Medalon

awkwardly in their leg irons. Loclon mounted his horse and cantered to the head of their small column, yelling an order for them to move out.

They were on the road for three days before Loclon sent for R’shiel. Three miserable, foot-sore days that saw the Glass River fade from sight behind the rift of the Cliffwall. As they stumbled along, the countryside slowly changed from the lush pastures of the river plains to the semiarid grasslands of the Central Plateau. The road tasted dusty to the weary prisoners, and the sparse shelter from the blue-oaks lining the road became almost nonexistent. The wind scraped across the plains, scouring the land. Despite the cold, all but a few were windburned. R’shiel escaped the worst of it, her skin somehow not reacting to the relentless wind. A couple of the men who had spent their life outdoors merely tanned a darker shade, and Tarja, who had a naturally olive skin, fared better than most. The others were red, blistered, and miserable. If Loclon noticed or cared about their suffering, he gave no indication.

They spent their nights in the open. After being allowed a short time to relieve themselves and stretch out, they were again fed a thin gruel, while the Defenders ate at another fire dining on the results of the day’s hunt. Once they were well into the plains, even that fizzled out, and the Defenders were forced to partake of the same slops as their prisoners. They were shackled at night, although Loclon had ordered the chains removed while they traveled. They hampered movement, and he grew impatient with their shuffling pace.

Of the six women in the party R’shiel was both the youngest and the only one not resigned to being a court’esa once they reached the Grimfield. She would have been content to spend the whole journey in solitude, trying to figure out how to escape, had it not been for Sunny’s persistent attempts to include her. The men seemed to sort themselves out in a similar fashion. She glanced at them now and then, noticing they gave Tarja a wide berth.

But the third night out things changed. They were well out of sight of Juliern now and still a good week or more from the Grimfield. They ate their meager meal in silence and were being herded into the shackles when R’shiel was singled out by a guard and told to stay put while he locked in the other women. She glanced around hopefully, but there were too many alert guards to try to make a break for it, and nowhere to go if she did. Sunny sneaked up behind her as the guard ordered the women into line and tapped her shoulder urgently.

“Now you listen to me and listen good,” Sunny said. “Don’t you go doing anything stupid. You give him what he wants, you hear. If you don’t, the only one who’ll get hurt is you, and it’s not that big a prize. Do you understand?”

R’shiel looked at her blankly. Sunny dug her plump fingers painfully into the younger girl’s shoulder.

“You be smart, hear?” she insisted. “It’s about power. It’s the only power he’s got over you, see? The harder you fight, the more he has to prove himself.”

“I ordered you to get into line,” the guard said.

“Just giving the girl a few pointers,” she told him, as he led her away.

“I’ll bet,” the guard said as he locked Sunny into her leg irons.

Taking R’shiel by the arm he led her toward Loclon’s tent. R’shiel glanced back at the women, hoping for – what? Rescue? Help? But the women simply watched her go. Telia and Warril looked unconcerned. Danka even looked a little envious that R’shiel had been singled out and not her. The men simply stared at her, or ignored her completely. No one was planning to get involved. All but Tarja. As he saw the direction she was being led, he suddenly lunged toward the guard who was shackling him. The guard cried out, and Tarja was clubbed down by two other Defenders. R’shiel turned away, not able to bear the sight of him being beaten. Don’t let anybody, ever, defeat you, he had told her. She tried to keep that thought in her mind as the guard thrust her inside Loclon’s tent with a shove, then disappeared into the night.

He was waiting for her, sitting on a fold-down campstool with a mug of ale in his hand.

“Enjoying the trip?”

She lifted her chin defiantly and refused to meet his gaze.

“You know, I’ve been trying to figure out what makes you such an uppity little bitch. Is it because you’re the First Sister’s daughter? Is that why you’re so high and bloody mighty? Except it turns out you’re just a common bastard.” He rose to his feet in a surprisingly fluid movement and began circling her like a predatory bird.

With a conscious effort she focused her gaze on him. “Class only matters to those who don’t have any.”

Loclon slapped her for her impudence, making her eyes water. “You arrogant little bitch!” R’shiel glared at him and tried not to imagine what was coming next. Imagination could be a worse tormentor than actual abuse. She had heard someone say that once. “I’ll bet you’re just like the rest of those Probate sluts, aren’t you? I’ve seen them at the Citadel. How many lovers have you had, I wonder, you and your uppity friends?”

R’shiel refused to dignify his question with a reply.

“ANSWER ME!”

She jumped at the sudden shout. She could feel his anger, his lust for pain – her pain – radiating from him like a heat shimmer off the horizon in summer. Rebellion warred with fear inside her, but Sunny’s advice was fresh in her mind. This was a power game, and by defying him she was just asking for trouble. Loclon needed to be in control.

“I don’t think I’m better than you,” she said, as meekly as she could manage.

Loclon grabbed a handful of her long hair and jerked her head back viciously. “Don’t patronize me, you conceited little whore.”

She stayed silent, sorry now that she had only kicked him in the balls. Had she known the consequences, she would have made an effort to really hurt him. He twisted her head around to face him. “What would it take to make you beg for mercy, I wonder?”

Held in his painful grip, there was little R’shiel could do but stare him in the face. The puckered flesh of his scar both repulsed and comforted her. Tarja had given him that scar.

“I would rather turn heathen and be burned alive on a Karien altar as a witch, than beg you for anything.”

Her answer enraged him, as she knew it would. He raised his arm to strike her again, but she hit out first, raking her nails down his face, leaving a trail of bloody scratches on his right cheek. He yelped and grabbed her wrist, twisting it savagely behind her back. R’shiel struggled wildly, but he forced her arm so far up her back she feared he would break it. He threw her down onto the sleeping pallet, breathing hard, rage boiling over in him. She kicked at him but her aim was wild and she merely connected with his thigh. He slapped her leg away and was on her, his lithe frame hiding surprising strength, pinning her to the pallet. He suddenly laughed at her, coldly, viciously.

“Go on, scream! Scream as loud as you can. I want your bastard brother to hear. I want him to know what I’m doing to you. I want him to go to sleep every night hearing you scream, just as I have to wake up every morning and look at what he did to me!”

R’shiel bit her lip and refused to cry out, her eyes wide and staring. She stopped struggling, lay still and unmoving, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her pain or her fear as he pushed up the rough linen shift. His desire to make her scream only strengthened her will. Don’t let anybody, ever, defeat you. Her composure infuriated him. He punched her face, making her head swim.

R’shiel closed her eyes. She swallowed the screams he so desperately wanted to tear from her and for a fleeting, glorious moment an intoxicating sweetness swept over her, reaching for her, calling for her. She clung to it, trying to touch the source, but Loclon hit her again and the feeling vanished, leaving behind nothing but cruel reality.

Morning was a long time coming.

Sunny was waiting for R’shiel when she was returned to the women at first light, taking in her bruised face without comment. She pushed the others away and for once did not attempt to fill the silence with chatter. R’shiel sat unmoving as they were served a thin porridge for breakfast.

They got underway a short time later with Loclon bawling orders at his men, obviously in a foul mood. If the Defenders cast her surreptitious glances as they rode by, wondering at the scratches on the captain’s face, they said nothing. But they watched and wondered just the same. Tarja was kept well away from her, but she could tell his mood was murderous. If Loclon was fool enough to get within reach of him, Tarja would kill him.

The scene was repeated each night for the next three nights, and each morning when R’shiel was returned