Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  All five of the brotherhood adepts were bigger than him. Scarred and hard-faced, they looked him up and down, made him feel inadequate. His heart thundered.

  The sisterhood gate closed behind him, the bolts slid home. For one terrible moment he wanted nothing more than to go back. What had the empowerer said?

  Safe. The sisterhood was safe.

  He didn’t want safe.

  He wanted to win his brothers’ respect.

  Sigorian’s warriors stepped apart to reveal another lad about to take his initiate vows. Short hair just brushing his shoulders, the lad stood draped in a cloak, his feet shod in simple sandals. He managed a nervous grin.

  Graelen hoped he did not appear as frightened. T’En males respected strength.

  One of the adepts handed him a pair of sandals.

  He knelt to tie the straps around his ankles. When he straightened up, another wrapped a cloak around his shoulders and guided him to stand beside the other lad. The warriors closed ranks around them.

  Without a word, they escorted the two lads down the great road that led all the way to the causeway gates.

  In the free quarter, Mieren had already left for the day. Malaunje and T’En alike closed up shop, while eateries and dance halls opened for the night. Music drifted from a courtyard where he heard a poet reciting a saga from the days before the city. The scent of spicy peanut sauce made his stomach cramp. They passed a group of sisterhood scholars, who averted their gaze. Further on, half a dozen warriors from another brotherhood watched Sigorian’s men with cold, hard eyes.

  Graelen looked straight ahead, past the shoulders of his escort, their long plaits swaying as they strode. His short hair felt strange, brushing his shoulders, tickling his neck. It branded him as new to the brotherhood, vulnerable and untried. He wished the next few years away, wished he had already earned his place and knew who his friends were.

  ‘Paryx,’ the other initiate whispered. ‘My name’s Paryx.’

  Graelen studied him. Paryx was not particularly big, but maybe he was quick on his feet. Would he prove a good ally to have in the jostle for brotherhood stature, or would he be a liability?

  He decided to take a gamble. ‘Graelen.’

  ‘Quiet,’ one of the warriors warned. ‘We can still turn you away at the brotherhood gates.’

  If that happened, no other brotherhood would take them in. A brotherhood reject had nowhere to go, and every Mieren hand would be turned against them.

  Paryx sent him a sickly grin.

  Show no fear.

  He settled for looking grim. At least, he hoped he did.

  The road continued on to the causeway gate, but they turned left, entering the brotherhood quarter on the southern side of the island.

  Sigorian’s palace wasn’t the largest, just as his brotherhood wasn’t the most powerful. The smallest of the great brotherhoods, it clung to its place in the hierarchy, always looking for ways to grow in power and size, while the larger brotherhoods were always looking for ways to crush it.

  As with the other brotherhood palaces, it presented blank walls to the street at ground level, but on the second floor there were windows and balconies. Inside, there were courtyards filled with works of art, courtyards where Malaunje children played and courtyards for weapons practice. Four or five floors above him, Graelen caught a glimpse of palms on the rooftop gardens.

  They arrived at a gateway where two warriors in ceremonial dress stood guard. The narrow passage opened into a courtyard. Several Malaunje youths were leading horses away. They cast curious looks over their shoulders.

  By now, Graelen’s stomach was cramping so badly he was glad he had been too excited to eat. He had to get through this ceremony, make his vows, find a quiet spot and keep his head down until he knew who to trust and how to win stature.

  Their escort took them up stairs, along passages, and down the verandah of another courtyard. Graelen tried to commit the route to memory, but after another set of stairs and a walkway between buildings, he was totally turned around.

  The adepts left them and they were led into a chamber by an old Malaunje man, possibly a devotee. The first thing that struck Graelen was the impact of the male gift in the confined space. He was accustomed to the female gift, and he found male power abrasive. It made his heart race and his own gift try to rise in response.

  Eight high-ranking T’En men turned towards them.

  A thin brother frowned. ‘Something’s come up. Bring them back later.’

  The devotee started to herd them towards the door, but one of the brotherhood leaders spoke up. ‘No, let the new initiates stay. They should see what happens to those who betray their brotherhood.’

  As the devotee led them to one side, Paryx sent Graelen a worried look. Graelen concentrated on trying to make sense of who everyone was. All but one of the brothers wore elaborate, sleeveless gowns of embroidered silk, over bare chests, pleated trousers, jewel-encrusted belts and soft ankle boots. Their long hair was bound with jewelled clasps.

  Some wore the slender neck torcs of gift-warriors, others the larger torcs of inner circle brothers. The big one who had told them to stay, and two others, wore the elaborate torcs of the brotherhood triumvirate. Full ceremonial dress for the occasion. He assumed the big warrior was the brotherhood’s hand-of-force.

  One warrior stood with his bare back to them all. The arc of a triumvirate torc outlined his broad shoulders. He stretched, back muscles rippling. Graelen guessed he was either All-father Sigorian or his voice-of-reason.

  Someone whispered to the bare-chested leader. He nodded, and a feeling of gift readiness filled the air. At that moment, two gift-warriors entered with a brother who wore the full-width arm-torcs of an adept. He’d been stripped down to his breeches, but he walked with a defiant step. The brotherhood’s inner circle went very still. All chatter stopped and everyone looked to the bare-chested male.

  He turned in a very deliberate manner, head tilted. Graelen felt a surge of power. Paryx took a step back. Graelen’s own gift flexed; this had to be All-father Sigorian.

  Sigorian was not the biggest of men, but every eye went to him. A nasty silvery scar puckered the skin on his chest over his heart. He gestured to the tall, thin triumvirate leader at his side. ‘Voice-of-reason Irutz accuses you of spying for a rival brotherhood, Dekaron. What do you say?’

  ‘All-father.’ The condemned man dropped to his knees and gave deep obeisance. Raising his head, he lifted both hands in the gesture of supplication. ‘I would never–’

  ‘I have three adepts who saw you speak with All-father Chariode’s warriors,’ the voice-of-reason interrupted.

  ‘About their ships. His brotherhood builds fine ships.’

  ‘Can you prove this?’ Sigorian asked, gesturing for him to stand.

  Dekaron came to his feet, hesitating. Innocent or not, Graelen couldn’t imagine how the accused was supposed to prove what had passed in a conversation.

  ‘Why would I betray our brotherhood?’ Dekaron countered. ‘What would I gain? I swear I would never–’

  ‘He was heard complaining about the defence roster,’ the hand-of-force said.

  Dekaron rounded on him. ‘I did ten nights straight on the wall without a break. Then I was rostered on ten days straight with no chance to sleep between duties. I ask you...’ – he appealed to the rest of the inner circle – ‘is that fair?’

  ‘We aren’t here to discuss rosters,’ the voice-of-reason said. ‘He’s been fomenting trouble. I say he’s All-father Chariode’s spy.’

  ‘Spy.’ The hand-of-force was firm. Others echoed him.

  ‘I’ll drop my defences.’ Dekaron had to repeat it to be heard. ‘I’ll drop my gift-walls and let you taste the truth.’

  ‘Very well,’ Sigorian said and nodded to his voice-of-reason, who lifted his hands and flexed them. ‘Irutz.’

  ‘No, not him.’ The accused looked around, spotted the thin one who had objected when he saw Graelen and Paryx enter. ‘The sa
w-bones.’

  ‘Ceyne?’ Sigorian beckoned him.

  ‘Not Ceyne,’ the voice-of-reason objected. ‘He’s been training Dekaron. He’s not impartial.’

  ‘And you are?’ Dekaron countered.

  ‘Someone else, then?’ Sigorian looked around his inner circle.

  None would meet his eye.

  ‘See?’ Dekaron addressed the all-father, gesturing to the others. ‘Even your inner circle is afraid to speak the truth. They know Irutz will accuse them next–’

  As he spoke, two warriors moved in behind him. On the hand-of-force’s signal one grabbed Dekaron, while the other punched him. The air left Dekaron in a huff and he doubled over.

  Graelen’s cheeks burned. He had no idea who to believe. It worried him that Dekaron seemed to be speaking sense, but they wouldn’t listen.

  ‘Dekaron is trying to plant the seeds of suspicion,’ the voice-of-reason said, ‘by accusing me to hide his own guilt.’

  ‘What is his punishment, all-father?’ the hand-of-force asked.

  Sigorian hesitated. ‘Someone is fomenting trouble–’

  ‘Turn him out,’ the voice-of-reason insisted.

  ‘I’m loyal,’ Dekaron insisted, struggling to regain his voice, struggling against the warriors who held him. Graelen felt the surge of Dekaron’s gift from the other side of the chamber.

  Sigorian studied the accused. The all-father would have to be decisive. If he showed weakness, one of the mid- to high-ranking brothers would make a bid for leadership.

  ‘I withdraw the protection of the brotherhood.’ As soon as Sigorian spoke, both warriors stepped away from the accused. ‘You are not one of us. Take his arm-torcs.’

  ‘Take them?’ Dekaron was so angry he shook. In a fury, he tore the torcs from his biceps and flung them on the floor at Sigorian’s feet. ‘You’re blind. You can’t see–’

  The hand-of-forcedidn’t let him finish. His warriors dragged Dekaron from the chamber.

  Paryx swayed, but Graelen steadied him. ‘Show no fear.’

  And so it had been. They’d given their vows, sworn allegiance to the brotherhood, and allowed the all-father to establish a shallow link as evidence of their trust.

  Now... now they lay on the bedroll, listening to the shouts and clashes as warriors from other brotherhoods hunted Dekaron for sport. The longer it went on, the worse it was.

  ‘Do you think he was guilty?’ Paryx whispered again.

  Graelen didn’t answer.

  ‘I think they were too quick to condemn him. It was as if they wanted to silence him.’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ Graelen whispered. ‘We aren’t in a position to judge.’ But Dekaron’s hearing hadn’t felt right to him either.

  Mocking laughter echoed in the night. The clash of steel. Running footsteps.

  ‘How much longer?’ Paryx whispered.

  Graelen couldn’t answer.

  ‘Not long,’ a voice said from the doorway. A brother stood there, arms folded, leaning against the doorjamb.

  Graelen tensed. Had he heard them voice their doubts?

  The brother pushed away from the wall and came over to join them. His arm-torcs were almost the thickness of an adept’s. ‘You gave your vows today. It was a bad day to join Sigorian’s brotherhood.’

  They came to their knees and gave obeisance. As they raised their heads, running boots echoed from outside the chamber.

  ‘That sounded close,’ Paryx whispered. ‘Was it inside–’

  ‘The brotherhood walls? Yes,’ the stranger said. ‘Some of Dekaron’s friends did not agree with the judgement. Sigorian’s hand-of-force is purging the brotherhood of his supporters. That’s why it has gone on so long. They’ve turned out three more of us.’

  Graelen felt sick at the thought.

  ‘As to whether they are guilty or not...’ the brother continued. He shrugged. ‘You should be careful what you say. You never know who’s listening.’

  ‘We didn’t–’ Paryx began.

  ‘We’re loyal,’ Graelen insisted.

  ‘You’re lost, that’s what you are. Out of your depth.’

  There was no point denying it.

  The brother offered his hand. ‘If you need anything, send for me, Kyredeon. Remember my name.’

  Paryx went to take his hand, but Graelen did not move and Paryx hesitated.

  The brother shrugged and climbed to his feet. ‘The offer stands. Meanwhile, watch and learn. Be careful who you trust. There are factions. Not everyone is pleased with Sigorian’s leadership.’

  He turned to go.

  ‘Why?’ Graelen asked. ‘Why aren’t they happy with the all-father?’

  For a heartbeat he thought Kyredeon wouldn’t answer, but he said, ‘You’ll see.’

  After he left, Paryx turned to Graelen. ‘We should have taken his offer.’

  Graelen wasn’t so sure. ‘Why did he make it? We have no stature. What use are we to him?’

  Howls of triumph came from the darkness, carried on the slight breeze.

  ‘One of them’s dead,’ Paryx said.

  Graelen hoped it was Dekaron. Then, at least, his troubles would be over. ‘Go to sleep.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Graelen stretched out. He didn’t object when Paryx stayed on his bedroll.

  ‘What did he mean when he said we’d see?’ Paryx whispered.

  Graelen didn’t want to guess.

  They found out when the sound of the hunt faded. Several warriors came to the chamber, smelling of blood and gift violence. They were loud and eager.

  And they were not gentle.

  OSKANE HAD BEEN living in the mountain retreat six days now, yet he still found the air too thin for his old chest. He sucked in another unsatisfying breath and told himself he’d get used to it; he had to.

  He would never get used to the view. It was inspiring. From the window of his study he could see the rolling hills of southern Chalcedonia stretching into the distance.

  Eleven days ride north-west lay Port Mirror-on-Sea and King Charald. Surely that was far enough to keep them safe.

  With the king married to Lord Nitzel’s daughter and another child on the way within the year – if Charald lived up to his boast – Oskane and the king’s half-blood son would be forgotten. He hoped.

  All he needed was time to raise young Sorne and prepare him to be his weapon. Only one trusted priest at the abbey knew Oskane’s true destination. The agent would be passing on messages from Edorne and Franto’s spy and, when the time came, would contact young Matxin. And he had the agent in Enlightenment Abbey to ensure he knew what was going on in the world.

  Franto peeped around the door. ‘It’s the wood-worker, Kolst.’

  Oskane returned to his desk. ‘Show him in.’

  The young man had recovered from his injury on the ride here, but he would always have a scar in his hair-line. He was grateful to Oskane for rescuing his wife and child, and eager to prove himself useful.

  They were in the process of making two buildings liveable for winter, since True-men could not share the same table as half-bloods. So Kolst and his family would live in the stables, along with the animals.

  ‘The repair of the stable roof is under way,’ Kolst said ‘I have the penitents working on cutting new shingles. As for the shutters, I did them myself. We’ll be safe from the winter winds.’

  ‘Good. Behind the retreat, built into the mountainside, is the entrance to an old copper mine.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about mining,’ Kolst admitted. ‘But I could learn.’

  ‘No need. The mine is played out and useless,’ Oskane lied. ‘I don’t want anyone wandering in and getting lost. You are to block off the entrance.’

  ‘What of the furniture, Scholar Oskane?’

  When the retreat’s original inhabitants had fled, they’d taken only what they could carry on their backs. But time and the weather had damaged what they’d left behind.

  ‘The copper mine first.’ He didn�
��t want anyone discovering that, aside from being tainted, it also contained veins of malachite. The penitents might be tempted to forget their vows of poverty and do some digging of their own.

  He could not afford to have them stir up what was hidden in the mine. No one understood why unclean sites appeared. Some blamed the T’En. Sometimes there was a single incident at an unclean site, sometimes repeated incidents. The mine had been undisturbed now for nearly twenty-five years, and it was going to remain that way.

  ‘I wanted to thank you, Scholar Oskane. My Hiruna, she would not give up the half-blood. Usually, she’s the sweetest, kindest lass, but it was like a madness took hold of her.’

  ‘I’ve read of this,’ Oskane admitted. ‘It’s because the minds of women are closer to animals. Like a she-bear, they seek to defend their young. They can’t think rationally.’ He dismissed Kolst.

  Franto sent Oskane a dry look. ‘The penitents don’t like taking orders from him. They call him Wyrd-lover.’

  ‘He’s more use than the lot of them together.’ Oskane crossed to a window and looked down onto a courtyard graced by a water-maple, bare now. Winter sunlight warmed the white flagstones and walls. Kolst’s son pushed himself to his feet and took his first tentative steps. His mother laughed and clapped as she nursed young Sorne.

  She did not seem to mind sullying herself with half-bloods. She and Kolst asked no questions, but they had to wonder – just as the penitents had to wonder – what raising two half-bloods had to do with serving the Seven.

  Now that they were here and the gates were closed, he would tell them they served the Seven and the king, by training a weapon to use against the Wyrds. It would be enough to ensure their loyalty. There wasn’t a True-man or -woman alive who didn’t fear those silver-haired, six-fingered freaks and their half-blood servants.

  Someone thumped on the courtyard gates. Oskane glanced to Franto, who took off at a run. From his vantage point, Oskane saw Hiruna pick up her son and retreat to the stables, an infant in each arm.

  Franto checked the gate slot, then opened it.

  A mounted messenger entered the courtyard and jumped down. Oskane recognised him as the abbey agent’s trusted servant. They had not expected to hear from Enlightenment Abbey until spring. This could not be good news.