Tarja found himself once again forced to reassess his opinion of Brak. Nobody else had supported him when he warned that the meeting today in Testra was more likely to be a trap than a true chance at a resolution of the conflict – no one except R’shiel, who cared more about the rebellion continuing than finding a chance to end it. Even the Defenders who had deserted the Corps to join him seemed to think it was a genuine chance to end the conflict. Perhaps they were just beginning to regret their decision. Living with a price on your head was not easy, as Tarja could readily attest to.
“I wish others shared your opinion,” Tarja said, with a meaningful glance at Mandah. The young woman looked at them both and frowned.
“We have gone over this again and again,” she reminded them. “It might be a trap, but it might be a genuine offer of peace. We cannot ignore it. The Sisterhood recognizes the threat we pose and wants to talk. If we can negotiate an end to the Purge and religious freedom for our people, then the fighting can stop. I thought that’s what you wanted, Tarja?”
“Of course it’s what I want,” he said, exasperated by the argument that had been going on for over a week.
“The gods will be with you both,” she assured them with quiet confidence. “It will not be long now, before this is over.”
Tarja glanced at Brak, who seemed to share his skepticism. He stood back and let Mandah pass, then turned to Tarja.
“You know this is a trap, don’t you?”
Tarja nodded. “I’m almost certain of it.”
“Then why are you going?” Brak asked.
Tarja glanced at the retreating figure of the young woman and shrugged. “Because there is a remote chance that it’s not,” he said. “Joyhinia might genuinely want this to end without costing any more lives.”
Brak shook his head doubtfully. “I’ve been away from Medalon for quite a while, son, but I remember the last Purge. This is no rout of a few heathens. This is systematic extermination.”
“All the more reason to end it,” Tarja pointed out wearily.
“Well, you know Joyhinia better than anyone, I suppose,” he said. “But I suspect you may live to regret this.”
“Living through it at all will be a good start.”
Brak shook his head at Tarja’s flippant reply and turned away, walking back toward the farmhouse with long, graceful strides. He stopped after a few paces and looked back over his shoulder.
“By the way, have you seen R’shiel anywhere?”
“No.” He had not seen her for days, not since the night outside the farmhouse when their argument turned into something much too uncomfortable and confusing to dwell on. He assumed she was avoiding him, not a difficult thing to accomplish in the large network of cellars under the house. He wondered what Brak wanted with her. The sailor saw through R’shiel easily and normally paid her little attention. “Why?”
“I was just curious. I’ll ask Ghari. He might know where she is.”
“Ghari left last night for Testra,” Tarja reminded him. “You don’t think she went with them, do you?”
“The gods help us if she has,” Brak muttered. “Still, it’s not that important. No doubt she’ll turn up.”
“No doubt,” he agreed, a little concerned at Brak’s sudden interest in R’shiel, and more than a little concerned that R’shiel might be missing. As he followed him to the house, another uncomfortable thought occurred to Tarja.
Brak claimed to remember the last Purge.
The last Purge the Sisterhood had launched against the heathens was during the reign of First Sister Brettan almost one hundred and twenty years ago.
chapter 22
Tarja and Brak rode in silence toward Testra, timing their arrival for around two hours before noon. Tarja wanted to scout the area before meeting with Draco. He might be walking into a trap, but he wasn’t planning to walk in blindly. Brak rode beside him along the sunlight-dappled road with the ease of one raised in the saddle, a fact that merely added to Tarja’s concern about him. By all accounts the man was a sailor. Sailors didn’t ride so well. Most sailors didn’t ride at all, treating horses with a sort of awed animosity. It was another piece of the puzzle that was Brak.
“You ride well for a sailor,” he remarked. The wind had picked up, and a chill breeze tugged at Tarja’s cloak. The bright sunlight was deceptive, with little warmth in it.
Brak glanced at him and shrugged. “I’ve not always been a sailor.”
Tarja hardly expected anything more enlightening, but the man’s answer annoyed him, nonetheless.
“You came from Hythria recently, didn’t you?” he asked, deciding he was going to find out something about this man before they got to Testra. His life might depend on him before the day was out. He wanted to know what sort of man was watching his back.
“Yes,” was Brak’s unhelpful reply.
“What were you doing there?” He hoped he sounded as if he was just making conversation, but he suspected Brak knew what he was after, when the older man suddenly smiled.
“I was advising the Sorcerer’s Collective on matters of policy,” he said.
Tarja felt a little foolish for being so transparent. “I deserved, that, I suppose. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Yes, you did. You’re burning up with curiosity about me. I’ll tell you if you like. Which version do you want, the one that sounds plausible or the truth?”
Tarja glanced at the older man, wondering at his question. “Is there a difference?”
“A vast one,” Brak told him. “I doubt if you’d believe the truth, though. The plausible explanation is far easier to live with. Particularly for a man with your prejudices.”
Thoroughly bewildered now and rather sorry he had ever broached the subject, Tarja frowned. “If you’ve nothing to hide, what need for anything other than the truth?”
“What need, indeed?” Brak agreed.
Tarja could feel his patience wearing thin. “If you’ve no wish to tell me about yourself, then don’t,” he snapped. “I’m only concerned that you are who you claim you are.”
“Then I give you my word that I am,” Brak replied.
The silence was strained after that. Tarja kicked his horse forward a few paces, angry at himself for losing patience so easily as much as Brak’s reticence. He didn’t trust the man, and their conversation had done little to ease his mind. Brak had joined them so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that it was hard to credit he had any abiding belief in their cause. He professed to be a pagan, yet his attitude to the gods that the pagans held in such high esteem was almost contempt.
And now he was riding into an almost certain trap with Brak at his side. It was no wonder he was feeling uneasy, he told himself.
After letting Tarja brood for a few moments, Brak caught up with him. “I left Medalon a long time ago, Tarja,” he said, as if there had been no break in their conversation. “I did something that meant I couldn’t return to my family. Don’t ask what it was, because I won’t tell you. I’ve roamed the world ever since. I’ve spent time in Fardohnya working in the diamond mines, even in Karien as a wagon driver, although no one in his right mind spends long in that country without being seen to convert to the Overlord. For the past few years I’ve been working a fishing boat in the Dregian Ocean south of Hythria.”
“What made you come back?” Tarja asked.
“My family asked me to do something for them. I have to find someone very important to them who is lost,” Brak told him carefully.
“Yet you joined us,” Tarja pointed out. “Shouldn’t you be looking for this lost soul? Or do you expect to find him in our ranks?”
Brak was silent for so long, Tarja thought he was not going to answer the question.
