued to defy her.
Not long after that, the desertions started.
Never, in its entire history, had the Defenders suffered more than the odd misfit deserting from his unit. Until Tarja, no
Joyhinia’s response was as predictable as it was callous. News arrived soon after that she had issued an order decreeing that for every deserter, one of his brothers-in-arms would be hanged in his place. The desertions stopped overnight. Nobody thought Joyhinia was bluffing. The blow to the morale of the Defenders was enormous.
But enough men had joined the rebellion, moving it from an embarrassing nuisance to a real threat. Disorganized heathens brandishing pitchforks was one thing, but when well-trained, battle-hardened former Defenders joined the fray, the conflict became deadly. Every day it dragged on, the rebellion became less and less about the heathens and more about the Sisterhood.
There was one bright spot, Brak thought. A rumor had surfaced recently claiming Tarja was the demon child, sent by the long-dead Harshini to liberate the pagans from the Sisterhood. Tarja had been unimpressed when he heard it, and R’shiel had laughed at the notion, but more than a few rebels had looked at him speculatively. Some even ventured to call him Divine One, which caused Tarja to explode. Brak found the whole idea quite amusing, which for some reason made Tarja distrust him even more. Still, Brak could not help but wonder what Joyhinia Tenragan’s reaction would be on hearing the news. Being known as the mother of a Divine One was not a situation a First Sister would welcome.
The rebels had set up their headquarters in a deserted vineyard, abandoned by its owners after one too many spring floods had drowned the struggling vines. They made the farm their headquarters for several reasons. It was close to the Glass River, the lifeblood of Medalon. It was south of Testra, the largest town in central Medalon, but far enough away from it that they were not in danger of accidental discovery, and it was easily defensible against an attack. From here Tarja trained his fledgling army, assisted by the wave of deserters who had joined him in the spring. Of course there were no deserters now – not since Joyhinia had threatened to hang those left behind – but there were enough to make a difference. However, thought Brak, without a lot more resources and men, the best they could hope to do was merely annoy Joyhinia.
R’shiel disagreed. She was the one who constantly urged taking the offensive. And the bellicose young men in their group, like Ghari and his friends, lapped up her rhetoric. There had been several near-disastrous raids, unauthorized by Tarja, that R’shiel had been involved in, either directly or indirectly. When he first met them, Brak had thought Tarja and his sister were close, but they fought more often than not these days. Tarja counseled caution, while R’shiel advocated aggression. Given the chance, Brak thought she might try to tear down the Citadel, stone by stone, with her bare hands. R’shiel’s smoldering rage made him wonder what had been done to the girl to cause such resentment. Today’s argument had merely reinforced his opinion that she was dangerous.
Several rebels had been captured in a raid on a farm north of Testra and had unaccountably been released within hours. When they returned to the vineyard this morning, they carried a message addressed to Tarja in Joyhinia Tenragan’s own hand. The note was short and to the point.
The note reeked of duplicity. Had Joyhinia sent Jenga, Tarja argued, he may have been less concerned, but Draco was the First Sister’s tool. He had served three of them and never given one of them a moment’s pause.
The rebels were ecstatic at the news. This was the proof they needed that their resistance was having an effect. Tarja argued against believing anything that came from Joyhinia until his throat was raw, and R’shiel agreed with him, for her own reasons. The rebellion had been a coherent force for less than a year. They were not yet strong or numerous enough to make a real impression. A few slogans splashed on walls and a handful of lucky skirmishes did not constitute a significant threat to the Sisterhood, Tarja tried to explain. The rebels argued otherwise. They listed their victories. They insisted that Joyhinia was under pressure from the Quorum to end the Purge.
Tarja had finally won a minor victory by insisting he be allowed to attend the meeting alone, although Ghari and several of his companions planned to enter Testra a day early to ensure the way was clear. Brak had volunteered to accompany him and bear witness to the negotiations, out of curiosity more than anything else. Tarja was not given a choice in the matter.
Since making the decision, the rebels had been in a buoyant mood. Some were talking about going home. Others dreamed of seeing lost family sentenced to the Grimfield. Their confidence was premature, and nothing Tarja said made an impression on them. They were not fighters at heart. They could not see that their optimism was misplaced. All most of them wanted was to be left in peace to worship their gods and reminisce about the old days, when the Harshini roamed the land with their demons and their sorcerer-bred horses. Brak sympathized with the rebels, but he could see Tarja’s point.
The meeting was still in progress in the vast cellars beneath the rundown farmhouse. Brak had excused himself, pleading the need for fresh air. In truth, he escaped to avoid listening to R’shiel speak. Tarja advised caution for sound tactical reasons, but R’shiel wanted this conflict to continue. Her anger still had a lot of fuel to burn, and she was not ready to quit the fight. The girl had a gift for saying exactly what the rebels wanted to hear, particularly the young, belligerent ones. Brak wondered if there would ever be an end to it. She seemed to have enough hostility to last a lifetime.
Brak walked away from the darkened farmhouse, between long lines of withered vines, pondering the problem. The note from Joyhinia was a trap, perhaps, but the real danger to these rebels came from within. Tarja was smart enough to see the problem; Brak did not worry about him. In fact, despite Tarja’s obvious distrust, he quite liked the man. R’shiel, however, could best help the rebels by getting herself killed in the next available skirmish.
“Why so miserable, Brakandaran?”
He started at the voice and looked around. The night was dark, the air still and cool. He felt the presence of the goddess but could not see her.
“Kalianah?”
“You do remember me!” The figure of a small child appeared between the wilted vines. She had a cloud of fair hair and wore a pale flimsy shift that rippled in the still air with every move she made. Her feet were bare and hovering just above the ground. “I told the others that just because you hadn’t spoken to us for so long, it didn’t mean you’d forgotten us.”
“How could I forget you, Kalianah?” he asked. As the Goddess of Love glided toward him, he could feel her power radiating from her like a cheery fire on a cold night. She was hard to resist in this form.
“That’s what I told Zegarnald,” she agreed, settling on the ground in front of him. She looked up with wide eyes and frowned. “You are too tall, Brakandaran. Come down here.”
“Why don’t you just make yourself taller?” he suggested. Kalianah could chose any form she liked, but she often appeared as a child. Everybody loved children.
“Because I’m a god and you’re a mortal,” she told him. “I get to make the rules.”
He squatted down to face her, resisting her efforts to overwhelm him with her essence. “What do you want, Kalianah?”
“I want to know what’s taking you so long,” she said. “Well, no, that’s not true. I just want you to love me.
