It was with some relief that Brak learned R’shiel had also been sentenced to the Grimfield. She was long gone from the vineyard by the time he realized she had run away and even the gods had ignored his pleas for help in locating her. Kalianah did not visit him again, and Maera was too vague to be of any use. He cursed Kalianah’s interference and his own ineptitude. He had been so certain Mandah was the one he sought, he refused to see the truth about R’shiel. Even if her unusual height or her dark red, te Ortyn hair had not alerted him, her anger should have. He knew what it was to burn with a rage that sought any outlet it could find. If he had not been so blind, he could have picked it a league away. He had made the mistake of thinking the demon child would be Harshini, when in fact, the one she resembled most was himself – a half-breed hungering for a balance between two irreconcilable natures.
The only way to find R’shiel and ensure Tarja’s sentence wasn’t carried out was to volunteer for the job of assassin himself, hence his arrival in the Grimfield with Khira. Padric did not entirely trust him, although rescuing Ghari and his friends from the Defenders in Testra had gone a long way to easing the old man’s mind. He had argued that he couldn’t just ride into the Grimfield and run a sword through Tarja, who would be guarded for fear of that very thing. Mandah had agreed that the only way to be certain was to send someone to the Grimfield to investigate. Besides, she thought Tarja should be given a chance to explain, but then Mandah was like that. She tended to think the best of everyone.
The physic Khira had volunteered her services, and their mission had been set. Khira had not lied to Wilem about the reason she left Testra. She really had been expelled from the Physics’ Guild for performing illegal abortions. Unfortunately for Khira, her customers had mostly been poor young women from provincial towns. The Sisterhood professed an extreme abhorrence to the practice, but any Probate or Novice who found herself in the same situation was dealt with quietly and efficiently by the physics at the Citadel.
Grafe had regained consciousness by the time Lycren led Tarja and his fellow prisoner away. Khira fished out a small packet of herbs for the man’s concussion and ordered bed rest and a poultice for his bruises. Mysekis had the man taken away and smiled at Khira before returning inside. Brak recognized the look he gave her and rolled his eyes. Khira was a handsome woman, with thick, dark hair and a comely figure. Brak released the glamor and walked over to Khira wondering if she reciprocated the captain’s obvious admiration. One look at her expression and he doubted it. Khira hated the Defenders. If Mysekis made a move on her he was likely to get much more than he bargained for.
“So that was Tarja,” Khira remarked as she closed her bag and dusted off her skirt.
“In the flesh,” Brak agreed.
“He’s in pretty good shape for a man supposedly tortured in the Citadel,” Khira noted sourly. “I’ve treated men the Defenders have questioned, and I can promise you, he shows no sign of it.”
“Well, never fear, Mistress Physic. Ten lashes should take the fight out of him.”
“He’ll probably be sent to me afterward. You could... you know, do it then.” For a woman sworn to protect life, she was pretty anxious to see Tarja’s snuffed out.
“Let’s not be hasty,” Brak advised. “I would rather see him taken back to the others for a trial, wouldn’t you? That way everyone would see what happens to traitors.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she agreed.
“Of course I am.”
Khira nodded, albeit reluctantly. She was as bent on seeing Tarja brought to justice as Ghari, in her own way. Brak sighed with relief as they left the yard and headed back to the inn, reflecting on the irony of Tarja’s assassin going to so much trouble to keep him alive. But he wasn’t ready for Tarja to die.
Somewhere in this godforsaken place was R’shiel, and he had not found her yet.
chapter 35
News that Tarja was to receive the lash spread through the Grimfield faster than a summer squall. By the following morning, any number of the Grimfield citizens had found a reason to be in the Town Square, where such punishments were normally carried out. Tarja had been in the Grimfield for less than a month, but there was not a man or woman who did not know about him. The news about Tarja reached Crisabelle just after lunch on the day of the brawl. She spent the rest of the day deciding what to wear to a public lashing. Mahina made a few caustic comments about her daughter-in-law’s predilection for enjoying men in pain and announced that she did not intend to watch anybody being lashed. R’shiel thought the old woman sounded upset at the idea.
Mahina had changed since her impeachment, R’shiel decided. Although she still looked like a cuddly grandmother, these days there was a bitter edge to her voice more often than not. Her temper was short and her mood swings pronounced. The entire household tiptoed around her, except Crisabelle, who seemed oblivious to anything but herself.
Mahina’s reaction to R’shiel’s sentence had been shock, sympathy, and perhaps a little irony. Mahina had known of her true parentage, she told R’shiel. Jenga had given her the information the very day that Joyhinia had moved against her at the Gathering. But she had said nothing. Mahina had decided against using it to spare R’shiel the pain such a revelation would cause.
Whatever the reason for Mahina’s reticence in seeing Tarja punished, Crisabelle was delighted by the prospect of seeing the famous rebel publicly whipped. R’shiel was ordered to attend her, carrying a basket of smelling salts and other useful items, such as a perfumed handkerchief in case the smell of the prisoners overwhelmed her. Several pieces of fruit and a slice of jam roll were also included, in case watching a man screaming in agony stimulated one’s appetite. The vial of smelling salts was insurance against the sight of all that torn flesh making her feel faint. R’shiel was quite sure that anybody who packed a snack for a public whipping was highly unlikely to swoon at the sight of blood. Crisabelle hurried her out of the house the next morning dressed in a buttercup-yellow dress with a wide skirt and a large frill forming a V down the front of the bodice, R’shiel thought the dress was ghastly, but Crisabelle had decided it was just the thing for this sort of occasion.
The square was almost half-full when they arrived, but the crowd parted to allow Crisabelle through. She strutted up to the verandah of the Headquarters Building, where Wilem was going over a list with Mysekis. He glanced up at their approach, and his expression grew thunderous, before he composed his features into a neutral mien.
“What are you doing here?”
R’shiel hung back. She had no wish to see Tarja whipped and hoped that Wilem would send them home. But Crisabelle was determined to get full value from the morning’s entertainment. She ignored her husband and found herself a vantage point near the verandah railing. Wilem shook his head and turned his attention back to Mysekis.
It was not long before the four men who were to receive a lashing were brought out from the cells behind the Headquarters Building. All were bare-chested and shivering in the chill morning. With little ceremony, the first man was dragged to the whipping post, which was a tall log buried deep in the ground and braced at the base. A solid iron ring was set near the top of the post and the man’s hands were lashed to it with a stout hemp rope. Once his hands were tied, the guards kicked the prisoner’s feet apart and lashed each ankle to the bracing struts. As soon as the criminal was secure, Mysekis unrolled the parchment and read from it.
“Jiven Wainwright. Five Lashes. Stealing from the kitchens.”
Once the charge was read, the officer who was to deliver the lashing stepped forward. R’shiel was not surprised to find it was Loclon. He was clutching the vicious-looking short-handled whip with numerous plaited strands of leather, finished with small barbed knots. The infamous Tail of the Tiger, it was called. The whip was supposed to deliver an excruciatingly painful blow in the hands of an expert. Simply by the way he was standing, R’shiel could tell that Loclon not only knew how to handle the whip, but would probably enjoy it.
The man at the post screamed even before the first blow fell and howled afresh with every crack of the whip. By the last blow he was sobbing uncontrollably. As the guards untied him he collapsed, then screamed as a bucket of saltwater was thrown over his bloody back. Two guards dragged him away, and the next victim was brought forward. Again, Mysekis consulted his list.
“Virnin Chandler. Five lashes. Brewing illegal spirits.”
The scene was repeated again, making R’shiel sick to her stomach. The crowd watched silently, an audible
