He watched R’shiel as she walked toward him, wondering if she knew how beautiful she was. She carried herself in the manner of one unaware of her effect on others. Tarja had expected himself to be immune to her allure, but every time he caught sight of R’shiel, even from a distance, he was startled by the effect she had on him. It was an odd feeling he could not define. It wasn’t desire, or even simple lust. It was just the strangest feeling that to be near her, to be noticed by her, would be a very pleasant thing indeed. It had been creeping up on him ever since that night in the vineyard. Despite everything that had happened since, she was always somewhere in his thoughts.
R’shiel was looking around as she approached them. Not finding the object of her search, she turned to Fohli.
“Have you seen Sunny Hopechild?” she asked.
“Lost her, have you?” Fohli replied, with vast disinterest.
“She was supposed to report to the Commandant’s house an hour ago. She’s been reassigned.”
“She’ll turn up. Them
“Will you send her along if you see her?” she asked, looking around in the rapidly fading light. “She’s about this tall, with blonde hair.”
“Sure,” Fohli promised. The corporal would promise anything provided he didn’t actually have to put himself out to keep his word.
In a slash of yellow light, Sister Unwin, her round face flushed from the heat of the stoves, emerged from the kitchen to survey the lines of prisoners waiting for their dinner. She glared at R’shiel and marched across the compound, planting herself in front of the girl with her hands on her wide hips. Her blue skirt was dusted with a faint sheen of flour, and there was a smudge of something on her chin.
“And just what do you think you’re doing here, girl? Does Mistress Crisabelle know you’re gallivanting about town at this hour of the day, flirting with the guards?”
“Mistress Crisabelle sent me to look for her new seamstress.”
“Well, she’s not here. You get along back where you belong and don’t let me catch you hanging around my kitchen.” Unwin turned her wrath on Fohli. “You take her back to the Commandant and see that he knows what she’s been up to.” With that, she stormed off back to her kitchen.
Fohli was left in something of a quandary. He could not leave his two charges unattended, nor could he ignore a direct order from a Sister. With a shrug, he glanced at Zac and Tarja.
“C’mon lads, looks like we’ve a bit of a walk before dinner.”
They climbed wearily to their feet and followed Fohli to the gate. The guards let them pass, and the four of them headed across the Square toward the Commandant’s residence on the other side of town. Fohli was not the least bit interested in the additional duty Unwin had thrust upon him and dawdled along with Zac at his side. R’shiel was angry, and her step carried her ahead of the others. Trying not to look too obvious about it, Tarja caught up with her. By the time they had crossed the Square, it was almost completely dark.
The threatening clouds rumbled ominously as they turned down the main road, which led to the married quarters. R’shiel glanced at Tarja as he drew level with her but said nothing.
“What does Crisabelle want Sunny for?” he asked. Zac and Fohli had fallen back far enough so that their conversation was unlikely to be overheard.
“Crisabelle wants a new wardrobe before she visits the Citadel in the spring. Sunny is supposed to help with the sewing.”
“Can she sew?” Tarja asked curiously. From what he had observed of Sunny, she appeared to excel in only one thing, and it certainly wasn’t sewing.
“I truly don’t know. But Loclon beat her up again, and I thought she could do with a break. It’s sort of my fault she got hurt. I’m sure he only does it because of me,” she added with a heavy sigh.
“She’ll turn up. Fohli’s right, you know. Sunny isn’t stupid. She won’t defy a direct order from the Commandant.”
“I suppose so.”
“Anyway, what do you mean, it’s your fault?”
“He... well, he’s still mad at me. And you. I guess I’m just the easiest target.”
R’shiel was silent for a moment before she continued, as if weighing up whether or not to confide in him. “It seems that every time I turn around he’s standing there, just watching me. The way he looks at me makes my skin crawl. A couple of times he... well, it doesn’t matter. He never gets an opportunity to do anything about it. But each time he misses a chance to get at me, someone else seems to get hurt.”
Tarja shook his head, appalled that she would blame herself for Loclon’s insanity. “It’s not your fault, R’shiel. Anymore than it’s my fault—”
“That we’re here?” R’shiel finished for him. They walked on in silence. Within a few minutes, they had reached the low stone fence surrounding the Commandant’s residence so they stopped at the small gate to wait for Fohli and Zac to catch up. In the lamplight blazing from the windows, Tarja could make out the Commandant and Loclon discussing something in silhouette. R’shiel tensed as she saw them.
“He’s here.”
Tarja looked at her, not truly surprised by the vehemence in her tone. She still had not forgiven or forgotten the journey to the Grimfield.
“Maybe he’s in trouble.”
“I wish! More likely here to get tomorrow’s orders.”
She turned from him, but he caught her arm and turned her back to face him, studying her intently in the gloom. “Are you all right, R’shiel? Really?”
“I’m fine, Tarja,” she told him, a little bitterly. “I’m in prison for the next ten years. I’ve been beaten and raped, and now I’m serving a woman who takes a picnic basket to a public lashing. What more could I ask?”
Tarja had to resist the urge to take her in his arms. To hold her as he had when she was a little girl, following him and Georj around, skinning her knees as she ran to catch up with two boys who thought their red Cadet jackets made them too important to associate with obnoxious little girls.
“I’m sorry, R’shiel,” he said, helpless to offer her anything more. “I’ll find a way out of this. Soon.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Before he could add anything further, Fohli and Zac caught up to them. R’shiel shook her arm free of Tarja and faced Fohli defiantly.
“Well, are you going to report me to the Commandant?” she asked.
“Not bloody likely,” Fohli muttered. “Less the Commandant notices me, the better. You get along and stay outta Unwin’s way.” Without bothering to thank him, R’shiel lifted her skirts and stepped over the low gate. She ran around the house and disappeared into the darkness. “She’s odd, that one.”
“Harshini,” Zac said sagely. Both Tarja and Fohli stared at him in astonishment. “She’s got the look,” he added knowingly. The big man hitched his trousers into a more comfortable position and headed back down the road toward the prisoners’ kitchen.
Fohli caught at Tarja’s sleeve and pulled him along in Zac’s wake. “Here, you was a rebel, Tarja, mixin‘ with all them heathens. Is it true what they say about the Harshini? Are they really gods?”
“I doubt it,” Tarja said, as he watched Zac’s retreating back. “How do you suppose Zac knows about them?”
“Zac’s from near the border. That’s what they sent him here for. He’s a pagan. Killed a couple of Defenders they sent to arrest him. I heard the Hythrun reckon the Harshini are still out there somewhere. In hiding. Not that I ever seen no sign of it. You think that girl is one of them?”
“Are you kidding me?” Actually, he thought it was the most absurd idea he had ever heard.
“Aye, you’re right at that,” Fohli agreed. “Here! Isn’t she your sister or something?”
“No, she’s not my sister.”
“Well, she’s foreign, that’s for certain,” Fohli said.
