of rope in one of the saddlebags and tied the reins to it, then turned to the grisly task of creating a funeral pyre.
A chill wind picked up as they gathered the bodies and covered them with a layer of dead wood. Brak let Tarja arrange the pyre. He had no experience in this sort of thing and no wish to gain any. It took longer than Brak expected, but once the rebel was satisfied with his handiwork he turned to Brak questioningly.
“The wood is too wet to burn,” he told him. “You’ll have to use your... magic, I suppose.”
“It’s not that easy,” Brak told him with a frown. “Voden doesn’t like fire.”
“Voden?”
“The God of Green Life. That’s what killed those men.” Brak looked at the unlit pyre for a moment. “Actually, I think I have a better idea.”
Ignoring Tarja’s puzzled and somewhat suspicious expression, Brak reached out once more to Voden. He drew a picture in his mind that the god understood instantly. Brak had no wish to antagonize the god by lighting a fire, but what he asked of him this time was well within his power to grant.
Brak opened his eyes and glanced at Tarja. “It’ll be all right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just stand back and watch.”
For a wonder, Tarja did as Brak asked. The unlit pyre stood forlornly in the dawn. Brak waited for a moment, feeling Voden’s touch on the edge of his awareness as the dead wood they had laid over the slain Defenders began to sprout. Slowly at first, then ever more rapidly, the branches came to life, new leaves and branches growing over the pyre, almost too rapidly for the eye to see. Within a few minutes, the funeral pyre looked like nothing more than a large hedge growing in the middle of the old watercourse.
Brak smiled at Tarja’s expression. “It’s not exactly rosebushes, but it’ll do.”
The rebel stared at him. “How did you do that?”
“I didn’t do anything; Voden did. He’s a bit hard to communicate with sometimes, but he’s cooperative enough if you ask him nicely.”
“I don’t believe any of this,” Tarja said, shaking his head. “There are no gods, and the Harshini are dead.”
Brak smiled wearily. “I know quite a few Harshini who might disagree with you, Tarja.”
chapter 43
“You’re disappointed in me, aren’t you?” Mahina asked.
“Disappointed might be a little strong,” Tarja said. “Surprised would be more accurate, I think.”
They were riding at a good pace across the central plateau, following a faint game trail toward the silver ribbon of the Glass River, which was still an hour or more ahead of them. Brak rode in the lead with R’shiel at his side, talking to her earnestly. R’shiel had been strangely subdued since she had regained consciousness. She spoke little, and her eyes seemed focused elsewhere, as if she had seen something that she couldn’t tear her gaze from, something that nobody else could see. Tarja could not understand Brak’s interest in her. He seemed to be more concerned with R’shiel than any of them. He thought Brak had been sent to either kill him or return him to the rebels for justice. Brak hadn’t even mentioned the rebellion, and he certainly had not tried to kill him, although there had been no lack of opportunity in the last few days. In fact he had said little, other than announcing he was Harshini, a statement that Tarja would have rejected out of hand, had he not seen the astounding transformation of the funeral pyre. He had always believed the Harshini to be extinct – and Brak looked as human as any man. But the evidence was hard to deny. Tarja heard Mahina say something and turned his attention to the old woman.
“I said, I’m more surprised that I put up with the Grimfield for as long as I did. As the Kariens would say, Crisabelle was more than sufficient penance for my sins.”
Behind them, Dace rode with Sunny, and the boy chattered away to her cheerfully, regaling her with tales of his exploits, none of which, it seemed, Sunny believed. The day was clear but blustery, as spring attempted to blow winter out of the way, although farther north the land would still be firmly in the grip of winter. The sun was shining brightly, but the wind cut through them. Mahina pulled her cloak more tightly around her as she rode.
“What made you do it, Mahina?” he asked.
“Do what? Not challenge Joyhinia when she threw me out? Not call the Defenders when you broke into my house the other night? Help you escape the Grimfield? Be specific, lad.”
“You have been rather busy lately, haven’t you?”
Mahina smiled, and they rode on in silence for a while.
“So how did you wind up as First Sister?” Tarja asked. The question had always puzzled him.
The old woman shrugged. “There were no clear candidates when Trayla died so suddenly. I’d kept my head down and I suppose I appeared harmless to the rest of the Quorum. Your mother had her eye on the job even then. I guess I played right into her hands. Couldn’t believe my luck, actually. I wanted to change the whole world overnight. It doesn’t happen that way, though.” She leaned over and patted his hand. “I taught you, Tarja, remember that. And remember that evil should not be tolerated, no matter the guise it comes in. I was so proud of you when you defied Joyhinia at the Gathering.”
“I’m glad somebody was.”
They rode on in silence after that, only the sound of the wind sighing through the trees and Dace’s perpetually cheerful chatter filling the morning. With some concern Tarja watched R’shiel’s back as she rode. Her shoulders were slumped, and she showed little interest in her surroundings. He wondered what Brak was saying to her.
Brak timed their arrival in Vanahiem to coincide almost exactly with the departure of the ferry, which connected the river town to Testra on the other side. They rode openly past the noisy foundry and through the town, barely noticed by the industrious townsfolk, who had far better things to do than worry about a few more strangers in a town that was frequently full of them.
Tarja expected someone to recognize them. Surely the word had been spread by now of the escapees from the Grimfield? However, they rode on unmolested, maybe because it was market day, or maybe because anyone looking for prison escapees would not consider their well-mounted and well-dressed group to be fugitives. Of course, they would not have fitted any description of them that the Grimfield might have circulated he realized as they neared the ferry. Dace had disappeared last night and this morning had proudly presented them with the results of his night’s labors. Mahina, R’shiel, and Sunny were fashionably dressed as successful merchants, and Brak, Dace, and Tarja wore Defender’s uniforms. Although he had stolen a uniform the night of their escape, the one he wore now was well-made and a much better fit. It even had the rank insignia of a captain.
They loaded the horses onto the ferry with little fuss and almost immediately the flat-bottomed barge set out across the river. Mahina appeared to be having the time of her life and stood at the bow, watching the opposite shore. Brak settled their passage with the ferryman and then came to stand beside Tarja. Dace was nowhere to be seen. R’shiel stood on the other side of the ferry, staring at the broad expanse of the Glass River. Sunny was chatting to her, but she did not appear to be listening. Tarja was worried about her. It was unlike R’shiel to be so withdrawn.
“Well, so far so good,” Brak announced.
“What happens when we get to Testra?”
“There’s an inn there owned by a friend of mine,” Brak explained in a low voice, although their group were the only passengers on the ferry. “We’ll wait there until help arrives.”
“Help?”
“Trust me,” Brak said with a faint smile.
“You know, there’s a saying on the border that ‘trust me’ is Fardohnyan for ‘screw you,’ ” Tarja replied.
“Ah, but I’m Harshini, not Fardohnyan. ‘Trust me’ means exactly what it says. In Harshini.”
“Look at that!”
Sunny’s exclamation drew their attention. They crossed to the other side of the ferry and followed the
