Jennifer Fallon - Demon Child 01 - Medalon

According to legend, the last king of the Harshini sired a half-human child,

known as the Demon Child, born to destroy a god....

Medalon

The Sisterhood of the Blade rules Medalon with an iron fist—a fist that wears the gauntlet of the

Defenders, elite warriors sworn to uphold the Sisters and keep Medalon free of heathen influence.

R’shiel, daughter of the First Sister of the Blade, has pulled against the short leash of her mother ever

since she was a child. Her half-brother, Tarja, is the dutiful son who serves as a captain in the Defenders.

But when they run afoul of their mother’s machinations, they must flee for their lives. They soon find

themselves caught up in the rebellion against the Sisterhood, though they revile their fellow conspirators’

heathen belief in the Harshini—a fabled race of magical beings thought long extinct.

But then Tarja and R’shiel encounter Brak, a Harshini outcast, who forces them to face the most

shocking fact of all: R’shiel just may be the Demon Child, brought into this world to destroy an evil god.

MEDALON

Book one of the Hythrun chronicles

JENNIFER FALLON

for Adele Robinson

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I always threatened that my acknowledgment would read something like: I would like to thank my

children, without whom this book would have been finished several years sooner . . .

In fact, without their unwavering faith, it might never have been finished at all. I would particularly like to

thank David, for his endless supply of coffee and for turning out so well when his mother spent so many

of his formative years lost in another world. My heartfelt thanks also to Amanda, for her excellent

proofreading and for naming the God of Thieves, and to TJ for being such a good listener—although I

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wish she had not waited until I was halfway through the final draft before asking, “What would happen if

R’shiel was Joyhinia’s daughter?”

I would like to thank Irene Dahlberg and Kirsten Tranter for seven pages of insight that pointed me in

the right direction and Lyn Tranter at Australian Literary Management for her patience.

My heartfelt thanks go to Dave English from the Alice Springs Yacht Club, for his expert advice on

sailing. Nor can I forget to mention Toni-Maree and John Elferink MLA, for their unwavering support

when I needed them most and for putting up with my eccentricities on a daily basis.

Last but not least, I must thank my good friend Harshini Bhoola, whose relentless enthusiasm and

endless reading of draft after draft of this series earned her an entire race of people named in her honor.

She deserves a place with the gods.

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part one

THE CITADEL

chapter 1

The funeral pyre caught with a whoosh, lighting the night sky and shadowing the faces of the thousands

gathered to witness the Burning. Smoke, scented with fragrant oils to disguise the smell of burning flesh,

hung in the warm, still air, as if reluctant to leave the ceremony. The spectators were silent as the hungry

flames licked the oil-soaked pyre, reaching for Trayla’s corpse. The death of the First Sister had drawn

almost every inhabitant of the Citadel to the amphitheater.

R’shiel Tenragan caught the Lord Defender’s eye as she pushed her way through the green tunics of the

senior Novices to take her place past the ranks of blue-gowned Sisters and gray-robed Probates.

Feeling his eyes on her, she looked up. The Mistress of the Sisterhood would have her hide if he

reported she’d been late. She met the Lord Defender’s gaze defiantly, before turning her eyes to the

pyre.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Lord Defender take an involuntarily step backward as the

flames seared his time-battered face. Surreptitiously, she glanced at the ranks of women and girls who

stood in a solemn circle around the pyre. Their faces were unreadable in the firelight. For the most part

they were still, their heads bowed respectfully. Occasionally, a foot shuffled on the sandy floor of the

arena.How many were genuinely grieving, she mused,and how many more had their minds on the

Quorum, and who would fill the vacancy?

R’shiel knew the political maneuvering had begun the moment Trayla had been found in her study, the

knife of her assailant still buried in her breast. Her killer was barely out of his teens. He was waiting even

now in the cells behind the Defenders’ Headquarters to be hanged. Rumor had it that he was a disciple of

the River Goddess, Maera. The Sisterhood had confiscated his family’s boat—and with it, their

livelihood—for the crime of worshipping a heathen god. He had come to the Citadel to save his family

from starvation, he claimed, to beg the First Sister for mercy.

He had killed her instead.

What had Trayla said to the boy,R’shiel wondered? What would cause him to pull a knife on the First

Sister—a daunting figure to an uneducated river-brat? Surely he must have known his plea would fall on

deaf ears? Pagan worship had been outlawed in Medalon for two centuries. The Harshini were extinct

and with them their demons and their gods.If he wanted mercy, he should have migrated south, she

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thought unsympathetically. They still believed in the heathen gods in Hythria and Fardohnya, R’shiel

knew, and the whole of Karien to the north was fanatically devoted to the worship of a single god, but in

Medalon they had progressed beyond pagan ignorance centuries ago.

A voice broke the silence. R’shiel glanced through the firelight at the old woman who spoke.

“Since our beloved Param led us to enlightenment, the Sisters of the Blade have carried on her solemn

trust to free Medalon from the chains of heathen idolatry. As First Sister, Trayla honored that trust. She

gave her life for it. Now we honor Trayla.Let us remember our Sister.”

She joined the thousands of voices repeating the ritual phrase. It was uncomfortably warm this close to

the pyre on such a balmy summer’s eve and her high-necked green tunic was damp with sweat.

“Let us remember our Sister.”

Small and wrinkled, Francil Asharen was the oldest member of the Quorum and had presided over this

ceremony twice before. She was Mistress of the Citadel, the civilian administrator of this vast

city-complex. Twice before she had refused to be nominated as First Sister and R’shiel could think of no

reason that would change her mind this time. She had no ambition beyond her current position.

Harith Nortarn, the tall, heavily built Mistress of the Sisterhood, stood beside her. R’shiel grimaced

inwardly. The woman was a harridan, and her beautifully embroidered white silk gown did nothing to

soften her demeanor. Generations of Novices, Probates, and even fully qualified Blue Sisters lived in fear

of incurring her wrath. Even the other Quorum members avoided upsetting her.

R’shiel turned her attention to the small, plump woman who stood at Harith’s shoulder: Mahina

Cortanen. The Mistress of Enlightenment. Her gown was as elaborate as Harith’s—soft white silk edged

with delicate gold embroidery—but she still managed to look like a peasant in a borrowed dress. She

was R’shiel’s personal favorite of all the Quorum members, her own mother included. Mahina was only a

little taller than Francil and wore a stern but thoughtful expression.

Next to Mahina, Joyhinia Tenragan wore exactly the right expression of grief and quiet dignity for the

occasion. Her mother was the newest member of the Quorum and, R’shiel fervently hoped, the least

likely to be elected as the new First Sister. Although each member of the Quorum held equal rank, the

Mistress of the Interior controlled the day-to-day running of the nation, because she was responsible for

the Administrators in every major town in Medalon. It was a position of great responsibility and

traditionally seen as a stepping-stone to gaining the First Sister’s mantle.

R’shiel watched her thoughtfully then glanced at the man who was supposed to be her father. Joyhinia

and Lord Jenga were coldly polite toward each other—and had been for as long as R’shiel could

remember. He was a tall, solid man with iron-gray hair, but he was always unfailingly polite to her and

had never, to her knowledge, denied he was her father. Considering the frost that seemed to gather in the

air between her mother and the Lord Defender whenever they were close, R’shiel could not imagine how

they had ever been warm enough toward each other to conceive a child.

The fire reached upward, licking at Trayla’s white robe. R’shiel wondered for a moment if the fragrant

oils had been enough. Would the smell of the First Sister’s crisping flesh sicken the gathered Sisters?

Probably not, she noted darkly.

Behind the members of the Quorum and the blue-gowned ranks of the Sisters, the Probates and

Novices were ranked around the floor of the amphitheater, their eyes wide as they witnessed their first

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public Burning. Some of them looked a little pale, even in the ruby light of the funeral pyre, but tomorrow

they would cheer themselves hoarse with glee when the young assassin was publicly hanged.Hypocrites,

she thought, stifling a disrespectful yawn.

The vigil over the First Sister continued through the night. The silence was unsettling. Another yawn

threatened to undo her, so R’shiel turned her attention to the first ten ranks of the seating surrounding the

Arena. They were filled by red-coated Defenders who stood to attention throughout the long watch.

Lord Jenga had not spared them a glance all night. He did not have to. They were Defenders. There was

no shuffling of feet numbed by standing all night. No bored expressions or hidden yawns. She envied their

discipline.

As the night progressed, the crowd in the upper levels of the tiered seating gradually thinned. The

civilians who lived at the Citadel had jobs to do and other places to be. They could not afford the luxury

of an all-night vigil. In the morning, the Sisters, Probates, and Novices would still expect to be waited on.

Life went on in the Citadel, regardless of who lived or died.

The night dragged on in silence until the first tentative rays of daylight announced the next and most

anxiously awaited part of the ceremony.

As a faint luminescence softened the darkness, Francil raised her head. “Let us remember our Sister!”

“Let us remember our Sister,” the gathered Sisters, Probates, Novices and Defenders echoed in a

monotone. Every one of them was tired. They were beyond being reverent and wished only that the

ceremony were over.

“Let us move forward toward a new future,” Francil called.

“Let us move forward toward a new future,” R’shiel repeated, this time with slightly more interest.

Finally, the time had come to announce Trayla’s successor, a decision that affected every citizen in

Medalon.

“Hail the First Sister, Mahina Cortanen!”

“Hail the First Sister, Mahina Cortanen!” the crowd chanted.

R’shiel gasped with astonishment as Mahina stood forward to accept the dutiful, if rather tired, cheers of

the gathering. She could not believe it.What political scheming and double-dealing had the others

indulged in? How, with all their intrigues and plotting had the Quorum actually elected someone capable

of doing the job well? R’shiel had to stop herself from laughing out loud.

As the cheers subsided, Mahina turned to Jenga. “My Lord Defender, will you swear the allegiance of

the Defenders to me?”

“Gladly, your Grace,” Jenga replied.

He unsheathed his sword and stepped forward, laying the polished blade on the sandy ground at the feet

of the new First Sister. He bent one knee and waited for the senior officers down on the arena floor to

follow suit. The Defenders up in the stands placed clenched fists over their hearts as Jenga’s voice rang

out in the silent arena.

“By the blood in my veins and the soil of Medalon, I swear that the Defenders are yours to command,

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First Sister, until my death or yours.”

A loud, deep-throated cheer went up from the Defenders. Jenga rose to his feet and met Mahina’s eyes.

R’shiel watched her accept the accolade. Never had a woman looked less like a First Sister.

Mahina nodded to Jenga, thanking him silently, then turned to the gathering and opened her arms wide.

“I declare a day of rest,” she announced, her first proclamation as First Sister. Her voice sounded

rasping and dry after the warm night standing before a blazing bonfire. “A day to contemplate the life of

our beloved Trayla. A day to witness the execution of her murderer. Tomorrow, we will begin the next

chapter of the Sisterhood. Today we rest.”

Another tired cheer greeted her announcement. With her dismissal, the ranks of the Sisterhood dissolved

as the women turned with relief toward the tunnel that led out of the arena to make their way home. They

muttered quietly among themselves, no doubt as surprised as R’shiel was to learn the identity of the new

First Sister. The Defenders still did not move, would not move, until every Sister had left the arena.

Mahina led the exodus. R’shiel studied Joyhinia and the other members of the Quorum, but they gave no

hint of their true feelings.

The sky was considerably lighter as the last green-skirted Novice disappeared down the tunnel and

Jenga finally dismissed his men. R’shiel waited for the others to leave, hoping for a moment alone with the

Lord Defender. The pyre collapsed in on itself with a sharp crack and a shower of sparks as the

Defenders broke ranks with relief. Many simply sat down. Many more flexed stiff knees and rubbed

aching backs. Jenga beckoned two of his captains to him. The men rose stiffly but saluted sharply enough

for the Foundation Day Parade.

“Georj, keep some men here and keep the pyre burning until it is nothing but ashes,” he ordered the

younger of the two wearily.

“And the ashes, my Lord?” Georj asked.

“Rake them into the sand,” he said with a shrug. “They mean nothing now.” He turned to the older

captain. “Tell the men they may only rest once their mounts are fed and taken care of, Nheal. And then

call for volunteers for the hanging guard. I’ll need ten men.”

“For this hanging guard you’ll get more than ten volunteers,” Nheal predicted.

“Then pick the sensible ones,” Jenga suggested, impatiently. “This is a hanging, Captain, not a carnival.”

“My Lord,” the captain replied, saluting with a clenched fist over his heart. He hesitated a moment longer

then added tentatively, “Interesting choice for First Sister, don’t you think, my Lord?”

“I don’t think, Captain,” Jenga told him stiffly. “And neither should you.” He frowned, daring the

younger man to laugh at his rather asinine comment. “I am sure First Sister Mahina will be a wise and fair

leader.”

R’shiel saw through his polite words. Jenga was obviously delighted by Mahina’s appointment. That

augured well for what she had in mind.

“The expression ‘about bloody time’ leaps to mind, actually,” Nheal remarked, almost too softly for

R’shiel to make it out.

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“Don’t overstep yourself, Captain,” Jenga warned. “It is not your place to comment on the decisions of

the Sisterhood. And you might like to tell your brother captains not to overindulge in the taverns tonight.

Remember, until tomorrow, we are still in mourning.”

Jenga turned from the pile of embers and noticed R’shiel for the first time. As day broke fully over the

amphitheater, bringing with it a hint of the summer heat to come, he walked stiffly toward the exit tunnel

where she was standing.

“Lord Jenga?” she ventured as he approached.

“Shouldn’t you return to your quarters, R’shiel?” Jenga asked gruffly.

“I wanted to ask you something.”

Jenga glanced over his shoulder to ensure his orders were being carried out, then nodded. R’shiel fell

into step beside him as they entered the cool darkness of the tunnel that led under the amphitheater.

“What will happen now, Lord Jenga?”

“The appointment of a new First Sister always heralds a change of direction, R’shiel, even if only a small

one.”

“Mother says Trayla was an unimaginative leader, lacking in initiative. Actually, she used to refer to her

as ‘that useless southern cow.’”

“You, of all people, should know better than to repeat that sort of gossip, R’shiel.”

She smiled faintly at his tone. “And what about Mahina? Joyhinia calls her an idealistic fool.”

“Sister Mahina has my respect, as do all the Sisters of the Blade.”

“Do you think her elevation means a change in the thinking of the Sisterhood?”

The Lord Defender stopped and looked at her, obviously annoyed by her question. “R’shiel, you said

you wanted to ask me something. Ask it or leave. I do not want to stand here discussing politics and idle

gossip with you.”

“I want to know what happens now,” she said.

“I will be called on to witness the Spear of the First Sister swear fealty to Mahina. It will undoubtedly be

Lord Draco.”

“He’s supposed to be the First Sister’s bodyguard,” R’shiel pointed out. “Yet Trayla died at the hand of

an assassin.”

“The position of First Spear is a very difficult one to fill—the oath of celibacy it requires tends to

discourage many applicants.”

“So he gets to keep his job? Even though he did not do it?”

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Jenga’s patience was rapidly fading. “Draco was absent at the time, R’shiel. Trayla fancied she was able

to deal with a miserable pagan youth and ordered him out of the office. Now, is that all you wanted?”

“No. I was just curious, that’s all.”

“Then be specific, child. I have other business to attend to. I have an assassin to hang, letters to write,

and orders to issue ...”

“And banished officers who offended Trayla to recall?” she suggested hopefully.

Jenga shook his head. “I can’t revoke the First Sister’s orders, R’shiel.”

“The First Sister is dead.”

“That doesn’t mean I can rearrange the world to my liking.”

“But it does mean you can rearrange the Defenders,” R’shiel reminded him. She turned on her best,

winning smile. “Please, Lord Jenga. Bring Tarja home.”

chapter 2

Tarja Tenragan lay stretched out on the damp ground, looking out over the vast empty plain before him.

The earth smelled fresh from the morning rain and the teasing scent of pollen from the myriad wild flowers

tickled his nose, daring him to sneeze. Nothing but the distant call of a hawk, lazily riding the thermals,

disturbed the early afternoon. The rain had increased the humidity but done nothing to relieve the heat.

Sweat dampened the linen shirt under his soft leather jerkin and trickled annoyingly down his spine.

The border between Medalon and Hythria lay ahead. It was unmarked—merely a shallow ford across a

rocky, nameless waterway that everyone, Medalonian and Hythrun alike, simply referred to as the

Border Stream. Tarja listened with quiet concentration. After four years playing this game he knew that

out there, somewhere, was a Hythrun raiding party.

Suddenly, the silence was disturbed. He looked over his shoulder as Gawn marched purposefully

toward him, his smart red coat stark against the brown landscape.He might as well have a target painted

on his chest, Tarja fumed. As soon as he reached Tarja’s position, he grabbed Gawn’s arm and pulled

him roughly down to the ground.

“I told you to get rid of that damned coat!” he hissed.

“I am proud of my uniform, Captain. I am a Defender. I do not skulk through the grasslands in fear of

barbarians.”

“You do if you plan to survive out here,” Tarja told him irritably. His own jacket was tucked safely away

in his saddlebag, as were the red coats of all his men. He was wearing an old shirt and comfortably

broken-in leather trousers and jerkin. Hardly the attire for a ball at the Citadel but infinitely preferable to

being shot by a Hythrun arrow. Tarja absently brushed away a curious beetle come to investigate his

forearm and turned back to studying the ford, cursing Jenga. Gawn was only one of many stiff-necked,

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brand-new officers that Jenga had sent south over the last four years. He sent them to the border for

combat experience. Most of them even survived. He had his doubts about Gawn, though. He had been

here almost two months and was still trying to cling to the parade-ground traditions of the Citadel.

“What are we waiting for?” Gawn asked, in a voice that carried alarmingly on the soft breeze.

Tarja threw him an angry look. “What’s the date? And keep your damned voice down.”

“It’s the fourteenth day of Faberon,” Gawn replied, rather confused by the question.

“On the Hythrun calendar,” Tarja corrected.

Gawn frowned, still annoyed and rather horrified that the first task Tarja had set him to on his arrival at

Bordertown was learning the heathen calendar.

“It’s the twenty-first.. . no, the twenty-second day of Ramafar,” Gawn replied after a moment. “But I fail

to see what it—”

“I know you fail to see what it means,” Tarja interrupted. “That’s why you won’t last long out here. Two

days from now it will be the twenty-fourth day of Ramafar, which is the Hythrun Feast of Jelanna, the

Goddess of Fertility.”

“I’m sure the heathens appreciate the effort you put in remembering their festivals for them,” Gawn

remarked stiffly.

Tarja ignored the jibe and continued his explanation. “Our esteemed southern neighbor, the Warlord of

Krakandar, whose province begins on the other side of that stream, is traditionally required to throw a

very large party for his subjects.”

“So?”

Tarja shook his head at the younger man’s ignorance. “Lord Wolfblade thinks that it’s far cheaper to

feed the ravening hordes on nice, juicy Medalonian beef than cut into his own herds. It happens every

Feast Day. That’s why you need to learn the Hythrun calendar, Gawn.”

Gawn still looked unconvinced. “But how do you know they’ll come through here? He could cross the

border in any number of places.”

“The farms over there don’t get raided much. The families are probably heathens, or they’re too close to

Bordertown. The farms to the north and further east, however, get raided on a regular basis.”

“Heathens! If you know that, why don’t you arrest them!”

Tarja scanned the ford as he spoke. “I don’tknow that they’re heathens, Gawn, I only suspect it. The

last time I checked, the Defenders needed a bit more than suspicion to arrest otherwise law-abiding,

hardworking people. We’re here to guard the border from the Hythrun, not persecute our own people.”

“To place the law of a god above the law of the Sisterhood is treason,” Gawn reminded him officiously.

Tarja didn’t bother to reply. There was a line of trees southeast of them which could easily conceal a

raiding party. There was no telltale glint of metal to alert him to their presence, no betraying nicker from a

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Jennifer Fallon - Demon Child 01 - Medalon

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