From Booklist
The Sisters of the Blade, backed by warriors known as the Defenders, have ruled Medalon for two centuries, forbidding pagan worship or belief in any god. The people of Karien, to the north, are fanatic worshipers of a single god, and to the south, fervent belief in the heathen gods prevails. Eighteen-year-old R'shiel has long fought her coldhearted mother's domination, but her half-brother, Tarja, is a colonel in the Defenders. When their mother becomes First Sister, however, the two defy her machinations and, forced to flee for their lives, get caught up in a rebellion against the Sisterhood. Also part of the mix are the mysterious Harshini, who were assumed to be extinct, and the gods themselves, who readily mix in human affairs as they search for the Demon Child they had created to destroy an evil god. In her first novel, beginning the Hythrun Chronicles, Australian author Fallon conjures a viable, richly detailed world and its disparate societies. Characterizations, including those of the interfering gods, are well realized, and the suspense is palpable throughout. Sally Estes
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine vergriffene oder nicht verfügbare Ausgabe dieses Titels.
Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved -- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine vergriffene oder nicht verfügbare Ausgabe dieses Titels.
Kurzbeschreibung
According to legend, the last king of the Harshini sired a half-human child, known as the Demon Child, born to destroy a god . . .
The Sisterhood of the Blade rules Medalon with an iron fist--an iron fist within the steel 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 & R'shiel encounter Brak, an Harshini outcast, who forces them to face the most shocking fact of all: the Demon Child, thought to be nothing more than legend, may have been loosed in Medalon.
The Sisterhood of the Blade rules Medalon with an iron fist--an iron fist within the steel 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 & R'shiel encounter Brak, an Harshini outcast, who forces them to face the most shocking fact of all: the Demon Child, thought to be nothing more than legend, may have been loosed in Medalon.
Über den Autor
The ninth child in a family of 13 girls, Jennifer Fallon was born in a suburb of Melbourne, Australia. After living in various areas of Australia, including Canberra, Darwin, and a remote mining settlement, Fallon settled in the Northern Territory in 1980. She has two daughters and a son. She has had 32 foster children and friends refer to her home as "the ashram" due to the large number of stray teenagers that still inhabit her house at irregular intervals.
Fallon has worked as a youth worker, a store detective, shop assistant, an advertising sales rep and executive secretary, among other things. She has managed two hire car companies, an ISP, and a video shop, as well as founding the Anzac Hill Gymnastics Club in 1991. She is a member of the Business & Professional Women's Association and is often in demand as a guest speaker.
Fallon started writing when she was about 14. Her mother, who died when Fallon was 13, was an aspiring children's writer who encouraged her daughter to write. She started writing fantasy in 1990 when she decided she would be better off writing something for herself, rather than trying to please everyone else. In 1995, Jennifer vowed to either get published by the year 2000 or give up writing and get a real job. Her first novel, Medalon, was released in Australia in August 2000 and hit the bestseller list the first week it was released, as well as being shortlisted for the 2000 Aurealis Awards as the best Fantasy novel.
Fallon has worked as a youth worker, a store detective, shop assistant, an advertising sales rep and executive secretary, among other things. She has managed two hire car companies, an ISP, and a video shop, as well as founding the Anzac Hill Gymnastics Club in 1991. She is a member of the Business & Professional Women's Association and is often in demand as a guest speaker.
Fallon started writing when she was about 14. Her mother, who died when Fallon was 13, was an aspiring children's writer who encouraged her daughter to write. She started writing fantasy in 1990 when she decided she would be better off writing something for herself, rather than trying to please everyone else. In 1995, Jennifer vowed to either get published by the year 2000 or give up writing and get a real job. Her first novel, Medalon, was released in Australia in August 2000 and hit the bestseller list the first week it was released, as well as being shortlisted for the 2000 Aurealis Awards as the best Fantasy novel.
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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, 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 demeanour. 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 favourite 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-grey 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 amphitheatre, their eyes wide as they witnessed their first 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...
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, 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 demeanour. 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 favourite 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-grey 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 amphitheatre, their eyes wide as they witnessed their first 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...
