direction of her pointing finger. A huge, garishly painted blue barquentine was carefully edging her way downstream toward the Testra docks. Her sails were furled, and her smartly dressed crew was scurrying over the decks, pointing and shouting at the oared tugs that were leading the ship in.
“The Karien Envoy,” Tarja said. The Envoy’s ship was returning from his annual visit to the Citadel. Elfron stood on the poop deck, wearing his ceremonial cape beside Pieter, who watched the docking procedure in full armor. He wondered who they were trying to impress, then glanced at R’shiel. Her expression was blank. She didn’t seem to care.
“He has a priest with him,” Brak remarked beside him in a tone that made Tarja look at him curiously. “There aren’t many things in this world I fear, Tarja, but a priest carrying the Staff of Xaphista is one of them.”
Tarja filed that information away thoughtfully, remembering his own meeting with Elfron. The priest had laid his staff on Tarja’s shoulder to absolutely no effect.
“Pieter knows me,” he warned Brak. “And R’shiel.”
“Then pray he doesn’t see you. I’d help if I could, but the priest would feel any glamor I wove.”
“What’s a glamor?” Sunny asked curiously.
“Nothing but wishful thinking in this case.”
“It doesn’t matter,” R’shiel said softly, so softly that Tarja barely heard her. “He’s seen us already. He knows we’re here.”
When the ferry reached Testra the Karien ship had already docked. Pieter and Elfron were nowhere to be seen, and Tarja decided R’shiel’s dire prediction was nothing more than her fear talking. Pieter was aware of the situation in Medalon, and Tarja was quite certain that if he had identified the small figures on the ferry, there would have been a full squad of Defenders waiting to arrest them when they docked.
The fugitives remounted for their ride to the inn. It was located on the other side of the neat town, and just as their appearance in Vanahiem had been unremarkable, so their ride through Testra was equally incident free. Tarja was both surprised and relieved. He was not so concerned about the possibility that Lord Pieter had identified him or R’shiel. Testra was a rebel stronghold, as evidenced by several defiant slogans splashed on the walls of the warehouses near the docks, and if he were ever going to be recognized, it would be here. Their horses’ hooves clattered loudly on the cobblestones as they rode down the paved street.
Brak read the slogans and glanced at Tarja. “Can I ask you a question?”
“I suppose.”
“It’s something that’s bothered me ever since I joined the rebels. Most Medalonians aren’t usually taught to read, are they?”
“Novices and Cadets are,” Tarja told him. “Children of merchants usually attend private schools or have tutors, and servants who need it for their jobs are educated a little. Lack of education is the prime tool of the Sisterhood in keeping the population in their place. Why?”
“Well, if the people can’t read, why go to the bother of splashing slogans on every flat surface you can find?”
“The Sisters can read. The slogans are put up to make them think.”
“Does it work?”
“Well, it makes them nervous. The Sisters see the slogans and begin to wonder the same thing you are – why write them if the people can’t read? Then they start to worry that the people might be able to read them, after all. That starts them worrying about all sorts of other things.”
“You’re very easy to underestimate, Tarja.”
“Just you remember that.”
They reached the inn without mishap. Red brick and shingled like the rest of the town, it was neat and well kept. They were greeted cheerfully by the innkeeper in the yard as they dismounted.
Her name was Affiana. The woman could have been Brak’s sister, Tarja realized with a start. She was statuesque and dark-haired and welcomed them as if she had known they were coming. She greeted Brak first with a relieved smile, before turning to the others. Her next target was Mahina.
“My Lady, it is an honor to have you in my house.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Mahina assured her politely.
Affiana then turned to Dace and bowed. “Divine One. I am honored that you should visit my house, but I beg you not to bestow your blessing on it. I have enough trouble with your followers as it is.”
Dace grinned broadly at the odd welcome. “For you, Affiana, I will restrain myself.”
Affiana nodded with genuine relief at the boy’s answer. Tarja glanced at the boy curiously. Was he Harshini, too? It would explain his presence but not the tone Affiana had used or the appellation “Divine One.” There seemed nothing special about the boy, and Brak certainly treated him with anything but respect.
The innkeeper turned to Tarja then, her expression curious. “Ah... the elusive Tarja, himself. I suggest you keep your head down while in Testra. You have not been forgotten here.”
Tarja had no chance to answer her as Affiana had turned her attention to Sunny and R’shiel. “And the last of our little gathering. You are welcome also, my dears. Come. I have rooms where you can freshen up before lunch is laid out.”
Sunny looked rather taken aback by the warmth of her welcome, but R’shiel remained as coldly distant as she had since leaving the Grimfield.
chapter 44
Lunch was sumptuous as was dinner later that evening and made a welcome change from the dry trail rations they had survived on for the past week or so. Affiana made a private dining room available to them and kept them well supplied with food and wine. Of Dace there had been no sign since they arrived, but Brak appeared unconcerned about the missing boy. Their rooms were quite grand with soft, down-filled beds and clean linen. The inn was built on a far grander scale than the Inn of the Hopeless in the Grimfield. It had three stories and several suites in addition to the normal rooms, and the taproom attracted an affluent class of customer. Tarja found the whole place both comfortable and stifling.
After dinner, he escaped to the stables on the pretext of checking the horses. They didn’t need his attention – Affiana had stableboys in abundance – but Tarja needed to be free of his companions. He needed a chance to think. But more importantly, he needed a chance to get a message to the Citadel. He had to let Jenga know that the Harshini were still among them.
Tarja could not pinpoint the exact moment that the idea had come to him. Perhaps it was in that gully near the Grimfield where he had seen the effect of the Harshini magic on the unsuspecting Defenders. It might have been this morning when he saw the Karien Envoy’s ship docking in Testra. Whatever the reason, he felt compelled to warn Jenga. Once word reached Karien that the Harshini still lived, Tarja doubted any treaty would be enough to hold them on their side of the border. Perhaps even worse was the effect such news would have on Medalon’s southern neighbors. Hythria and Fardohnya worshipped the Harshini with almost as much dedication as they worshipped their gods. News of their survival would be cause for celebration. Suspicion that the surviving Harshini were under threat by either the Kariens or the Sisterhood would bring an army over the southern border that outnumbered the entire population of Medalon. Tarja had broken his sworn oath to the Defenders, but he did not consider he had turned his back on Medalon. They had to be warned, and Jenga was the only one in a position to do anything about it.
He did check the horses, however, enjoying their simple demands for attention as they heard him approaching, pushing velvety muzzles through the rails in the hope of a treat of some sort. He sat down on a hay bale and pulled out a stick of writing charcoal, sharpened to a point, that he had purloined from the small library of the inn. In the dim light, he began to scratch out a succinct report to Garet Warner on a scrap of parchment. It would be pointless addressing it directly to Jenga. The Lord Defender would more than likely tear up the message unread if he thought it came from him. Garet was the safer bet. Garet would use the information. He did not have to tell Jenga its source. That way Jenga would be free to act, without being hampered by his scruples. Tarja knew from experience that Garet Warner’s scruples were a fluid commodity, to be applied or not as he saw fit.
He had barely written the first few lines when a noise behind him startled him, and he leaped to his feet
