Medalon

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 amphitheatre. 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 grey-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 backwards 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 manoeuvring 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. Rumour 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 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 women 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 honoured that trust. She gave her life for it. Now we honour 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 grey 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, heavilFallon, Jennifer is the author of 'Medalon', published 2004 under ISBN 9780765348661 and ISBN 0765348667.