chapter 24
R’shiel had been raised to believe that tears were a sign of weakness. She had not cried as a child. Not when she was whipped for being defiant. She never shed a tear when Joyhinia had her pony put down after she caught R’shiel trying to run away rather than join the Novices when she was twelve. She did not cry over anything, not even when Georj was killed. But as she fled Tarja in the darkness, tears she had bottled up for years burst forth, determined to undo her.
She ran blindly through the vineyard for a time, until she reached the marshy ground on the edge of the river. Sinking to her knees on the damp ground, she sobbed like a child. The worst of it was that she didn’t even know why she was crying. It could not have been the argument – she and Tarja had so many these days. And it wasn’t because he kissed her. She had long ago stopped thinking of him as her brother and was envious enough of Mandah to recognize jealousy when she felt it. Perhaps it was because he didn’t want to kiss her, that he had done it against his better judgment. His expression when he finally let her go was enough to tell her that he regretted it. “Why are you crying?”
R’shiel had turned at the voice, startled to find a little girl watching her curiously. The child had bare feet and wore a flimsy shift, yet she appeared unperturbed by the cool night. R’shiel had not seen the girl before. No doubt she belonged to one of the many heathen families who sought refuge at the vineyard. R’shiel’s instinctive reaction to snap at the child and send her on her way suddenly dissipated as the child stepped closer.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, wiping her eyes.
“Is it because you fought with Tarja?” the child asked.
“How do you know I fought with Tarja?”
“You don’t have to worry about him,” the child assured her. “He loves you. He’ll only ever love you. Kalianah has made sure of that.”
“Your legendary Goddess of Love? I don’t think so. And anyway, how would you know?” R’shiel couldn’t understand why she was bothering with this child. She should just order her back to the house. It must be well past her bedtime.
“I am named for the goddess,” the child said. “She and I are very... close.”
“Well, next time you see her, tell her to mind her own damned business,” R’shiel said, climbing to her feet and wringing out her sodden skirts. She wiped away the last of her tears and sniffed inelegantly.
“I know why you’re crying.”
“Really?”
“It’s because Tarja’s mad at you.”
“Mad at me?” she scoffed. “He thinks I’m a monster.”
“Why?”
R’shiel looked at the child irritably. “Because he thinks I’m just in this to get back at Joyhinia!”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I’m your friend,” the little girl told her. “And I think you need to get over Joyhinia. You’ve much more important things to do.”
“You don’t know anything about me, you impudent little brat! Go back to your family. You shouldn’t be out this late anyway!”
The child looked rather put out. “Nobody has ever called me a brat before!”
“Well, it won’t be the last time, I’ll wager. Now, go away and leave me alone!” R’shiel turned her back on the child and stared out over the black surface of the Glass River.
“You’re the spoilt brat,” the child retorted loftily. “You’ve spent your whole life as a privileged member of a ruling class, and now you want to punish them for making you suffer. If you want my opinion, you’ve got a chip on your shoulder the size of the Seeing Stone, and the sooner you deal with it the better. I thought if somebody loved you, you’d be much more amenable! I don’t know why I bothered!”
Startled by the child’s very unchildish outburst, R’shiel spun around, but she was alone. There was no sign of the girl. Not even footprints in the soft ground. There was nothing but a small acorn tied with white feathers where the child had been standing. R’shiel picked up the amulet and studied it for a moment before hurling it into the dark waters of the Glass River.
More than six weeks later, as the white spires of the Citadel loomed in the distance, R’shiel was still wondering what the child had meant.
She had been right about one thing, though, and so had Tarja. Her anger was directed at Joyhinia, and until she dealt with it, it would fester like a gangrenous wound, eating away at her until nothing was left but a hard bitter shell. So she had gone back to the cellars, gathered her few meager belongings, and set out on foot for Testra. She had told no one of her intentions. She did not want to explain herself to Tarja, and she doubted if anybody else really cared.
On reaching Testra, R’shiel traded her silver hand mirror for passage on the ferry to Vanahiem on the other side of the river and began heading on foot to the Citadel. During her second day on the road she was fortunate enough to hitch a lift with a stout couple from Vanahiem delivering furniture for their newly married son in Reddingdale. Their names were Holdarn and Preena Carpenter. She told them she was a Probate on her way back to the Citadel after her mother had died in the Mountains. It was barely even a lie. The couple had been so considerate, so solicitous of her comfort, that she almost regretted her deception. When they reached Reddingdale, Holdarn paid for passage on a freight barge to Brodenvale for her, claiming a Probate should not have to walk all that way. R’shiel tried to refuse their generosity, but they would hear nothing of it. So she had reached Brodenvale far sooner than she expected, and from there undertook the relatively short overland trek to the Citadel.
The road was busy, filled with oxen-drawn wagons, Defenders on horseback, farmers pulling handcarts laden with vegetables, and people either heading for, or away from, the Citadel on business R’shiel did not care about. She did worry that somebody might recognize her. Although it was unlikely she was known to any of the enlisted men, there were many officers in the Defenders who knew her by sight. Fortunately, the weather was cool, and her simple homespun cloak had a deep hood that shadowed her face. She stooped a little as she pushed through the gate, but the Defenders ignored her. A lone woman was hardly worthy of notice, amid the traffic heading into the Citadel.
That hurdle successfully negotiated, she breathed a sigh of relief, although she still had no clear idea of what she planned to do. Her impulsive decision to confront the source of her anger and pain had not really manifested itself in a plan of action. There were ten thousand things she wanted to say to Joyhinia, but she could hardly just walk up the steps of the Great Hall and announce herself. Nor was there anybody in the Citadel she really trusted not to betray her presence. Certainly none of her former roommates in the Dormitories. She was sure of only one thing: that she would be arrested on sight if she was recognized. That fact presented a dilemma she had still not resolved, even after six weeks of considering the problem.
R’shiel walked toward the center of the city, head bowed, looking neither right nor left for fear of meeting a familiar eye. Consequently, she did not at first notice the crowd gathering on the roadside. It was hearing Tarja’s name that finally alerted her. It rippled through the street like a whisper of excitement. She was caught up in the crowd as she neared the Great Hall and found herself well placed to watch the progress of the small army that escorted Tarja to justice.
And a small army it was. There must have been two hundred Defenders in their smart, silver-buttoned short red jackets, all mounted on sturdy, broad-chested horses. Tarja rode at the center of his escort, his mount on a lead rein, his hands tied behind his back.
Her mouth went dry as she watched him. R’shiel felt no pleasure in discovering that she had been right regarding the meeting with Draco. She had known it would be a trap. Tarja probably knew it, too. He sat tall in the saddle, but his dark hair was unkempt among his closely cropped guard. He had been beaten, that much was obvious, but that he was still alive at all was a feat in itself. He was dressed in leather breeches and a bloodstained white shirt. He was the stuff rebel heroes were made of, she thought with a despairing shake of her head, despite
