“To destroy us, of course,” Padric mumbled. “Word is out that you are here and heading for the mountains. The entire bloody Corps will be on us in a matter of weeks.”
The news concerned Tarja. He had arrived in Testra only the day before. For the news to reach the sailors in Testra, Joyhinia must have ordered the mobilization within hours of learning of their escape from the Grimfield.
The tavern door swung open and another crew entered the tavern, although they looked less enthusiastic about the celebration than the sailors who were already well into their cups. With a silent prayer to the Harshini gods he did not believe in, who he was certain must be looking out for him, he turned back to Ghari.
“I think we’ve found our boat,” he said. “Get him out of here and meet me at the wagon.”
Ghari was quickly falling back into the old habit of doing what Tarja ordered. He nodded and stood up, helping the drunken old rebel to his feet. Tarja watched them leave and then turned his attention back to the big Fardohnyan who was pushing his way through the throng to the bar. His brothers waited near the door, looking for an empty table. Tarja waved and pointed to the table that Padric had just vacated. The two men nodded and made their way across the room to him. They had not recognized him, merely taking him for a helpful farmer. Drendik was not far behind them, but as he turned to thank Tarja, his brows rose in startled recognition.
“You!” he exclaimed.
“I need your help,” he said, not bothering with any preamble. “There is a Harshini girl in trouble. The Karien Envoy has her.”
If there was one thing Tarja knew that would rile a Fardohnyan it was mentioning the Kariens, whom they hated with something close to religious fervor. To throw in the Harshini, whom they revered with equal passion, was guaranteed to get the riverboat captain’s attention.
“The Kariens have a Harshini?” the younger sailor demanded. Although they revered them, it was unlikely the Fardohnyans had ever laid eyes on a Harshini. Unlike Padric and the rebels, however, they did not question the continuing existence of the fabled race.
“Will you help me?”
“Well it’s damned certain I won’t be ferrying Medalonian troops for the cursed Sisterhood,” Drendik said. The Fardohnyan downed his large tankard in one go and slammed it down on the table. “Well, my rebellious young friend, let us go forth and gain the favor of the gods by saving one of their chosen ones. Do you have any money?”
Tarja shook his head and the Fardohnyan sighed. “There’s just no profit in being a hero these days.”
chapter 50
The Karien Envoy studied R’shiel fearfully as the ship was picked up and pushed south by the current before he turned to Elfron. R’shiel was still on her hands and knees at Pieter’s feet, trying to push back waves of nausea. The pain from Elfron’s staff had subsided to a vicious aching throb that pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
“What did you do to her?”
“I did nothing,” Elfron said. “It is Xaphista who has spoken through the power of his staff. She is Harshini.”
“But she’s the First Sister’s daughter! Or at least she was, until Joyhinia disowned her. Do you suppose she knew?”
“Of course she knew! Have I not been warning you that the Sisterhood is in league with the forces of evil? You are lucky, my Lord, that she did not attempt to entrap you.”
If she was in league with the forces of evil, it was the first R’shiel had heard about it. Pieter looked at her again, but there was no lust or desire in his eyes. Just loathing.
“Take her below.”
“We should tie her to the mast so that all of Medalon can see that we have captured an evil one,” Elfron declared. “We must let it be known that Xaphista cannot be deceived.”
“Don’t be a fool! You can’t sail through Medalon with one of their women tied to the mast! Do you want to provoke a war?”
“She is not one of their women, she is a Harshini witch,” he pointed out. “Medalon should rejoice in the knowledge that we have removed a serpent from the breast of their insidious Sisterhood.”
“The Harshini mean nothing to these people! They are a forgotten race. Only in Karien, where the power of the Overlord protects us from the thrall of the Harshini, do we remember the threat. They will not rejoice in your triumph, Elfron, they will run you through!”
Elfron conceded the point with ill grace. “Very well then, secure her below. But when we have left the Glass River, when we are safely through the Fardohnyan Gulf and are back in Karien waters, then she will be tied to the mast so that
With an imperious wave of his arm, Pieter ordered two sailors to drag her below. R’shiel did not resist. She was still shaking and weak as they half-dragged, half-carried her along the deck and pushed her below, finally locking her in a small storage cabin at the end of a long passage. Light filtered in dimly from the slatted door. Feeling her way along the deck, she found a pile of musty smelling sacks and collapsed onto them.
Tears spilled onto the dirty sacks as R’shiel gave in to a wave of hopelessness. Her grief over Tarja’s death overwhelmed her for a time, left her hollow and sick. It felt like the perfect side dish to accompany the main course of her pain. She didn’t care what happened now. No suffering anyone could inflict on her could be worse than the suffering she could inflict upon herself by simply thinking of Tarja.
R’shiel dozed for while in the small cabin, as they sailed further south. The cabin grew uncomfortably warm as the day progressed, and she woke up feeling thirsty and hungry, but no one came to offer her any sustenance. She looked around the shelves in the gloom and found nothing useful. The closet contained old sacks, lengths of rope, and several barrels of foul-smelling pitch, but nothing remotely resembling food or water. Had they forgotten she was down here, or was it their intention to starve her to death? She did not think that likely. Elfron was too enamoured of the idea of sailing up the Ironbrook River with his Harshini prize lashed to the main mast. He would not allow her to die before then and rob him of his triumph.
With nothing else to do and her grief over Tarja beginning to settle like grit in a bottle of sour wine, R’shiel finally thought to wonder about Pieter and Elfron and their strange notion that she was Harshini. It seemed so unreal. Brak had told her a great deal about the Harshini on their journey from the Grimfield. He made them sound so charming and elegant that she had almost wished they still lived. His tales had drawn her out of herself, woven a magical web of wonder over her bruised and battered soul. Until now, she had not realized how much Brak had helped her. In the days following her escape from the Grimfield, she had not particularly cared if she lived or died. There had been a fear in her that she couldn’t name, an unwillingness to face what she had done, an inability to even comprehend it. She had told Brak of the mural in her room, and from her description, he had been able to tell her what the mural represented. Sanctuary, he called it. A place built by the Harshini to provide a haven of peace. A place where joy and laughter filled the halls and serenity washed over the soul with every breath. She wondered how much Brak had known and how much of it he had made up. He should have been a bard.
But it seemed rather odd that the Harshini, who were long dead and gone, should suddenly loom so large in her life. First Brak had regaled her with stories about them, then Tarja had tried to convince the rebels that she was one, when he would have been much better off telling them something more credible. His folly had likely cost him his life. Now Elfron and Lord Pieter were taking her back to Karien to burn her as a witch because they thought she was one of them, too. Was it possible? Had her unknown father been a Harshini? A lifetime of certainty was threatened by the very notion. She knew her mother had refused to name her father. But the Harshini were dead. The Sisterhood had destroyed them.
It was long after dark when Elfron finally came for her. The motion of the boat had changed, and R’shiel wondered if they had pulled into the riverbank for the night. She knew next to nothing about boats but suspected that the Karien vessel must be a seafaring ship, ill-equipped to deal with the river. It was likely that the Envoy’s captain was not familiar enough with the Glass River to risk sailing it at night.
In the vain hope that unconsciousness would spare her the pain of her grief, her throbbing shoulder, her dry throat, and her rumbling stomach, R’shiel was trying to sleep when she heard a rattle in the lock. She had eaten
