Medalon

nothing since dinner at the inn in Testra. The part of her that was still grieving hoped that it would not take too long to die of thirst or starvation. The part of her that still lived craved food and water with a passion that almost overcame her grief. A spark of life burned in R’shiel, too bright to be put out by grief or pain.

Elfron threw open the door and ordered her to stand. She did so slowly, as much from physical weakness as fear. He grabbed her arm as soon as she was standing and pulled her from the cabin. He propelled her forward along the passage to another cabin with elaborately carved double doors. In his left hand, Elfron clutched the Staff of Xaphista. R’shiel glanced at it, knowing that her idle boast to herself earlier, that no pain could exceed the pain of losing Tarja, was a hollow one indeed when faced with the staff.

The cabin was sumptuously furnished. Everything – the bedhead, the chairs, the paneled walls – was inlaid with gold, and everywhere the five-pointed star intersected with a lightning bolt shone out. Even the blue satin quilt on the bed was embroidered with the symbol, beautifully worked in gold thread. The richness of the cabin was overpowering.

“You stand in the presence of the Overlord’s representative,” Elfron told her. “You are unclean. You will cleanse yourself and dress more appropriately before we begin.” He indicated a jug and washbowl that lay on the table next to a small covered tray. Over the back of one of the chairs was a rough cassock, similar to the one that Elfron wore, which seemed plain and ordinary amid the sumptuousness of the cabin. R’shiel eyed him warily, but Elfron appeared to have no more interest in her than he would in any other animal. R’shiel did as he ordered, turning her back to him as she peeled off her clothes. Elfron continued to watch her as she washed herself with all the concern he might have shown watching a cat lick itself clean. She pulled on the rough, itchy cassock and turned to face him.

“You may eat,” he told her, indicating the tray.

R’shiel removed the covering cloth and discovered a loaf of dry black bread and a small pitcher of wine. It was quite the most lavish feast she had ever consumed. She ate the bread hungrily and drank every drop of the watered wine, watching the priest out of the corner of her eye. Elfron continued to ignore her until she had finished. As she wiped the last crumbs of the bread from her mouth with the back of her hand, he nodded with satisfaction.

“You will now tell me where the Harshini settlement is hidden,” he announced in the same implacable tone as he had ordered her to wash and eat.

R’shiel glanced at the staff warily before she answered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Lying is a sin. You will answer honestly, or suffer the wrath of Xaphista’s staff.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know. The Harshini are dead. I’m not one of them. I’m as human as you are.”

“You are not human,” Elfron declared, moving the staff so that he held it in both hands. The lantern light glittered dangerously off the precious stones. “You are the essence of Harshini evil. You wear the body of a whore, designed to tempt the righteous from the true path. Your beauty is contrived and designed solely to beguile pious men. You flaunt your woman’s body and seduce devout souls with your godless magic. The Overlord spoke to me in a vision and demanded your surrender. He will not – cannot – be denied.”

R’shiel stepped backward as he ranted. She didn’t know if Elfron was mad or merely devoted to the point of insanity, and it really didn’t matter. The end result was the same. He stepped forward and brought down the staff sharply across R’shiel’s already tender shoulder. Once again the agony shot through her, forcing a scream of soul- wrenching torment. He held it there as she fell to the floor, chanting under his breath in a slow litany. R’shiel screamed and screamed until her throat was raw, and then she screamed again.

Elfron’s eyes were alight with religious fervor as he watched her, his pleasure almost sexual in its intensity. R’shiel’s cries were incoherent in their terror and agony as fire lanced through her body – she felt as though a white-hot sword slashed her.

“You fool! You’ll kill her!”

The agony suddenly eased as Pieter snatched the staff from Elfron’s hand. The priest looked down at R’shiel’s sobbing, twitching body.

“Xaphista will see that she lives long enough to be sacrificed.”

“Well, I’d prefer not to put the Overlord to the trouble. I said you could question her, not make her scream like a banshee. Every farmlet in a five-league radius probably heard her, you fool!”

Elfron snatched the staff back from the knight. “Why do you seek to spare her?” he asked. “Has the insidious lure of the witch overcome you?”

Pieter glanced down at R’shiel’s limp, trembling body with disgust. “She has you in a thrall, more likely,” the knight scoffed. “I find her repulsive. Put her back in the storeroom and leave her be. She is no use to either of us like this. Not even our people would consider that a threat.” He waved his arm disdainfully toward the terrified, sobbing girl.

Elfron sniffed, bowing reluctantly to the knight’s logic. “Have her removed, then.”

Pieter’s eyes narrowed at the presumptuous order, but he obeyed. R’shiel felt strong, rough hands dragging her to her feet and back down the long passage to her cell. They threw her in, and she landed heavily on the floor. She dragged herself over to the pile of musty sacks as she heard the door being locked. As she lost consciousness, her last thought was an idle question: How much pain does it take to die?

chapter 51

“Did you really speak with a dragon?”

Tarja glanced at the captain. The Fardohnyan gripped the wheel of the riverboat, steering it with unconscious skill as the Maera’s Daughter flew southward. Running with the current and under a full set of sails, the small boat was making astounding speed. They had traveled through the night, though even Drendik had balked at doing that under sail, settling for running with the current instead. As soon as dawn broke, the Fardohnyans and the rebels had set the sails, and a crisp breeze had sprung up, snapping the canvas sharply and pushing the boat on. Drendik had assured Tarja it was proof the gods favored their mission. Tarja privately considered it nothing more than luck, but he was not about to offend the Fardohnyan’s beliefs. “Yes, I truly spoke with a dragon.”

During the long night and the following day, Tarja had related most of his tale to the Fardohnyans. He had finally managed to sleep earlier this morning and had come up on deck to find them much farther south than he would have thought possible. Drendik was confident they would overtake the Karien boat by nightfall. He had seen it in his travels and gave Tarja a long list of reasons why it would not move very fast, starting with the basic stupidity of its design and finishing with the incompetence of its crew. But more than anything, Drendik was enchanted by the idea that Tarja had met a dragon.

“You are truly blessed by the Divine Ones, if they allowed you to speak to a dragon,” Drendik assured him. “Even our most powerful magicians only claim to have heard of them. I never met anyone who actually spoke to a demon meld before.”

“Neither have I.”

The big Fardohnyan laughed. “You’re all right for an atheist.”

“Where are we?” Tarja asked, glancing at the rolling grasslands that faded into the distance on either side of the river. The sun hovered low over the jagged purple horizon in the distance that was the Sanctuary Mountains.

“About four days from Bordertown at this speed,” Drendik told him. “We should find them soon.” He glanced at the setting sun on the western horizon. “They will pull into the bank for the night.”

Tarja was willing to believe anything that Drendik told him that meant they would catch the Karien Envoy before he left Medalon, although Drendik’s assessment was more than likely correct. Unfamiliar-ity with the Glass River was a prime cause of accidents on the vast waterway. Even Tarja, who had spent little time on the river, knew that.

“And when we find them? What then?” Tarja asked. “If you help us storm the boat, it will be considered an act of piracy.”

Drendik shrugged. “Storming a Karien boat to rescue a Divine One would be considered an act of great