Medalon

“Tarja?” the voice was hesitant, female, and very young.

“Who are you?” It took a moment for him to realize that the rasping voice was his.

“Oh my! What have they done to you?” she asked as she glided to his side. “You don’t look very well, at all. Does it hurt?”

“You could say that.” His mind was sluggish, but Tarja could not imagine who the child was or how she had found her way into his cell. She moved closer, and he tried to push her away, to warn her not to touch him, but the words would not come. Every movement sent black waves of agony through him.

“Shall I make you better?” the child asked.

“By all means,” he gasped.

The little girl studied him thoughtfully. “I’ll get in trouble if I do. Healing people is Cheltaran’s job. He gets really annoyed when anybody else does it. I suppose I could ask him, though. I mean, I can’t have you dying on me. Not now.”

Tarja realized that he must be dreaming. He didn’t know who the child was, but the name Cheltaran was familiar. He was the pagans’ God of Healing. Mandah had prayed to him often, so often that she placed more faith in his power than in more practical healing methods. Tarja thought it much more useful to actually do something to stop a wounded man bleeding to death than to pray over him and beg divine intervention. His mind wandered for a moment, the blackness beckoning him down with welcoming arms, but he fought to stay conscious, even though he knew he was asleep. Perhaps the pain had unhinged his mind. Why else would he try to remain awake inside a dream filled with pagan gods who were a figment of someone else’s imagination?

The child reached out gently and pushed the hair back from his forehead. He wondered how bad he looked. He knew one eye was swollen shut because he could not see out of it, and his lips felt twice their normal size. Every muscle he owned ached, every joint creaked with pain when he moved. The worst of it was that he knew none of his injuries was fatal. His interrogators wanted him alive for the gallows. They were too smart to hurt him seriously. But you could cause an amazing amount of pain without taking a life. Tarja knew that for a fact.

“Who are you?” he groaned as her cool fingers brushed his forehead.

“I’m your friend,” she said. “And you have to love me.”

“Whatever,” he said.

“Say it properly! Say ‘I love you, Kalianah,’ and you’d better mean it or I won’t help you!”

“I love you, Kalianah, and you’d better mean it or I won’t help you,” he repeated dutifully.

The child slapped him for his temerity, and he cried out with the pain. He could never remember a dream with such clarity, such detail. “You are the most impossible human! I should just leave you there to suffer! I should let you die!”

“The sooner the better. I’ll never hold a sword again. If I live, I’ll be unemployed.”

“You’re not taking this seriously!”

“I don’t have to take it seriously, I’m only dreaming,” he told her.

“Cheltaran!”

Tarja was not certain what happened next. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw another figure suddenly appear. A cool hand was laid on his forehead, and pain seared his whole body. A bolt of agony ripped through him, worse than anything he had suffered before. It was as if all his days of torture had been condensed into one moment of blinding torment. He cried out as he lost consciousness, falling into a blackness that seemed deeper and blacker than ever before.

He plunged into it helplessly, wondering if he had finally died.

chapter 26

The Blue Bull Tavern was located near the western side of the amphitheater, along with several other taverns and the licensed brothels where the Citadel’s prostitutes plied their trade for an amount set and strictly taxed by the Sisterhood. Although they frequented the Blue Bull often enough, R’shiel had little to do with the prostitutes or, as they preferred to be known, the court’esa. The word was a Fardohnyan one – in that country court’esa were men and women trained from early youth to provide pleasure for the Fardohnyan nobility. They were educated, elegant, highly sought-after professionals who, R’shiel had heard whispered among the Probates, knew six hundred and forty seven different ways to make love. The idea fascinated R’shiel. She had been raised to believe the Sisterhood’s view of prostitution. Men were carnal creatures who had no control over their lust. Better to regulate the industry and make them pay for something they would take by force if it were not readily available. But to choose a life as a court’esa, even a pampered, Fardohnyan one, struck R’shiel as being a desperate way to make a living. Particularly in Medalon, where court’esa were mostly illiterate young men and women for whom the trade was one of necessity rather than choice.

There was little love lost between the court’esa and the Probates. The prostitutes considered Probates annoying amateurs. They robbed them of their hard-earned income every time one had a dalliance with a Defender who, by rights, should be paying a court’esa for her services, not getting it free from some uppity tart in a gray tunic.

R’shiel pushed open the door to the tavern and was met by a hot wave of ale-flavored smoke. The tavern was doing a brisk trade, although this late at night the customers were only off-duty Defenders and the working court’esa. The Novices and Probates were well abed, or should have been. R’shiel received a curious glance from a number of the painted women as she stood at the door looking around. She spied Davydd Tailorson across the room, drinking with several other officers. A plump court’esa with big brown eyes was leaning forward suggestively toward Davydd, her ample bosom threatening to escape her low-cut gown at any moment. Whatever she was saying had all the officers at the table laughing uproariously. R’shiel took a deep breath and crossed the taproom, trying to ignore the curious stares of both the court’esa and the Defenders who thought a young female stranger in the tavern this late in the night was bound to be looking for trouble. She was halfway across the room when Davydd glanced up and caught sight of her. He frowned, made some comment to his companions and then left the table. His expression grim, he walked across the taproom, took her arm and steered her back out onto the verandah into the bitter cold.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed, surprising her with his annoyance. “Don’t you know how much trouble you could get into?”

“Of course I know,” she said, shaking her arm free of his grasp. “But I need your help.”

“Can’t it wait until morning?” he asked impatiently, glancing back toward the taproom. The court’esa who had been thrusting her bosom at him was watching them curiously through the open door. She wiggled her fingers in a small wave and blew Davydd an inviting kiss.

“Well, I’m sorry. Don’t let me keep you from your whore,” she snapped, annoyed by the court’esa and more than a little hurt by his attitude. “You obviously have plans this evening. Your little friend in there seems very accommodating.” She turned and ran down the steps into the street.

“R’shiel! Wait!” He ran after her, caught her in a few steps, grabbed her by the arm, and turned her to face him. He glanced around, and, realizing they were standing in the middle of the street, he steered her over to the awning in front of the shuttered bakery. The street was still deserted, and the only noise came from the Blue Bull and the other taverns farther up the cobbled street, the only illumination the spill of yellow light from the taverns’ windows.

“Don’t you know there’s a price on your head? If you’re recognized—”

“I don’t care,” she snapped, regretting her decision to seek him out.

“That’s plain enough. What do you want?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” he disagreed, “or you wouldn’t have come looking for me. What is it?”

R’shiel took a deep breath of the cold air. “I want to free Tarja.”

Davydd swore under his breath. “Are you crazy?”