“It's too dangerous.”
Mandah laughed softly. “Dangerous? Tarja, I was fighting in the rebellion long before you came along and nothing much has changed that I can see. Why is it too dangerous for me and not for you?”
Tarja was unable to answer her. He could hardly admit his bravery had more to do with his desire to escape his own thoughts than it did from any innate sense of honour. Turning back to face the Kariens meant not having to continue south. It meant not having to face R'shiel for a little while longer. He was afraid to admit how much that thought relieved him.
“She has a point, Tarja. You'll raise less suspicion travelling with a Sister than you would if you travel alone.”
“Then it's settled. I'm going with you,” Mandah declared.
“Are you really so anxious to throw your life away?” he asked her with a frown.
“I don't plan to throw my life away, Tarja, and I wasn't aware that this was a suicide mission.” Her eyes challenged him to deny her accusation.
Tarja looked away first. “No, I'm not planning a suicide mission. You can come if you wish. We'll be riding hard though. It won't be easy.”
“If I'd wanted 'easy', Tarja, I would have stayed with the Sisterhood.”
Later that evening, Tarja sat in the taproom of the Roan Vale tavern finishing his meal, wondering why Mandah had accused him of planning a suicide mission. He didn't feel suicidal. But neither did the prospect of dying unduly concern him. As he pondered the matter, he realised that the only thing he felt about death, when he consciously thought about it at all, was apathy. He did not hunger for death. He did not particularly hunger for life. He simply didn't care.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
Tarja looked up at the old man who had spoken and glanced around the room. The taproom was filled to capacity and the only spare seat was the empty bench opposite him. He wondered for a moment if the others were avoiding him.
“Suit yourself,” he replied with a shrug.
The man sat down with his foaming tankard and smiled at Tarja. He had long white hair and a disturbingly familiar air about him that Tarja couldn't quite place.
“You look troubled, my son.”
“These are troubling times.”
“And you bear a heavier burden than most, I suspect.”
Tarja shrugged but did not offer a reply. He had no wish to fall into conversation with this old man, whoever he was.
“I hear you flee Medalon to join the demon child?”
Tarja looked up sharply. “Where did you hear that?”
“The rumours are everywhere,” the old man told him. “There's not a Defender here who isn't whispering the news to his comrades.”
“Well,” the old man continued, taking a sip of his ale, “one can hardly blame you for being worried.”
“Who says I'm worried?”
“Every line on your face proclaims it, Captain.”
“Thanks for your concern, but you needn't be worried on my behalf. We have everything under control.”
“I'm sure you do,” the old man agreed solemnly. “But nothing will ever be certain while the demon child lives.”
Tarja studied the old man suspiciously. He was not so full of his own troubles that he did not recognise a threat to R'shiel when he heard it.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“I mean nothing,” he shrugged. “It just seems to me that the Kariens would be much more amenable if they weren't facing the threat of the demon child. Isn't she supposed to destroy their God? How would you feel if you thought someone was trying to destroy everything that you held dear? One doesn't have to be on their side to understand what drives them. I just think it odd that the Defenders are going to such pains to protect the very one whose presence caused this conflict in the first place.”
“R'shiel didn't start this war.”
“Didn't she? Isn't her existence what prompted the Kariens to act? You killed their Envoy because he was trying to take R'shiel to Karien, didn't you? Why do you defend her? If Medalon means so much to you, why not simply hand her over and be done with it? She's your greatest bargaining chip, yet you refuse to play it. Is she so important to you that you are willing to risk your entire nation to protect her?”
“You don't know what you're talking about, old man,” Tarja scoffed, unwilling to admit that his logic made frightening sense. Could it really be that simple? Could they end this conflict now by trading R'shiel to the Kariens? Would their enemy withdraw for something so easily arranged? Tarja shook his head, unable to believe that he could even consider betraying her.
The old man looked at him closely, as if he could read Tarja's internal conflict. Then he smiled and shrugged and took another swallow of his ale.
“You must forgive me, Captain. I let my mouth run away with me at times. I'm just an old man who sees things a little differently from younger men. What would I know? I wish you luck in your quest.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Tarja replied, pushing away the remains of his stew. For some reason he had lost his appetite.
“I just hope the demon child appreciates the sacrifice you have made for her, Captain.”
The old man downed the rest of his ale and climbed to his feet. Tarja watched him as he threaded his way through the crowd to the door, disturbed to discover how easily the seeds of doubt and treachery planted by the old man had found fertile ground inside his troubled mind.
CHAPTER 19
Slaves lined the walls of the Main Hall of the Summer Palace, moving the languid air about with large rattan fans, although at this time of year the temperature was quite bearable. It was an impressive chamber, crowded with courtiers and supplicants awaiting the chance for an audience with their King. The potted palms provided the perfect backdrop for the clusters of schemers and sycophants who always seemed to find their way into any royal court, regardless of where it was or who was in power. Hablet held open court here each morning when he was in residence, and made a point of putting in an appearance, even if he never actually heard a petition.
Brak moved among the jewelled and pampered crowd, dressed in the garish yellow silk trousers and embroidered vest Teriahna had provided for him. She had claimed, with a perfectly straight face, that it gave him an air of “rustic nobility”. He assumed she meant he looked like the provincial lord he was pretending to be. He privately suspected he looked like an idiot.
Eventually he spied the man he was searching for and pushed his way through the courtiers to confront him. Hablet had yet to arrive and his Chamberlain, Lecter Turon, was busy openly collecting the bribes that would ensure one a place at the head of the queue. Brak had no intention of parting with a single coin to see Hablet. He had far better currency to deal with.
“My Lord Chamberlain?”
The eunuch turned to Brak and looked him over with a practised eye, taking in his air of “rustic nobility” and dismissing him as inconsequential with a single glance.
