Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘Of course not.’ Rohaayel kissed her forehead, as he always did. Surely, if he didn’t love her, he would not treat her with such tenderness?

  ‘The cook will help you settle the baby,’ Rohaayel said. ‘Go to bed and don’t worry about Irian.’

  Imoshen nodded and let her feet take her up to her bedroom, where she found warm water in the small copper tub.

  It was hard to stay awake. She felt weary to the point of numbness and couldn’t think straight.

  The cook took her clothes and she knelt in the tub. There was blood on her thighs. When she wiped it away, more came and her stomach hurt. She knew what that meant. No one had ever told her, but she’d overheard the women speaking. Fear stabbed her.

  She looked up at the cook. ‘Don’t tell. Please?’

  ‘You have to grow up. Everyone does.’

  ‘Not tonight. Not this visit. Please.’

  The cook gave a reluctant nod.

  Later, as the woman tucked the blanket around her and the baby, Imoshen studied that familiar face with its strong no-nonsense jaw. The cook had watched over her after her mother died.

  But if what Karokara said was true, the cook was her jailor and everything she believed was a lie. The thought terrified her. Her father and her favourite uncles loved her, of that she had no doubt. She’d known them all her life.

  Karokara... she’d known her for one evening.

  She was not a prisoner.

  Chapter Fourteen

  DAWN FOUND IMOSHEN standing at the window with baby Iraayel in her arms, crooning to him. From her bedroom, highest in the lighthouse, she could see right across the island, across the sea to the mainland. Right now the sun was only a pale glow in the east, and the mainland was a blue smudge. After the windy night, the air was still and the sky scrubbed clean of clouds – a new start for a new life.

  She was thinking of Irian and Karokara, and how short life is, when the smoke started to rise. Irian must have sat with her all night, and was now burning the abandoned cottage along with her body. The smoke rose, a straight black column in the still dawn air.

  He would be back soon. Surely his son would ease his heartbreak.

  Imoshen dressed formally, as she always did when the brotherhood came to visit: pleated trousers, knitted undershirt, vest and knee-length robe. She slipped her feet into soft boots and tied the straps around her ankles. She should have done her hair in formal plaits, but she wanted to get downstairs, warm up more goat’s milk for the baby and be out front to meet Irian when he returned.

  But when she saw him coming up the rise with Ardeyne’s friend, Torekar, his face looked so haggard that she doubted if anything would reach him. As he approached, his mouth compressed in a thin line.

  She didn’t know what to say in the face of such grief. Wordlessly, she held out his infant son, flushed with warm milk.

  Irian stared at the baby, his expression unreadable.

  She wanted to comfort Irian, and was just about to try when he brushed past her.

  Tears streamed down Imoshen’s cheeks as she watched him enter the lighthouse. Torekar paused beside her. He went to say something, then shook his head, and followed Irian up the stairs.

  IRIAN WALKED INTO the all-father’s bedroom without knocking, Torekar close behind him. Rohaayel and Ardeyne were asleep in each other’s arms but they woke instantly, alert and wary. Irian had spent the night searching for Karokara’s shade on the empyrean plane, without success. Unless she somehow made it to the realm of the dead on her own, she was lost to him forever. From their expressions, he supposed his despair was written on his face.

  ‘You came back,’ Rohaayel said.

  He had been tempted not to. ‘I know my duty.’

  Rohaayel glanced to Ardeyne, who went to speak, but Irian beat him to it. ‘I am loyal, all-father. I’ve killed for our brotherhood. Last night I walked the empyrean plane and faced death. It made me confront what I’ve been denying. I believe we made a mistake with Imoshen.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ardeyne asked.

  Irian knew the all-father could order his death for what he was about to say, but it had to be said.

  ‘Imoshen’ – Irian’s voice caught; he got himself under control – ‘is downstairs weeping for me.’

  ‘Should I go?’Ardeyne’s devotee asked.

  The voice-of-reason glanced to the all-father.

  ‘He knows all our secrets,’ Rohaayel said.

  Torekar went over to his bedroll and sat cross-legged. Irian paced.

  Rohaayel gestured. ‘Go on.’

  ‘When I thought Imoshen had been swept off the rocks, I realised she isn’t a threat like a sisterhood gift-warrior,’ Irian said. ‘She’s just Imoshen. Our Imoshen.’

  Rohaayel looked relieved and Irian knew he felt the same way but Ardeyne looked down, infuriating him. ‘What’s the matter, Ard?’

  ‘What do you want me to say? That we were young and stupid? That we treated a person like a piece in a game?’

  ‘If we wanted to use her,’ Irian said, ‘we should never have let ourselves grow this close to her. Now–’

  ‘She had to love us so she would be ready to let down her walls for the initiate that we will send to her,’ Ardeyne argued. ‘Unless she makes the deep-bonding with him, she won’t be able to carry a sacrare child.’

  ‘What are you suggesting, Irian?’ Rohaayel asked. ‘It’s not like we can go back and change the past. Ard’s right, we were young and inexperienced. Even so, I wouldn’t change a thing. All men should see their children grow up. Four hundred years ago our fore-fathers reared their sons, and we will again. And Imoshen will help us.’

  Irian blinked.

  Even Ardeyne was surprised. ‘You would ask her to support the brotherhoods against the sisterhoods?’

  ‘I would ask her to support our brotherhood against our enemies. You heard her last night. She wants to come home and live with us.’

  ‘It just might work...’

  ‘I hope so,’ Irian said. ‘Because it gets worse. Her hair is only just beginning to darken to silver at the temples, but I sensed traces of female gift residue in the cottage. Bedettor was right. The birth triggered her gift. She hid this from him. Why would she do that if she trusts us?’

  Rohaayel shrugged. ‘Bedettor doesn’t like her and she knows it. I’m guessing she shielded instinctively.’

  ‘She was also exhausted. Her gift was probably drained,’ Ardeyne added. ‘This makes it even more imperative that we plant a new agent with Imoshen. I’ve already sent for Frayvia. She’s twenty-three, but will pass for sixteen. After her baby was stillborn, she served the brotherhood as a wet-nurse. She can win Imoshen’s trust, and feed her the right information to show our brotherhood in the best light.’

  ‘That’s a lot of responsibility,’ Irian said. ‘Is she up to it?’

  ‘She’s smart and loyal. I trust her.’

  Irian was not convinced.

  ‘Tell him,’ Rohaayel said.

  ‘She’s my Malaunje half-sister,’ Ardeyne admitted. ‘The big question is not who we should plant as an agent here, but who we should send to seduce Imoshen.’

  ‘He must be near her age, so it seems natural for them to be drawn together,’ Rohaayel said.

  ‘And we need to stop our visits, so she feels lonely and misses contact with her fellow T’En,’ Irian said.

  ‘He’ll have to be someone with a strong gift, or the pair-bonding won’t take. I’ll ask Bedettor for a list of our strongest young initiates,’ Ardeyne said. ‘He must be loyal.’

  ‘But he must not be driven by ambition,’ Rohaayel said. ‘When it comes to how he feels about Imoshen, he must be pure of heart or the deep-bonding won’t take.’

  ‘This is impossible,’ Irian muttered. ‘What were we thinking?

  Torekar shifted.

  ‘Speak up,’ Ardeyne urged.

  The devotee swallowed. ‘We Malaunje see the T’En when they think no one is looking. We see them as they really
are. If you want someone pure of heart, test them. See what they do when they think no one important is watching.’

  Ardeyne grinned. ‘Lucky was the day you became my devotee.’

  ‘Very well,’ Rohaayel said. ‘We can assess the candidates when we get back. Pick one and groom him for his role. He can become a tithe-collector; that’ll give him an excuse for coming here.’

  SORNE AND IZTEBEN sat studying by the flickering flame of a candle. Sorne could hear the rain drumming on the shingles. He shivered and winced as his back bled again. According to Oskane, privation made for a stronger will, so there was no fire, even though it was cold and wet.

  Shouting, and the creak of the front gate opening, made them all turn to the window. Between the rain and the shutters it was hard to hear, but...

  ‘Someone has arrived.’ Sorne sprang to his feet.

  ‘Keep working. I want to see this page finished,’ Oskane said, before leaving them.

  They waited until they were sure both he and Franto had gone downstairs, then went to the window and opened the shutters a little.

  A cart trundled in, the driver’s face hidden by a wide leather hat. Water poured off the brim as he nodded to Oskane. The penitents came out. A second person opened the cart and stood in the rain, trying to persuade someone to come out to no avail.

  Joaken climbed in and seemed to be struggling with someone half-wrapped in a blanket. A woman cried out in another language, then switched to curse them in Chalcedonian.

  Sorne gasped as a long copper plait swung loose from the blanket covering her head.

  ‘A half-blood, like us,’ Izteben whispered.

  ‘Not like us,’ Sorne corrected, and quoted Oskane. ‘She’s probably from Cesspit City. She’s the enemy.’

  But his instinct was to protect her.

  Joaken yelped and doubled over.

  ‘She kneed him!’ Izteben was delighted.

  Despite Oskane’s lessons, Sorne felt his heart lift as the she-Wyrd made a run for the wall.

  Denat caught her by one arm, swung her around and slammed his fist into her head. Stunned, she dropped and lay on the courtyard flagstones in the rain.

  ‘Quick, get her inside and downstairs,’ Oskane ordered.

  As the men grabbed her arms and legs and carried her out of view into the building, Sorne fought the urge to run downstairs and save her. He had to remind himself she was the enemy.

  ‘What does Oskane want with her?’ Izteben asked, clearly troubled.

  ‘To study her,’ Sorne guessed. ‘We better get back to work, or...’

  Oskane would never lock them up. They were his holy warriors.

  They were nothing like the she-Wyrd.

  OSKANE SENT THE others away as soon as they tossed her into the cell. ‘She cannot hurt you. She’s just a half-blood.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ the she-Wyrd countered. She grabbed the bars and yelled as the penitents retreated. ‘A curse on you and your children. May your cocks shrivel. May you never know a woman’s arms again!’

  ‘We are celibate priests,’ Oskane told her primly.

  ‘More fool you!’

  He flushed.

  She eyed him and wiped the blood from her split lip. ‘Why do this? I was going about minding my business. Why lock me up here?’

  Originally these had been storerooms, dug into the cliff below the ground floor. Only small ventilation windows near the ceiling let in light. Oskane had ordered Kolst to knock out the wall, put in bars and create two cells. The other one was empty.

  If the boys were ever to infiltrate the Wyrds, they needed to be able to speak their language. ‘You are going to teach the T’En language.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Franto, bring the boys down.’ He turned back to her. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Why should I tell you?’

  She could be anywhere between twenty and fifty. The half-bloods weren’t quite as long-lived as the T’En. She wore a rich brocade knee-length robe over a knitted undershirt. Her legs were encased in woollen breeches and she wore well-made boots. For a servant, she was finely dressed.

  ‘What position did you hold in the brotherhood or sisterhood where you served?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you anything.’

  ‘Oh, I think you will.’ He smiled as he heard Sorne’s clear voice asking Franto questions and saw her glance anxiously to the stairs at the end of the hall. His servant escorted the two half-blood boys down the passage until they stood opposite the captive. They stared at her and she stared right back at them.

  ‘This is a she-Wyrd from their cesspit of a city. She will be teaching you the T’En language,’ Oskane told them. ‘Do you have anything you want to ask her?’

  Sorne looked away as if he couldn’t bear the sight of her. Izteben shook his head and stared past her.

  ‘Very well, Franto, take them away. But leave the lamp.’

  His assistant led the boys out.

  ‘Those boys are twelve and thirteen years of age,’ Oskane said. ‘If you don’t cooperate and teach them the T’En language, I will have them killed right here in front of you. Then I will turn my penitents loose on you. They haven’t slept with a woman in years. After they are done with you, I’ll tell them to throw you off the cliff.’

  She shrank back, shaking her head.

  ‘I trust we understand each other now.’

  She nodded slowly and he was pleased to see that the fire of defiance no longer burned in her eyes.

  ‘Strip.’

  ‘But you said–’

  ‘Your filthy body doesn’t interest me. This is Restoration Retreat. We live a humble life here. You will be dressed accordingly.’

  THE NEXT DAY, when Sorne and Izteben were taken down to the she-Wyrd for their first lesson, she looked very different. Gone were her fine clothes. Gone was her long hair. It had been roughly and patchily shorn. She wore a penitent’s breeches with a simple thigh-length shirt. She had a bucket for her needs, and a blanket. Other than a slate and nib, she had nothing else.

  Sorne was sickened by the sight of her.

  Oskane settled himself on his chair and began reading.

  Sorne and Izteben sank down cross-legged. The she-Wyrd knelt, placed one hand and then the other on the floor in front of her knees, and pressed her forehead to her hands.

  She straightened up. ‘Welcome. The trust of student and teacher is sacred. I am at your service.’ She picked up the slate and nib. On it were written the words I am hungry, then below that a phrase in another language.

  ‘Even the letters are different,’ Izteben muttered, dismayed.

  ‘Repeat after me.’ The she-Wyrd said the words in T’En, making them repeat the phrase over and over.

  The she wrote, I am cold, then I am a prisoner. When they had memorised these sequences, she pointed out the patterns. Then she wrote I am a cold, hungry prisoner, in T’En and asked, ‘Do you get my meaning?’

  And Sorne did. He glanced over his shoulder, but Oskane was still reading. He didn’t want to see the she-Wyrd as a person, but she refused to be beaten down.

  And he couldn’t help but admire her.

  That evening when their mother took over a tray for the she-Wyrd – the penitents had refused to feed her – Sorne sent Hiruna with an extra blanket and food from his own plate.

  After their mother left, Izteben caught his eye. ‘I thought you said we must keep our distance.’

  ‘She won’t know who sent it.’

  Izteben grinned, but said nothing more.

  Chapter Fifteen

  IMOSHEN WAS NOT sure if she liked this wet-nurse from the city. The girl was a little older than her, sixteen or seventeen perhaps. She came with nothing but a small bundle of clothes and breasts swollen with milk. Her arrival meant Imoshen’s father and uncles’ departure. Perhaps this was why she resented Frayvia, which was not fair of her.

  Now the girl stood on the other side of Imoshen’s bedroom.

  ‘I don’t want to come
between you and the baby,’ Frayvia said softly. ‘I know I’m only the wet-nurse.’

  ‘I used goat’s milk and a rag. He–’

  Hearing Imoshen’s voice, baby Iraayel snuffled and gave a cry. She was not surprised; he was always hungry.

  Frayvia gasped and pressed her hands to her breasts. ‘I need to feed him.’

  ‘Sit there.’ Imoshen indicated the chair by her desk. ‘I’ll fetch him.’ She picked up the baby and carried him across.

  Frayvia had already unlaced her knitted undershirt and freed her breast. Baby Iraayel turned his head, felt the warm skin on his cheek, opened his mouth and captured the nipple.

  Frayvia gave a sigh of relief and, for a while, they just watched him.

  How far can I trust this girl from the city? Imoshen wondered. Frayvia had been sent to keep an eye on her, that much was certain, but this did not mean that Frayvia was her enemy; her father was only concerned for her.

  Even so, she would not reveal her gift. Not that she believed Karokara’s warning, but it was wise to be careful.

  Anger made Imoshen’s stomach churn, for just before the T’En left, the cook had weakened and told the all-father that she was now a woman. She resented having no privacy.

  Lucky for her, her gift had only stirred twice since the night Iraayel was born, and she had been alone both times. Both times she had practised repressing it and shielding herself.

  They could hear the baby swallowing, over and over.

  Frayvia laughed with pure delight, as he gulped down her milk. ‘You greedy little thing!’

  Imoshen felt a weight lift. A question occurred to her. ‘What happened to your own baby?’

  Frayvia looked away, eyes shadowed with pain. ‘He died.’

  ‘Was he T’En?’ She’d heard that it was hard to birth a healthy full-blood babe.

  Frayvia shook her head, eyes lowered, but Imoshen could see the glitter of tears half hidden by her lashes.

  Imoshen dropped to her knees and slid her arms around Frayvia’s shoulders. ‘I’m so very sorry.’