Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  Sorne made himself study the messages first. He knew the different agents’ hand writing. There was one in the Seven’s church in Port Mirror-on-Sea who had a spy at the palace. He reported on the doings of Baron Nitzel, the ins and out of court politics and the rivalry between the churches. There was one at Enlightenment Abbey, who collected reports from churches and abbeys all over Chalcedonia, and there was Baron Matxin, his mother’s brother. And tonight there was a message from King Charald himself. Sorne opened it. To think, his real father had held this paper.

  Charald refused to meet at Enlightenment Abbey. Disappointment stung Sorne. The king’s excuses were flimsy. It was winter, he had pressing duties and the other kingdoms bordering the Secluded Sea were plotting against him.

  Next Sorne read Oskane’s letter addressed to King Charald.

  In it, Oskane claimed unclean places were really pathways to the gods – holy sites. And he took credit for Sorne and Izteben’s discovery. There was the mention of a vision from Charald’s mentor god, the Warrior. What’s more, Oskane had offered the king a chance to see the holy site, and to attend a ceremony where Sorne had another vision.

  His stomach clenched with fear. Last time, they had been lucky to escape with their lives.

  According to the she-Wyrd, only T’En could have visions, but when Sorne had described in detail how it had happened, she no longer sounded so sure. Which reminded him...

  Placing the letter on the desk, he slipped into the scholar’s bedchamber. He took the chest out from under the bed and unpacked the robe, then went over to the fire to see more clearly. Knowing now that what he felt was the residue of a murdered T’En, his skin crawled with a mixture of revulsion and longing.

  But he hadn’t spent years under the scourge for nothing. He concentrated on his task. It was the work of a moment to remove a fresh button and sew the old one in its place. Now Oskane would never know.

  An owl called, then called again.

  Moving swiftly, Sorne put the robe back into the chest and slipped out.

  Oskane’s voice echoed up the stairwell as he spoke to Franto.

  Sorne couldn’t go down. He couldn’t go back, either; while he could jump to the wall-walk, the open shutter would betray him. Sorne leant the back of his head against the wall, cursing under his breath.

  Right above him, he saw the cross beams of the roof, hidden in shadows.

  Climbing onto the banister, he reached up, caught hold of the beam and managed to hook his legs over it. He swung his weight onto it, then crept out over the stairwell until he was above the landing between the second and third floors.

  Not a moment too soon. Oskane and Franto passed under him.

  ‘...we’ll save the bag of malachite for an emergency,’ Oskane was saying.

  Sorne held his breath, but neither of them looked up. They passed into Franto’s chamber and closed the door.

  Carefully, he lowered himself back onto the landing and hurried down the stairs.

  As he stepped out into the moonlight, Izteben grabbed him and shook him. ‘I was worried sick!’

  Sorne laughed as if he hadn’t nearly been caught, and they went down to see the she-Wyrd, who was waiting for them.

  ‘I managed to get–’

  She snatched the silver button from his outstretched hand and ran into the darkest corner.

  Izteben gave a bark of laughter. ‘We risked the scholar’s ire for that.’

  ‘I thank you for the gift-infused token,’ the she-Wyrd whispered from the shadows. Her voice sounded richer, and Sorne could already detect a change in her scent. He felt nothing but contempt.

  ‘The king is going to come here and I’m going to win him over with a vision,’ he told her. ‘I’m going to be a messenger of the gods. Did you hear? Izteben and I are going to serve the king.’

  Still no reaction.

  ‘Come on.’ He turned on his heel and strode towards the stairs.

  ‘Even if the Mieren believe you are messengers of their gods,’ she called after them, ‘in their eyes you will always be filthy Wyrds!’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  IMOSHEN HELD HER newborn so that his head lay on her chest, close to her heart. She still found it hard to believe he was real, had to keep checking that he was breathing. Reothe stretched out beside her as they talked about the gifts, what life was really like in the city and how Rohaayel would make a better life for everyone. She’d felt angry and betrayed at first. But now, from what Reothe told her about T’Enatuath society, she saw that they were all trapped, Malaunje and T’En, male and female.

  Frayvia sat on the end of the bed with Iraayel in her arms. He’d been fascinated by the newborn, but when the baby did nothing other than sleep, he’d lost interest.

  Now he sat up. ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Me too.’ Reothe swung his legs off the bed and held out his arms. Iraayel jumped off the bed, and Reothe caught him, swung him around then set him on his feet, laughing.

  Imoshen smiled up at them. She felt raw and fragile, but she was happy.

  ‘I’ll tell the all-father the good news.’ Reothe grinned. ‘You’ll be swamped with visitors.’

  ‘Give us a few moments to clean up,’ Frayvia said.

  Reothe took Iraayel’s hand and left.

  IRIAN WARMED HIS hands at the fire, while Torekar poured wine.

  Rohaayel accepted his glass. ‘To our sacrare.’

  The others echoed his toast.

  Irian put his goblet down. ‘Reothe’s taking a long time. I’ll check on him.’

  ‘Tell him a watched pot never boils,’ Ardeyne said.

  ‘He’s made the deep-bonding with her. I’m guessing he’ll be tempted to ease her pain by sharing it,’ Bedettor said. ‘We might not see him all night.’

  Irian smiled as he headed for the door. It opened to reveal Mefusun, who strode in on a wave of threatening male gift.

  Irian backed up swiftly, glancing to Ardeyne. The voice-of-reason took a step closer to Rohaayel, as Bedettor and the devotee joined them.

  Another seven men followed Mefusun into the dining chamber. They spread out across the far side of the room, cutting off the door to the hall and lighthouse. Even from this side of the room, Irian could feel their aggressive power. He assessed the odds. Eight against five, and one of his men was the Malaunje, Torekar.

  ‘What are you doing here, Mefusun?’ Rohaayel asked.

  ‘Twice now, I’ve been passed over. So I asked myself, why doesn’t the all-father offer me a place on his inner circle? Then I heard the merest whisper of a T’En female, hidden in a tower. Impossible, I thought. But–’

  ‘You didn’t follow us out of the city,’ Irian said. He’d made sure.

  ‘No. We were waiting across the bay, and sure enough, you took a boat to the island. I’m guessing you have her shut in the lighthouse.’ His brows drew down. ‘What were you thinking? She’ll turn on you, turn on us all.’

  Irian felt the gift power rise another notch. It became hard to think.

  ‘She’s loyal to the brotherhood. We’re all she’s ever known,’ Rohaayel said. He took a seat at the table, helping himself to a chunk of cheese, gesturing with the little cheese knife. ‘There was no need for this, Mefusun. We were going to invite you onto the inner circle when we got back. Then we would have explained the whole plan. Wine?’

  When Mefusun declined, Rohaayel poured himself a glass and leant back in his chair. Irian could sense no gift aggression coming from Rohaayel, and admired his control.

  Mefusun’s supporters looked uncertain.

  Ardeyne followed Rohaayel’s lead and took a seat. Bedettor and Torekar sat down. Irian forced himself to sit casually on one end of the table and swing a booted foot. As Torekar poured him more wine, Mefusun’s supporters exchanged looks.

  ‘Imoshen thinks she is one of us,’ Rohaayel said. ‘She’s taken Initate Reothe for the deep-bonding. She’s going to give us a sacrare son to unite the brotherhoods.’

  ‘A sacrare
could unite the brotherhoods, but you can’t trust her, or her bond-partner. He’s been corrupted by his addiction to her gift. And birthing a sacrare will make her more powerful,’ Mefusun said. ‘After the birth, you’ll have to kill her, and him, too. The sacrare is what’s important.’

  ‘I agree.’ Rohaayel lifted the wine. ‘To the sacrare.’

  IMOSHEN HAD JUST finished dressing, when Reothe thrust the door open. He came in on a wave of roused gift. Her power surged and she read him – betrayal, disbelief, fear and... determination.

  ‘What?’ Imoshen reached for her newborn. Iraayel ran to her and threw his arms around her.

  ‘We have to go right now. I was in the hall, I just...’ He shook his head. ‘I would never have believed it, but I heard them plotting to kill us and take the sacrare.’

  ‘No,’ Frayvia cried. ‘That was never the plan.’

  ‘They toasted to its success.’ Tears glittered in Reothe’s eyes. ‘Back in the city, Irian told me honesty was a luxury.’

  He believed what he’d said; Imoshen could feel it. ‘Grab some warm clothes, Fray. We must get down to the boats.’

  Iraayel whimpered. Imoshen sat him on the bed next to the baby. ‘Be big and look after Reoshen for me.’

  Frayvia threw some things in a bag, while Reothe watched the lighthouse steps.

  ‘We’re lucky, they think you’re still in labour. The cook expected the birth to take all night,’ he said. ‘Ready?’

  Was she ready to leave her home? She had to be. Imoshen summoned a smile for Iraayel, who was watching her anxiously. ‘Time for an adventure. You must do everything we tell you.’

  He nodded solemnly.

  She made a sling from a blanket and tucked the baby into it, planting a kiss on the newborn’s head. Lucky for them, he had just been fed and was sleeping.

  Frayvia took Iraayel’s hand.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ Reothe said. ‘Keep your gift tightly reined, Imoshen. If they sense it, they’ll come after us.’

  He went down the stairs, and they followed him.

  At the base of the lighthouse, he opened the door to the hall. They could hear the clatter of dishes and excited chatter from the Malaunje in the kitchen. From the dining room, they could hear deep voices.

  Reothe drew back. ‘It’s clear to the front door.’

  In a rush, they went down the passage and out the front door. No snow had fallen yet, but the cold was biting. It was not long until midwinter and the night was dark – the small moon was new, the big moon waning – but Imoshen knew every path and every rock on this part of the island.

  They reached the cliff edge and the steps to the beach without trouble, and ran down to the beach. The tide was on the way in. Some of the boats had been pulled up onto the sand. Others were moored out in deeper water. They made straight for a six-man rowboat, which lay with its nose on the sand. Reothe swung Iraayel into it then reached for Frayvia, but she’d already scrambled aboard. Before Imoshen could protest, he lifted her into the boat and began to shove it into the shallows.

  ‘Here, you,’ someone yelled.

  Imoshen saw three Malaunje warriors come running across the sand towards them. ‘Hurry, Reothe.’

  She darted back to grab the closest oar. The water was thigh-deep on Reothe now.

  Their attackers ran through the shallows, sending plumes of water to each side. One of them grabbed Reothe. He shoved the boat out into deeper water, then let go.

  Reothe and his attacker grappled. The second warrior tried to haul Iraayel out of the boat, while the third went for Frayvia. Imoshen swung the oar at the man clutching Iraayel, striking the Malaunje across the head. He released her. Bringing the oar around, Imoshen tackled the other one.

  Reothe escaped his attacker and headed for the boat. The warrior tackled him, and they collided with the boat. It rocked alarmingly. One of the warriors tried to spring into the boat and Imoshen swung the oar again.

  The world tipped.

  Shockingly cold water closed over her. She didn’t know which way was up. Something clipped her head. She lost all sense of direction.

  Mercifully, her face broke the surface and she gasped a breath. She couldn’t feel the sea bed under her feet. Frayvia waved. Iraayel clung to her.

  Imoshen pulled the baby out of his sling, lifting his face above water. Someone grabbed her, ducking her under. She couldn’t fight back, not without dropping Reoshen. She twisted and turned.

  They let her go and she struggled to the surface, weighed down by clothes and the baby. Kicking out, she made for Frayvia. She heard splashes behind her, and knew Reothe was still struggling.

  Ahead of her, Frayvia seemed even further away. She felt the current take her, sweeping her away from the bay as it had taken Frayvia and Iraayel.

  So cold... they had to get out of the water.

  In desperation, she made for one of the moored boats. She lifted Reoshen over the side of the dingy and let him roll down into the nose of the boat. Without him in her arms, she was able to kick up, lift her weight over the boat’s side and slither in.

  Shaking with cold, she settled the baby in a coil of rope, hauled in the anchor, grabbed two oars and...

  Felt Reothe die.

  Felt it like a light going out.

  But she had to save Frayvia and Iraayel. She put her back into working the oars.

  In a few moments she came alongside them. Tucking the oars into the boat, she took Iraayel from Frayvia and lifted him over the side. He shivered violently as she lowered him into the bow of the boat. ‘Don’t move.’

  The boat rocked as she dragged Frayvia in.

  As soon as they were both safe, she crawled to the nose where Reoshen lay. She unwrapped him, bent her head over his tiny chest to listen and...

  Heard nothing.

  GRAELEN AND PARYX stepped aside to let several high-ranking adepts past. Although they were also adepts, they were only in their first year and had a long way to go to win status and respect.

  Paryx waited until the five T’En men were out of sight before whispering to Graelen. ‘That’s the brotherhood’s tithe-master and his collectors. I’ve heard he robs the estates so Sigorian can build the new wing of the palace. All to impress the other all-fathers.’

  ‘Kyredeon says bluffing the other brotherhoods is better than shedding blood on this plane, or power on the empyrean plane.’ In the seventeen years since he’d joined Sigorian’s brotherhood, Graelen had learned who to avoid, who to trust, and how to keep out of trouble and, for the most part, he succeeded.

  They passed a Malaunje lamplighter before climbing to the old part of the palace, where the low-ranking adepts and initiates lived.

  Kyredeon beckoned to them from the balcony shadows.

  In the years since he had first offered them advice, Kyredeon had risen to be one of the most influential men in the brotherhood. He had managed to gather a group of dissatisfied adepts and young initiates around him, all without drawing Sigorian’s notice.

  ‘Kyredeon,’ Graelen greeted him with the abbreviated obeisance of a low-ranking adept.

  ‘Grae, Paryx.’ Kyredeon gave them both a quick nod.

  This close, Graelen could feel Kyredeon’s barely contained gift, and he was reminded of his first night in the brotherhood. That night, seven males had been killed, purged because Sigorian perceived them as a threat. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I need a favour.’

  ‘Name it.’ Brotherhood life consisted of a web of obligation, and they both owed Kyredeon.

  ‘Every evening, the new hand-of-force meets his Malaunje lover on the new rooftop garden. They tryst, then go their separate ways. When Fraysun goes up there, follow him and bolt the door. Let him spend a night on the roof in the cold and damp. You heard what he did to Ekanyn?’

  They nodded. Ekanyn was higher-ranked than they; if he could be publically humiliated, then what protection did they have?

  ‘Do this and you win Ekanyn’s gratitude.’

 
Paryx glanced to Graelen. It seemed simple enough, and the new hand-of-force would not know who to blame.

  ‘We’ll do it,’ Graelen said.

  ‘Good.’ Kyredeon glanced over his shoulder as several Malaunje servants came along the balcony, carrying dinner trays. ‘Go now. He’ll leave as soon as he’s eaten.’

  They would miss their meal, but it would be worth it. They’d repay a debt to Kyredeon and Ekanyn would be beholden to them.

  Graelen and Paryx made their way to the new part of the palace.

  ‘What’s the remodelling in aid of?’ Paryx whispered. ‘Does Sigorian feel threatened?’

  Graelen signalled for silence and pulled him into the shadows. A moment later, the brotherhood’s new hand-of-force strode past. He was alone

  They waited. No lover came.

  ‘Looks like his lover’s stood him up,’ Paryx whispered.

  ‘Then we better shut the door before he realises.’ Graelen slipped out of the shadows, closed the door and slid the bolts.

  ‘That’s it then,’ Paryx said. ‘We can go back.’

  On their way back to their quarters, they passed the bathing chamber, where Graelen heard Kyredeon’s voice.

  ‘I’ll just let him know there was no lover,’ Graelen said, slipping silently into the chamber.

  Only a few lamps were still lit, their light gleaming on the wet tiles; he smelled scented oils and bath salts. He peered through the steam, but could not see the adept he sought. Then Kyredeon’s voice came again, and Graelen sensed the rise of the gift, redolent with danger. He backed up. He didn’t want trouble.

  ‘...you two have the advantage of being shield-brothers. You have the mid-ranking adepts behind you. I can bring my supporters in. You must challenge the all-father tonight, before the new hand-of-force can make good on his threat to you. I’ve ensured that when Sigorian summons Fraysun, he won’t answer...’

  Graelen’s mind raced. If the all-father got wind of this, he’d kill them.

  ‘...their triumvirate will be weakened,’ Kyredeon was saying. ‘You’ll have the advantage.’