Besieged

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘Would you look at that?’ Arodyti gasped. ‘That’s All-father Hueryx’s banner, taken from his brotherhood’s palace tower.’

  Imoshen had heard of banner-stealing, but couldn’t see the point.

  ‘It’s not easy to take another brotherhood’s banner,’ Arodyti told her. ‘They have to slip in, hide, make their way to the tower, grab the banner and get out again without hurting anyone. If they get caught, the other brotherhood beats them and throws them in the lake.’ She laughed at Imoshen’s expression. ‘A broken nose, maybe a broken bone and a ducking – worth it, for the stature.’

  Another brother joined the first on the stage, displaying All-father Chariode’s banner to more cheers. Two more arrived with brotherhood banners, then another and another.

  ‘That’s six out of nine banners. I don’t believe it!’ Sarosune sprang to her feet. ‘I’ve never seen this many banners.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s individual brothers making a play for stature,’ Arodyti said as she drew Imoshen to her feet. ‘This is an all-father, claiming stature for his brotherhood.’

  ‘But which one?’ Sarosune asked.

  ‘We’ll know when we see the last two banners.’

  ‘All-father Paragian!’ The shout went up as two more men mounted the stage. ‘Paragian!’

  Imoshen shook her head. After eight years of study, she believed she understood the customs of the T’Enatuath. Then something like this happened.

  Would she always feel like an outsider?

  BUILDINGS STILL BURNED. Sorne ignored the piteous moans of the injured, the weeping of mothers searching for children, and the cries of men looking for their wives and daughters among the raped and murdered. If he didn’t, he would go mad. A conquering army expected certain rewards, and King Charald was generous to his followers.

  Sorne strode through the capital of Navarone, the final kingdom to fall to King Charald. After winning Khitan only to lose Chalcedonia, the king had started out with just four loyal barons and an army depleted by the flux; now he ruled all the mainland kingdoms of the Secluded Sea, except Chalcedonia.

  Sorne was alone, having left his holy-swords taking a census of Navarone’s largest temple. He’d discovered leadership was mostly a matter of rewarding those who worked hard. The chance of advancement made men eager to serve him, and he did not favour noble over commoner.

  Stepping around the rubble of a collapsed shop front, he ducked past an overturned vintner’s cart.

  The softest of sounds made him glance behind him in time to see a blow coming his way. He ducked, and the cudgel took him on the shoulder.

  With no time to go for his sword, Sorne grabbed the cudgel and twisted. Something snapped in his attacker’s wrist. The man swore and lost his grip on the weapon.

  The scarred, middle-aged man backed up, calling for his companions.

  Sorne tossed the cudgel away and drew his sword.

  His new attackers were a pair of skinny, poorly-dressed youths, armed with nasty little knives. He recognised the type. Poor and desperate, they were more comfortable slitting the throats of drunks than facing an armed man.

  As King Charald’s personal advisor, messenger of the Warrior god, Sorne had fought off two assassination attempts in the first year. This was without any combat training, and he still bore the scars of both encounters. His holy-swords were supposed to come between him and assassins, but he wasn’t the type to leave anything to chance, so he’d taken training in both armed and unarmed combat.

  Now he eased into a swordsman’s stance.

  The youths cast the middle-aged thug a quick look, turned and fled. The older thug spat and backed off.

  Sorne’s hand trembled slightly as he sheathed his sword. He felt his shoulder gingerly. Broken collar bone. Again.

  Breathing carefully, he cradled his bad arm against his chest and headed for the palace, where he would take some of the Khitite soothing powders. Not that he would admit to using them. The king used nothing for his wounds, and despised men who did.

  Something about Sorne’s encounter with the thugs troubled him. It took him a few moments before he realised that, although they had all dressed like men of Navarone and the middle-aged thug had spoken Ronish, he had sworn in Chalcedonian. This was no random attack. Sorne suspected either his uncle, King Matxin, or one of the king’s supporters was behind it.

  Keeping to the middle of the streets, Sorne finally reached the palace square. He paused at the steps of the palace, to shake the ash and dust from his robes.

  ‘King Charald is looking for you, Warrior’s-voice.’ It was the son of the deposed Khitite king. Eight years ago, young Idan had been a hostage; now he was fifteen and loyal to King Charald. Baron Etri – King Etri, Sorne reminded himself – had married Idan’s sister, and their son was heir to the throne. According to rumour, Etri wore his hair oiled and was now more Khitite than Chalcedonian.

  ‘I warn you, the king’s in one of his moods,’ Idan added.

  Sorne nodded and gestured. ‘Over that way three blocks, there’s a wagon of wine barrels. See if you can find a cart. I’ll split them with you.’ Idan nodded and took off. For a prince, he had the soul of a merchant, and war was all about turning a profit.

  Sorne entered the palace. He stepped over smashed glass, and dodged men removing bodies before making his way up the grand staircase. The buzz of activity told him where Charald was. How a man of fifty-two had so much energy, Sorne didn’t know.

  He entered the chamber to find Charald dealing with the necessities of a conquered city. Judging by his rapid speech and hectic colour, the king was in one of his states. When he was like this, he needed very little sleep, and his temper could flare up at the slightest thing.

  King Charald was ordering his men to put out the fires, clear the streets, make sure there was clean water, and get the markets up and running as soon as possible.

  Seeing Charald would be busy for a while, Sorne went through to the balcony. If the king’s mania became too bad, he would slip Charald some of the soothing powder. He’d been doing it for a while now.

  From the balcony, Sorne looked out across the port to the docks. Down by the wharfs the warehouses were still burning, and out on the bay ships were ablaze. In the last eight years, he’d seen his vision repeated over and over, accompanied by the pipers playing the triumph. Now he hated the sound.

  Back in Khitan, he’d been a naive boy of seventeen. Shielded from the world, he’d wanted power, believing it would make True-men respect him. And he’d thought he owed Oskane and Uncle Matxin his loyalty. To that end, he’d turned Charald loose upon the kingdoms of the Secluded Sea. Tens of thousands had died, and Charald had forged an empire, rewarding each of his faithful barons with a conquered kingdom.

  Now, with the fall of Navarone, Charald had the might of five kingdoms behind him, and Sorne’s plan to buy his uncle time to consolidate his hold on the Chalcedonian throne had backfired spectacularly. King Matxin would be quaking in his bed.

  Sorne hadn’t heard from Zabier since Khitan, but the Father’s-voice had often been mentioned in reports from Charald’s loyal spies. It appeared Zabier held much the same position in Chalcedonia as Sorne did here.

  Meanwhile, as King Charald’s prestige rose, so did Sorne’s. He hadn’t been called a half-blood for years, at least not in his hearing. He was the Warrior’s-voice, advisor to the king, leader of the holy-swords. But soon, Charald would return to Chalcedonia, and Sorne needed to decide which king deserved his loyalty.

  The uncle he hardly knew, or the father who had denied him at birth? Once he had admired Charald’s tactical brilliance, but now he knew him for the flawed human being he was. As for his uncle, they called him a despot, but they were Charald’s spies.

  ‘There you are.’ The king joined him, followed by a servant who filled two goblets before retiring. ‘To Navarone, last to fall.’

  ‘To Navarone,’ Sorne repeated. He leant against the railing so that he didn’t tower over King Char
ald. Hopefully, now that he was twenty-five, he’d stop growing.

  ‘You’re white as a sheet and you’re favouring that arm again,’ Charald observed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Three thugs thought they’d take my head and hands back to King Matxin. I convinced them otherwise.’

  ‘For a priest, you’re mighty handy with a sword.’ Charald laughed.

  Sorne grinned. ‘What will you do, now that Navarone is yours?’

  ‘Reclaim Chalcedonia and crown myself High King of the Secluded Sea. I’ve proven myself worthy, and the Warrior has rewarded me with victory after victory. Matxin put his trust in the Father, and look what it got him!’ Charald laughed with malicious delight. ‘They tell me he has the honey-piss. The saw-bones have to keep taking slices off his rotting leg. Soon they’ll get to his balls and that’ll be the end of him. They say his daughter is so old and plain, no baron will marry her, and his son is so busy whoring, gambling and drinking that the barons have started preying on each other.’

  Sorne watched as Charald paced, unable to stand still.

  ‘When I sail home, the son will turn tail and run, and the people will welcome me. I’ll take my pick of the barons’ daughters and plant an heir in my new wife’s belly.’ Charald reached down and adjusted himself, aroused by the prospect. ‘You must make an offering and seek guidance from the Warrior.’

  ‘I would...’ Sorne hid a smile. The king was an odd mix of superstition and practicality. ‘But the gift residue has worn off the remaining T’En artefacts.’ He didn’t mention the orb of power. Only a fool would use a tool he didn’t understand when dealing with hungry empyrean beasts.

  He’d half expected Charald’s temper to flare up – they hadn’t had an episode for a while now – but the king was watching a man ride across the square. The rider arrived at the palace steps.

  ‘What news?’ Charald asked, leaning over the balcony.

  The recent assassination attempt prompted Sorne to add, ‘Is King Matxin dead?’

  ‘No. It’s his son. Killed in a duel. Stuck his prick in the wrong man’s wife. Just got the news from a merchant ship’s captain. Happened ten days ago.’

  ‘It’s a sign from the Warrior!’ Charald told Sorne. He called down to the rider. ‘Send the ship’s captain to me.’

  The man rode away.

  ‘To Chalcedonia.’ The king drained his glass. ‘I’ll sail as soon as I can load the ships.’

  ‘Who will you leave to rule Navarone?’ Sorne asked. ‘It must be someone you trust to guard your flank.’

  Charald put his glass down. ‘How would you like to be king?’

  For one impossible moment, Sorne actually considered it. He’d watched Charald’s barons wrestle with various problems in Khitan, Maygharia, Dace and Welcai. With their experiences to draw on, he could...

  What was he thinking? While True-men might fear him and respect him, they would never bow to a half-blood king. When Sorne opened his mouth to refuse, Charald’s reaction cut him off. The king clutched his belly and roared with laughter.

  Cold fury solidified inside Sorne. He had to force himself to produce a rueful smile.

  ‘Ah...’ Charald caught his breath and wiped his face. ‘That was priceless. I had you for a moment, there.’ He adjusted his belt. ‘Send in Nitzel’s grandsons.’

  When King Matxin came to power, Charald’s queen had retired to one of the Mother’s abbeys. But first she had pleaded for the lives of her two sons from her original marriage. They had been young men of nineteen and twenty-one at the time. Matxin had confiscated their family’s estates and banished the brothers.

  The two brothers had promptly sailed for Khitan and offered their services to King Charald. The elder had proven himself a good leader on the battlefield, and had earned the title of war baron. The younger was loyal to his brother, but he opposite in nature. Inclined to be impetuous, he was popular with the young men.

  ‘Right away, my king.’ Sorne bowed and left the balcony. He told the servants to send in Baron Dantzel and Nitzane, then went down the corridor.

  As soon as he entered his own chamber, he let his guard down. He wanted to break something and roar with rage. He wanted to strangle King Charald and wipe that stupid grin off his face.

  He did nothing, as a cold sweat of fury and pain soaked him. This was his answer. Charald did not deserve his loyalty.

  But Charald was undefeated, and his uncle was dying.

  Nursing his broken collar bone, Sorne stripped and strapped his shoulder. The pain was a constant nagging ache.

  He hesitated. He could take one of the soothing powders, or...

  After making sure his door was bolted, he opened the chest containing the last T’En artefact, a neck torc. He’d told Charald the gift residue was all used up, but it was a lie.

  Stretching out on the bed, he held the artefact to his chest, and let its gentle warmth ease his pain.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ARMS FOLDED, GRAELEN leaned against the verandah, watching the procession. The sisterhoods had come down from the island’s peak, into the free quarter, for Empowerment Day. After the ceremony, the T’En children would have free run of the park, and their excitement was palpable.

  While Graelen had not fathered a T’En child himself, some of the brotherhood’s men had, and they leant over the balcony, watching for their choice-sons. Sweet voices and innocent laughter filled the air.

  Graelen felt nothing.

  It was the only way to survive in Kyredeon’s brotherhood. Any emotion was a sign of weakness, and the all-father would use it as a lever. In the years since he’d become all-father, Kyredeon had called on Graelen and Paryx several times, ordering them to perform tasks even his own hand-of-force wasn’t aware of.

  They’d carried out the assassination that had almost destabilised Chariode’s brotherhood, and they’d planted the rumours which led to the suicide of another brotherhood’s gift-tutor and the rise of All-father Hueryx. But Kyredeon had not gained from this, as Hueryx had proven more than a match for him.

  Being all-father of his brotherhood was not enough for Kyredeon. He had his sights on becoming leader of the greatest brotherhood, and to do this, he had to weaken the other all-fathers. Eventually, one of the brotherhoods would falter, and he would step in to acquire their wealth and remaining warriors, which would make him the most powerful of all the brotherhood leaders.

  Now Kyredeon wanted Graelen and Paryx to abduct and murder an all-father’s devotee. They’d spent most of the winter observing Paragian and his devotee, looking for a pattern and a chance to strike. It had to be silent and it had to be in secret. And, according to Kyredeon, it had to be done. He believed the all-father was so much in love with his devotee, her death would destroy him and leave his brotherhood ripe for take over.

  Graelen did not mind killing a warrior, with blood on his hands, to remove a threat to their brotherhood but killing an innocent was another thing entirely.

  Paryx leant close to Graelen. ‘Time’s running out. What will we tell him?’

  The thin T’En warrior had never been strong in gift, mind or body, and the strain of being Kyredeon’s assassin was wearing him down; he laughed too loud and drank too much. It had earned him something of a reputation.

  Paryx’s troubled eyes flicked towards the all-father and his two seconds. ‘He expects an answer today.’

  ‘He’ll have his answer.’ Graelen would think of something. ‘Trust me. Watch the procession.’

  Below them, T’En youngsters were passing on their way to being empowered. All six of the sisterhoods were represented, and each child was accompanied by his or her choice-mother, brothers and sisters. The sisterhoods’ leaders, inner circles and gift-warriors were also in attendance. Everyone wore their finest, including the Malaunje, who carried refreshments for the celebration in the park afterwards. Amongst the sisters were groups of T’En youths. The lads stuck together, teasing each other and showing off.

  To be so young...


  Graelen spotted Egrayne the empowerer and, not far from her, the gift-warrior who had saved his life just before he joined the brotherhood.

  Back then, he hadn’t realised how easily the gift-warrior could have drained him. She’d saved his life, and the very next day he had insulted her. He’d been impatient to leave the sisterhood and start his adult life. When Egrayne had announced he was a gift-warrior, he’d thought his future would be filled with honour and glory, not the assassination of innocents. A deep and abiding anger ignited his gift, and the young initiates edged away from him.

  When had he become someone to fear?

  Once the procession had passed, there was a rush to get down to the park. Graelen followed Paryx and the others.

  ‘...oldest original building and the envy of the other all-fathers,’ Paryx was telling a young initiate. ‘The theatre was built during the first ten years of settlement. Many a famous play has opened here, to great acclaim.’

  In the throng of brothers heading down to the park, Graelen felt the jostle of gifts empowered by excitement, but the potential for violence was also there.

  They passed the empowerment dome, its doors firmly closed. The only adult males who’d been allowed in today were fathers who had been invited to witness their sons’ empowerment.

  Graelen saw Paragian ahead of them, an arm around his devotee, laughing with his inner circle. Why couldn’t Kyredeon be more like him?

  The thought shocked him. His brotherhood was his life; he’d given his vow. If Kyredeon suspected a brother of treason, the all-father would be within his rights to have his hand-of-force execute him.

  They came to the street bordering the park, which was the largest open space in the city. Some lucky fathers of empowered youngsters would be invited into the park to spend the afternoon with their children. If there was any drunkenness or violence, the sisterhood gift-warriors would eject the men responsible, and they would never be invited back.