The Walls of Westernfort Read online

  “And what have you heard via the barrack-room gossip?” The eyes above the mask narrowed shrewdly.

  “Er...” Natasha swallowed, but she could not refuse to answer, and lying was unthinkable. “Some Guards...claim there really once was a strong, defended base, and we took heavy casualties before finally conquering it.”

  “I suppose it was only to be expected that the survivors would talk.” The Chief Consultant’s voice was quietly rueful. She tapped her fingertips together and then looked up sharply. “And lastly, do you recognize the name of Kimberly Ramon?”

  It’s a trap. The thought shot through Natasha’s head. Everyone must have heard the banned songs, but only a fool would admit it. Natasha’s eyes fixed on the paneled wall as her stomach contracted, but before she could formulate an answer, the elderly Sister spoke again.

  “It’s obvious from your face that you do. Don’t worry. We didn’t bring you here to accuse you of spreading sedition. I’m afraid there are very few who haven’t been exposed to the doggerel.”

  Natasha found her voice. “I’ve paid no attention to it. The few bits I’ve heard have been idiotic fantasy. It couldn’t—”

  The Chief Consultant interrupted her with a quote from a song:

  For all the Sisters’ traps and plots,

  Ramon cannot be caught.

  She lives safe with her love behind

  The walls of Westernfort.

  Silence filled the room until the Chief Consultant sighed and continued. “Yes, it is fantasy, but unfortunately, there’s a basis of truth in it.” She pushed back her chair and walked to the window.

  Natasha glanced at the other woman in the room, hoping for some hint of what was meant, but Commandant Jacobs’ expression was as stony as ever. Eventually, the senior Sister left her contemplation of the scene outside and turned around.

  “Kimberly Ramon was a Ranger.” A bitter tone had entered the Chief Consultant’s voice. “She even reached the rank of lieutenant before her true nature was discovered and she was court-martialed. Then she deserted, taking the rest of her squadron with her. They joined with Gina Renamed and her heretics, hiding in the western mountains, and together, they founded a settlement, which they called Westernfort.”

  Natasha stared in wide-eyed astonishment. The Guards held an ingrained contempt of the Rangers, seeing them as irreverent rabble, but for a whole squadron to desert was unbelievable, and the Chief Consultant had not yet finished.

  “That was sixteen years ago. If we could have located the settlement immediately, we might have been able to do something about it. Alas, by the time we found them, they’d dug themselves in. We sent every Guard we could muster to capture the site, but I’m afraid both the official and unofficial reports fall short of the truth. We were unable to overcome the defenses and lost nearly two hundred Guards in the attempt.”

  A faint sound from the Commandant as she shifted her feet was a momentary distraction, but Natasha could not take her eyes from the woman in white.

  “For the last five years, we’ve been forced to leave the heretics in control of the western mountains. The 23rd was a top-notch squadron. Guards are no match for them on their home ground, and the Rangers we send have a tendency to go over to their side. Ramon may lack any sort of morals, but she doesn’t lack powers of persuasion.”

  The Chief Consultant walked forward until she stood scant centimeters from Natasha. Her eyes were as hard as her voice. “Their lives are an insult to the Goddess, and a day does not pass without my praying to be forgiven for allowing them to continue in their foul depravity. But at last, Celaeno has given us the chance to strike a blow in her name.

  “Yesterday, we captured a group of three heretics who were fleeing to join their confederates. From them, we’ve been able to learn their planned route to Westernfort. It’s our intention to send three disguised Guards in their place. Once our agents are inside the defenses, they’ll carry out the death sentences that have been passed on the leaders. It’s too much to hope that resistance will crumble, but it will be weakened, and the Goddess will know that we do not ignore insults to her divinity.”

  The elderly Sister returned to her desk and sat down. She gestured to the Commandant, passing control of the briefing to her. Jacobs cleared her throat.

  “Guardswoman Ionadis, your name has been put forward for three reasons. First, we believe you possess the quick wits necessary to carry off the impersonation. Second, you bear a passing physical resemblance to one of the heretics. Third, the strength of your devotion is beyond question, and this last point is the most crucial. It is not an easy mission. You must be ready to kill to order, not in the heat of battle.

  “And as I started by saying, there is little hope of your returning to Landfall. The season is against you. By the time you reach Westernfort, it will be winter. Even if you escape after fulfilling your mission, the weather in the mountains will make the return journey impossible. It will not be counted against your record if you decline this mission.”

  Natasha’s head went up. “It would be an honor to destroy the enemies of the Goddess, and I am not frightened to die in her name.”

  “Then all that remains is for the Chief Consultant to tell you of the three leaders who will be your targets. All three have been duly tried and sentenced in their absence, and in executing them, by whatever means, you will not be committing murder. You will be carrying out the sanctified orders of the Goddess’ earthly representative.”

  The Commandant bowed respectfully to the leader of the Sisterhood. The Chief Consultant acknowledged the action and turned to Natasha.

  “Indeed. The first is Gina Renamed, the leader of the heretics, who first began spreading the blasphemous lies. To our shame, I must confess that she was once a Sister in this temple. She did suffer a severe brain injury, which might explain—although not excuse—her actions. She is the source and root cause of all that has happened and deserves to die a hundred times over.

  “Your second target is Kimberly Ramon, and she will probably present the greatest challenge. She’s an experienced and capable soldier. Do not underestimate her. The Goddess has blessed her with many admirable qualities: courage, leadership, even personal charm. But she has chosen to use her talents only to defy her creator. The deaths of the Guards who attacked Westernfort were her work.”

  The Chief Consultant paused. “Your third target is in many ways the most serious. She’s called Lynn. She has no last name, since she is an Imprinter.”

  Natasha felt as if a whirlwind had blown through her head, scrambling her thoughts. The most impossible part, in all the preposterous songs, was the claim that Kimberly Ramon had won the heart of an Imprinter, inducing her to forsake Himoti and the temple, and that they were now lovers. The very suggestion was outrageous. Imprinters were the chosen of the Goddess—the ones so gifted with the healer sense that they could not merely induce pregnancy in a woman, but also imprint new patterns on the embryo’s DNA. The Imprinters alone could create new, unique human beings. Surely the Goddess would not bestow this divine power on anyone susceptible to heresy.

  The Chief Consultant clearly noticed Natasha’s response. “I know. It is...unbelievable. Of all the heretics’ crimes, the corruption of one of Celaeno’s chosen is surely the worst, and even more harmful than we at first realized, since initially, we were sure that the Goddess would withdraw her gift. But I’m afraid we have gathered evidence that Lynn is, rather than was, an Imprinter.”

  “But ma’am”—Natasha could not help speaking—“don’t Imprinters have to be celibate in order to do their work?”

  “Yes, they do, and I know what parts of the songs you’re referring to.” The Chief Consultant’s voice held a shadow of humor. “It’s a good lesson in not believing anything they say. It’s too easy for the faithful to get caught in the web of lies spread by the heretics. Believe me, I would be much happier if she and Ramon were lovers, for then we would not be faced with the problem of a second generation of heretics to de
fy the Goddess. This is why Lynn, more than anyone else, must be eliminated if we’re to see the end to this heresy.

  “The execution of the leaders at Westernfort is not just punishment for their past crimes. It’s to protect the future from the spread of their blasphemy. This is the sacred charge laid on you, for the glory of the Goddess.” The Chief Consultant placed her hands face down on the desk and looked toward the Commandant. “And I think that concludes all that must be said, unless you have anything to add.”

  Commandant Jacobs stepped forward. “Only to say that I have been very pleased by your response, Guardswoman. However, I feel it would be wise for you to spend a little more time thinking things over. This will be our one chance to destroy the enemies of the Goddess. If you have the slightest doubt about your ability to carry out the mission, it would be far better to let someone else go in your place. Sleep on it, and come to see me first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Natasha was about to reaffirm her willingness but settled for saying only, “Yes, ma’am.”

  The Commandant nodded. “You are dismissed.”

  Natasha brought herself to attention and then turned to the door, but as she opened it, the Commandant spoke again. “Guardswoman Ionadis.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You will be passing yourself off as a civilian. Don’t bother getting your hair cut.”

  *

  A Sister was waiting outside the room when Natasha left, possibly the same one who had guided her to the meeting, although the mask made it impossible to be sure. Again, Natasha was led through the sanctum. Unlike she had been upon her arrival, she was now so preoccupied that she was unaware of her surroundings until she returned to the great hall.

  The light from the windows high in the dome was muted. The day was almost over, and the temple was closing for the night. Few people were in sight, just a gaggle of late worshippers being herded toward the doors and a pair of Sisters in white, tending the shrines. Natasha’s gaze slipped over the scene; it felt unreal, dreamlike. Her eyes fixed on the sacred fire burning on the main altar. The sight drew Natasha, half stumbling, to the steps. The dancing flame seemed to replicate the rapturous emotions swirling inside her.

  Natasha knelt. She could not remember ever feeling quite so happy or so proud. She had joined the Guards to devote her life to Celaeno, but sometimes, over the previous three years, she had been tempted to question her decision. There was the jeering taunt thrown at anyone joining the Guards: Not so much a soldier, more a laundress. Frequently, it had seemed quite justified. But now, she had a chance to fight for her faith, to give her life to overthrow those who rejected the Goddess. She would truly be a soldier for Celaeno.

  An inappropriate urge to giggle welled up inside her. Natasha clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. Then she bent her head in prayer:

  I promise, Celaeno, I will destroy your enemies. My life is yours to do with as you will. Make me strong in your love that I may triumph for your sake, and if I turn aside from this task, may I be damned forever.

  Chapter Two—The Streets of Landfall

  Dusk was not far off when Natasha left the temple grounds. Soon, the huge iron gateway would be closed and barred, releasing her comrades of the 3rd Company from sentry duty. Several stood at attention by the exit. Natasha looked at them briefly and considered returning to the barracks to await their arrival, but she felt in need of space to think. So instead, she turned and strolled slowly up the road, in the direction heading away from the Guards’ headquarters.

  The familiar, hectic street life of Landfall swept by around her, the daily activity of the busy city. It had been home for all of her twenty-one years. Its thoroughfares and alleyways had been her playground as a child and her workplace during her two years in the Militia. At different times in her life, she had found the city exciting in its energy and depressing in its vulgarity. Now she felt a gentle affection for its unchanging cheerful audacity.

  At the end of the road, closely packed houses on either side gave way to the broad, cobbled square of the marketplace. Trading was still brisk despite the onset of night. The cries of peddlers and store holders battled in a riot of sound. The pathways between the stalls were crammed with prospective customers.

  Natasha stood to one side and surveyed the scene. Her eyes fixed on a group of girls in one corner, playing football with a discarded cabbage. Eight years ago, she would have been one of them. It seemed to symbolize a part of her life that was over. There was not the slightest doubt in her mind that the next morning, she would restate her willingness to undertake the mission and would soon be leaving the city, never to return.

  I suppose I should go and see Mother one last time. Natasha considered the idea with mixed feelings and sighed. It would not be pleasant. It never was. But it was best to get it over with. Her jaw hardened. There was also something she had to ask, although she did not know how likely it was she would get an answer. Things might be eased if she took a gift, and only one thing would be acceptable. She moved away, walking purposefully toward the nearest wine merchant.

  The shopkeeper hesitated at the sight of the uniform, obviously taken aback to have a Guard as a customer. Natasha did not bother to explain that the merchandise was not for herself; it should have gone without saying. She paid the money after only the most token effort at bartering and walked out with a bottle of sweet brandy in her hand.

  As she headed away from the market, the streets became narrower and shabbier, although Natasha was still some way from the slums when she reached her destination: a thin, terraced house squeezed between two larger neighbors. The door was unbarred and swung open when she knocked. Natasha stepped through to the dimly lit room inside.

  “Is that you, Louise?” her mother’s voice called out.

  Louise? Natasha thought. The name was not one she recognized, but even when she had lived in the house, she’d had difficulty keeping track of her mother’s lovers. Cilla Ionadis clambered to her feet and stood, swaying slightly in the firelight that flickered over the squalid clutter covering every horizontal surface in the room. Natasha fought to keep the contempt from her face. The house was a shambles, as usual, and her mother was drunk, as usual.

  “Oh, it’s you.” Her mother’s voice was hardly welcoming.

  “Hello, Mom. I’d thought I’d come and see you. I’ve brought you a present.” Natasha held out the brandy.

  Cilla looked as if she was about to tell her daughter to go, but the sight of the bottle deflected her. She pointed Natasha toward a chair and then stumbled to an overflowing dresser, returning with two chipped mugs. She slumped back in her seat, put the mugs on the floor by her feet, and held out her hand for the brandy. The quantity of the strong spirit slopped into one mug would have been more appropriate for wine. Or water. Before she moved on to the other, Natasha forestalled her.

  “It’s okay. I won’t have any.”

  Cilla’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Of course. You don’t drink, do you? My pious little soldier. And you don’t swear, or dance, or gamble. I’m amazed you ever got around to sex.” She laughed without humor. “I bet you were lousy at it. No wonder Beatrice chucked you.”

  Natasha made no reply. There was no point. The spiteful words were offered as much out of habit as anything, and getting into an argument was not a good way to proceed. Instead, Natasha settled back in her chair and studied her mother’s face in the firelight. Despite age and drink, Cilla Ionadis was still a very beautiful woman. Her lifestyle had not yet spoiled the chiseled perfection of her profile, but surely her looks could not last much longer. And what will she do then? Natasha wondered. The string of besotted lovers had provided her mother’s main income for as long as Natasha could remember.

  When she saw that her taunts had produced no response, Cilla took a deep mouthful of brandy and then asked sarcastically, “And why have I been privileged with your exalted company tonight?”

  “I wanted to see you before I left,” Natasha replied evenly.
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  “Where are you going?” Her mother sat up slightly, the derision in her voice curbed.

  “I’m being posted out of town for a while.”

  “What will happen while you’re gone?”

  It might have been a cryptic question, had Natasha been less familiar with her mother’s thinking. “I’ll arrange to have my pay sent directly here. You can take your share and look after the rest until I get back.”

  It was an amusing piece of fiction. They both knew that all the money would be spent, and they both knew that the other knew. Cilla’s eyes narrowed as she looked at her daughter, suspecting some trick, but Natasha was not about to offer enlightenment by explaining that there was no chance of her returning to claim the money.

  For a while, the only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire. Then the older woman snorted, drained her mug, and poured herself another shot. Natasha watched pensively, trying to judge her mother’s mood and level of intoxication. The drinking had definitely gotten worse over the past few years, while its effects had become less dramatic. Mellow was not the right word; it was more as if Cilla’s ability to react to the external world was fading, as if she no longer cared about it. Maybe her indifference would be enough for her to answer Natasha’s question, or maybe she would lapse into surly silence. There was only one way to find out.

  “Mom, there was something I wanted to ask you.”

  “What?”

  “My other mother…my gene mother.”

  “What about her?”

  “I just wondered, who was she? What happened to her?”

  Cilla gave a loud bark of laughter. “She’s been gone for twenty years. You certainly took your time asking.”

  The assertion was not quite true, but the last time Natasha had asked, she was still young enough to receive a clip around the ear by way of an answer. “I know that you don’t like to talk about her.”