“What?”
“We call it Kalianah’s Curse,” she told him. “You will grow old and die, Tarja, while she is in the prime of her life. Just because we look human, don’t mistake us for your kind. You do not understand the differences between our races. They are differences that can only cause you pain.”
Tarja opened his mouth to object again and then wondered why he should bother. He did not have the time to argue with her.
“Will you help her or not?”
“You’ve been warned,” she said shaking her head. She slipped a small pendant over her head and handed it to Tarja. He examined it carefully. It was a cube of transparent material with the faint image of a dragon clutching the world in its claws etched in the center. “If you find her. If you are certain you’re unobserved and
“Only if the Karien priest is dead?” Tarja asked. “I thought you people abhorred killing?”
“We do. And I am not asking you to kill the priest. I couldn’t do that, even if I wanted to. I am simply telling you that you must not call us unless the priest is dead.”
Tarja slipped the fine gold chain over his own head and hid the pendant under his shirt, wondering at the fine distinction she made between not asking him to kill the priest and asking him to ensure he was dead. He glanced at Ghari, who stood staring wonderingly through the open doorway at Dranymire, who had settled himself down in the center of the yard, his huge tail wrapped elegantly around him like a contented cat.
“I’ll take Ghari with me,” Tarja told her. “What about the others?”
“They’ll wake up eventually. They will remember nothing.”
“What about Mahina?”
“She is safe with Affiana and the other human. Never fear, Tarja, they will not be harmed.”
“Is Affiana one of you?”
The Harshini shook her head. “She is the descendant of Brak’s human half-sister. Brak’s niece, I suppose you could call her.” She laughed at his expression. “Brak is somewhat... older than he appears. He was born in a time when human and Harshini were less at odds with each other. Don’t let it bother you, Tarja.”
With a frown, Tarja pushed Ghari ahead of him into the yard. Dranymire turned a curious eye on the two humans. “Are we taking them, too? You should have told us if you wanted a public transport conveyance. Then we could have assumed the form of a drafthorse.”
“No, my Lord,” Shananara assured him. “They have other tasks to take care of.”
The demons in dragon form stared directly at Tarja. “You seek the wildling?” Tarja nodded, assuming he – they – meant R’shiel. “Then we wish you luck, little human,” the dragon said gravely.
Tarja and Ghari rode into Testra midafternoon on the wagon that had taken them to the farmhouse the night before. Tarja’s eyes were gritty with lack of sleep, and the wound on the back of his head throbbed at every bump in the road. Ghari looked in even worse shape, his nose swollen and bent, but at least he had the benefit of a few hours’ sleep – albeit magically induced. The young heathen had been strangely quiet ever since meeting the Harshini and her demons, for which Tarja was extremely grateful. It was hard enough for him to cope with all he had seen and heard this day, and Tarja at least had some inkling that the Harshini still flourished. Ghari, on the other hand, had confidently considered them long extinct, despite his belief in their gods. Since seeing the mighty Lord Dranymire and his brethren in dragon form, Ghari had been in shock, answering only in monosyllables. Occasionally he reached across to grip Tarja’s forearm painfully to demand: “It was a dragon, wasn’t it?”
By the time they rode into the town, Ghari had recovered his wits somewhat. Although hardly talkative, he had lost the wide-eyed look of startled terror that he had worn for most of the day. They drove their wagon slowly through the town, heads lowered. Tarja had discarded his Defender’s uniform gladly, and they were dressed as farmhands. He turned the wagon for the docks and looked at Ghari.
“Do you have many riverboat captains among your sympathizers?”
“A few. But we’ll be lucky if they’re here. Do you have any money?”
“Not a rivet.”
“Then we’ll have trouble. Even our sympathizers won’t take us for love. They must have coin to show their owners at the end of their journey.”
“We’ll think of something,” Tarja assured his companion, although how, he had no idea. As they drove along the waterfront, he glanced at the dozen or more riverboats tied up at the docks. Which of them, he wondered, could he convince to risk everything in pursuit of a vessel belonging to a foreign envoy, to save a girl who was one of a race that supposedly no longer existed?
“Here,” Ghari told him, pointing at a swinging tavern sign. The Chain and Anchor was the largest tavern along the wharf, and even from this distance, Tarja could hear the rowdy singing coming from the taproom. He pulled the wagon to a stop and climbed down.
Ghari followed him, catching his arm. “I have to ask you, Tarja. Was Padric right about the letter? Were you really writing to the Defenders?”
“We’re not ready for a war, Ghari. I wasn’t trying to betray you, I was trying to protect you.”
“But what of our people who died after you were captured? How did the Sisterhood learn of them?”
“You underestimate the depth of Garet Warner’s intelligence network. Joyhinia had those names long before I was captured. She simply held off using them until it would have the most effect.”
The young man nodded. He jerked his head in the direction of the tavern, the matter apparently now put to rest. “They know me here,” he warned. “And your name isn’t very popular. Keep your head down. I’ll do the talking.” Tarja stood back and let Ghari lead the way.
The taproom was crowded with sailors. The singing was coming from half a dozen men standing on a table near the door, their arms linked, belting out a chorus about a handsome sailor and a very accommodating mistress. Another sailor accompanied them on a squeezebox. He seemed to know only about three notes, but he played each one with great enthusiasm, making up in volume what he lacked in talent. Tarja lowered his head as he followed Ghari through the crush of bodies, trying not to draw any attention to himself. Ghari pushed his way through to the bar, leaning forward to catch the eye of the overworked but extremely prosperous tavern keeper. Tarja glanced around the room, hoping he would recognize someone, praying no one would recognize him. In the far corner of the room, a figure was hunched miserably over his tankard, his back to the revelers, totally uninvolved in the celebrations. Startled, Tarja tapped Ghari on the arm and pointed. Ghari’s eyes widened in surprise and he abandoned his attempt to catch the tavern keeper’s attention. They pushed their way back through the crowd.
Ghari sat down opposite the old man and placed a hand on his shoulder. Tarja stood behind him, partly to stop him escaping and partly because he needed time to dampen the anger he felt at the sight of the old man. This man, this former friend, had handed R’shiel over to the Kariens.
“Padric?” Ghari said. “Where are the others?”
Padric raised his head slowly. He was as drunk as a bird that had spent the day feasting on rotten jarafruit. “Murderers,” he mumbled, miserably. “She called us murderers.”
“Padric!”
“We shouldn’t have killed him, lad,” Padric continued woefully. “I knew him. He wasn’t a traitor. He explained about the letter. He was trying to save lives, not destroy them. I should have trusted him. And R’shiel. She really was—”
Ghari looked at Tarja in exasperation. Tarja leaned over the old man and grabbed his collar, pulling him up. “Then it’s a damn good thing I’m still alive, isn’t it?” he said in a low voice.
Padric turned his red rimmed eyes to Tarja. “Tarja!”
“Shut up!” Ghari hissed, with a nervous glance around the rowdy taproom. “We have to get a boat. We’re going to get R’shiel back.”
Padric never questioned Ghari’s change of heart. His anguish was clear for anyone to see, and he drunkenly grabbed at the chance to undo his deed.
“We’ll have to hurry. But you won’t find help among this lot. The word has just come that the Defenders are mobilizing. They’re all headed north to Brodenvale to pick up the troops.”
“Mobilizing?” Tarja glanced back over his shoulder. That accounted for the celebration, at least. The sailors cared little for the Sisterhood, but there was a lot of money to be made transporting troops. The crews were facing a period of upcoming prosperity. The fact that it would halt virtually all other trade on the river and threaten the livelihood of countless other folk bothered them not at all. “What for?”
