Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘It was more what he didn’t say that interested me. We have these gifts that are more powerful on the higher plane. But to gift-work on that plane is dangerous, because it attracts the predators. On this plane, most gifts require touch to be effective. The power of the gift is innate and it builds up, like water pouring into a cup. The gift must be used or the cup overflows.’

  Vittoryxe nodded. ‘Right so far.’

  ‘If we do segue to the higher plane, our bodies are vulnerable, and we must be defended on this plane. It seems to me that the main purpose of our gifts on this plane is to make us aware of other T’En, and whether they are a threat. Other than that, they are not actually very useful. In theory, the gifts surface to protect us, but in reality the gift is protecting itself, because if we die, it ceases to exist. To me, the gifts seem to be almost parasitic.’

  ‘You’re quoting Scytheon and he’s discredited,’ Vittoryxe snapped. ‘Do you think me a fool? You couldn’t have come up with that on your own.’

  Imoshen’s mouth opened in dismay. ‘I haven’t read Scytheon’s–’

  ‘I’m not interested in your lies and excuses.’ Vittoryxe studied her. Without the training, it was hard to distinguish between the higher plane and a construct that a gift-tutor had created for training purposes. Vittoryxe had created several constructs, where she trained her students in safety.

  If she told Imoshen that she was taking her to one of these, but actually took her to the higher plane, the girl would not be able to detect the difference and would not be on her guard. When Imoshen got herself killed, Vittoryxe could claim Imoshen had lost control, segued to the higher plane and been devoured before she could find her.

  ‘Tomorrow, I’ll take you into my higher plane construct and show you the different predators. Read the relevant descriptions.’

  ‘Yes, gift-tutor.’

  IMOSHEN KNEW IT wasn’t a normal training day when she arrived and found the chamber empty. It was mid-afternoon, and shafts of sunlight streamed through the tall windows, reaching deep into the aisles between bookshelves. Dust motes hung on the golden light.

  She’d been studying nonstop since she arrived, but the more Imoshen read, the less she understood.

  People tended not to talk about their gifts, almost as if it was private, like sex.

  That was the other thing; the attraction between male and female gifts. When she and Reothe had made the deep-bonding, it had seemed perfectly natural.

  It had been a good thing. Wonderful.

  Yet Vittoryxe seemed certain the bonding had addicted Imoshen to the male version of the gift; that she was flawed.

  ‘There you are. Come through to my study,’ Vittoryxe said.

  Imoshen read the gift-tutor. Vittoryxe was so very determined she was having trouble controlling her gift.

  They took up their positions, kneeling in front of the empty fireplace.

  Imoshen wiped her hands on her thighs. ‘Why don’t our kind make the deep-bonding anymore?’

  Vittoryxe’s mouth twitched as if she’d said something crude.

  ‘I don’t mean any disrespect. But if men are drawn to female power and vice-versa, then it seems to me that bonding is a natural part of gift-working.’

  ‘T’En men cannot be trusted. Look what they did to you.’

  Heat raced up Imoshen’s cheeks and her gift surged, prickling over her skin. She’d never revealed how her father died to save her, and she wasn’t going to reveal it to Vittoryxe. But this was about bonding, and Reothe deserved his due. ‘My bond-partner died to protect me. Not all T’En men are the same.’

  ‘And one of my mother’s lovers murdered her. So don’t talk about things you don’t understand.’ Vittoryxe’s eyes glittered with anger. She rolled up her sleeve jerkily, and raised her left arm. ‘Now, lower your shields.’

  Imoshen swallowed and mimicked her. With their hands linked, skin touching from elbow to palm, Imoshen tried to lower her walls. Ever since she’d started training, she’d found this particularly difficult, and today she had to make several attempts. Vittoryxe grew more impatient each time.

  Finally, Imoshen managed to establish a link and the gift-tutor took control, segueing to the higher plane construct.

  Vittoryxe’s construct was like her: bleak and hard-edged. They stood in a town square on a cloudy day. Buildings three and four storeys high lined the square. A row of trees at each end cast shadows that seemed too deep for the dull day. It was bitterly cold, and Imoshen sensed a storm about to break. Fear made her stomach clench, and she had to remind herself that this place was only a construct.

  Imoshen looked around for any sign of empyrean beasts, but they were alone. Behind them was a fountain, with a statue of a woman astride a horse, her long hair covering her body like a cloak. The fountain was dry and edged with lichen.

  Imoshen felt her gift stir and the fountain sprang to life, clear water sparkling in a sudden shaft of sunlight. Joy filled her. If this had not been a construct, she wouldn’t have attempted such a thing, for fear of attracting predators.

  When she took the gift-tutor’s arm to show her the fountain, Vittoryxe’s skin felt like cool smooth leather, alive with an undercurrent of power.

  Before she could point to the fountain, a screech tore through the air. Sound behaved differently here. The cry rippled over Imoshen’s skin. It registered as waves of pain, reverberating in her ears. She’d read of the harrowraven’s cry and how it triggered fear in those who heard it.

  Above them, a harrowraven circled and Imoshen’s hand tightened instinctively on the gift-tutor’s arm. Just as the empyrean bird dived towards them, Imoshen saw three scraelings creep out from the shadows of the trees.

  Vittoryxe focused her gift to form a spear and hurled it towards the harrowraven. The spear caught the bird mid-chest and the creature dropped, falling amongst the scraelings, which tore it to pieces.

  As Vittoryxe recalled the spear, her gaze travelled past Imoshen’s shoulder and she stiffened.

  Imoshen turned to see a T’En man walking towards them, long hair loose on his shoulders, broad chest bare, breeches worn low on his lean hips. What was she supposed to learn from this?

  She glanced to Vittoryxe, but the gift-tutor had gone utterly still. Then, to Imoshen’s amazement, Vittoryxe shrank, becoming a child of seven or eight.

  The man sauntered towards them, a half smile on his lips. There was something about him that made Imoshen uneasy. She glanced to Vittoryxe for a sign, but the child was frozen in terror.

  Imoshen’s instinct was to protect the little girl, but when she took her arm, the child’s flesh burned like cold fire. As if from a great distance, she heard a keening cry. Even though she did not move, the little girl wept as if her heart was breaking. Imoshen knew the feeling. She still experienced it whenever she was reminded of Reothe and her dead son. The pain nearly brought her to her knees.

  It was more than she could bear. Gathering her mental resources, she focused and segued back to the earthly plane, taking Vittoryxe with her.

  Blinking, she found Vittoryxe had collapsed beside her and curled into a ball. A hoarfrost covered them both.

  ‘Gift-tutor?’ Imoshen touched her arm. The instant she did, she heard the wailing child again, and felt the little girl’s outrage.

  Something was very wrong.

  Imoshen ran out into the corridor, where she grabbed a boy in his mid-teens. ‘Fetch Egrayne, quickly.’

  He took off at a run.

  Returning to Vittoryxe, Imoshen called on her gift and looked into the empyrean world. The gift-tutor’s power pulsed within her, but very faintly. Imoshen guessed Vittoryxe was lost in the mind of the child she had been, the child Imoshen had seen in the construct.

  Unsure of what to do, she took Vittoryxe’s hand and tried to reach the gift-tutor.

  The grief of the child was terrible.

  It swamped Imoshen’s defences, triggering her own grief. The loss of her son hit her all over again, and then the g
rief went deeper still until she returned to the five-year-old child she had been when she lost her mother.

  That child had no defences. Her grief went beyond tears, to a place where there was no hope. Nothing but this.

  And it went on forever...

  ‘Imoshen?’

  Someone reached out to her.

  ‘Imoshen?’

  She opened her eyes, found Egrayne and...

  ‘All-mother Ceriane?’ Imoshen blinked, and the gift-wright squeezed her fingers.

  ‘She recognises us.’ Egrayne sounded relieved.

  ‘I’ll work on Vittoryxe,’ the gift-wright said. ‘You see to Imoshen.’

  Egrayne pulled Imoshen to her feet and drew her over to a chair by the fire. Others had come in, among them the all-mother and Vittoryxe’s devotee, who seemed dazed.

  ‘What happened, Imoshen?’ Egrayne asked, kneeling by her side.

  ‘We... we went to the empyrean plane... No, it was a construct, but it felt so real.’ Her power was drained and her mind felt sluggish. ‘The gift-tutor was going to show me empyrean predators. We saw a harrowraven and some scraelings. Then a T’En male came towards us. At first I thought he was part of the lesson. But Vittoryxe went very still and then she changed form, becoming a little girl. I didn’t like the way the man felt. He smiled, but...’

  ‘Are you sure it was a construct and not the empyrean plane proper?’ Egrayne radiated intensity.

  ‘That’s what Vittoryxe said. But it felt real.’

  Egrayne squeezed her hand and came to her feet. Gift-wright Ceriane had been working on Vittoryxe, using the devotee to assist her. When the gift-tutor stirred, Devotee Choris came out of her daze and wept with relief.

  Meanwhile, Egrayne whispered to All-mother Aayelora.

  Imoshen came to her feet. ‘Is Vittoryxe all right?’

  Egrayne and Aayelora looked to the gift-wright, who joined them.

  ‘Imoshen saved the gift-tutor’s life,’ Ceriane said. They all turned to look at Vittoryxe. She appeared shattered.

  Imoshen was reminded of the desolate child within the woman, and knew nothing would ever satisfy that child. The thought filled her with a deep sadness.

  The devotee helped Vittoryxe into the fireside chair and stayed with her, watching her closely.

  Meanwhile, the gift-wright, the all-mother and the empowerer spoke softly. Imoshen caught snatches of their conversation.

  ‘...a male. Don’t know who he was.’

  ‘But it was supposed to be a construct.’

  ‘...Vittoryxe must have decided to test her with the real thing, meaning to pull her out if she got into trouble.’

  ‘...what if it wasn’t one of our people?’ Ceriane said. ‘What if the T’En man –’

  ‘Was a predator that could take on any form?’ Egrayne suggested.

  ‘You mean it plucked the memory of her mother’s murderer from her mind?’ Aayelora asked. ‘That would explain Vittoryxe’s reaction. As a child, she had no defences. She was only eight when her mother was killed in front of her.’

  ‘The perfect predator,’ Egrayne said. ‘Using our deepest fears to disarm us.’

  ‘I don’t remember seeing that predator on the study list,’ Imoshen said.

  The three women turned to face her. They exchanged looks.

  ‘You don’t know all the predators of the empyrean plane,’ Imoshen guessed. ‘The list is a work in progress, isn’t it?’

  Egrayne nodded and took Imoshen aside. ‘There’s much we don’t know about the plane, and how our gifts manifest there. Many T’En have died to provide the knowledge we currently have, but there is more to learn.’

  ‘Not according to Vittoryxe.’

  A wry smile tugged at the big empowerer’s lips.

  Imoshen warmed to her. She wanted Egrayne to think well of her, but... ‘It’s my fault we were attacked. I thought we were in a construct, not the empyrean. I would never have flaunted my power, if I’d known.’

  Egrayne brushed this aside. ‘You did well to recognise the danger, bring her back and hold her until the gift-wright could save her.’

  Imoshen shrugged. She didn’t feel as if she’d done well.

  Devotee Choris whispered to Vittoryxe, who called Imoshen over.

  ‘I hear I have you to thank for my survival. I am in your debt.’

  ‘Oh, no. It’s nothing,’ Imoshen insisted, embarrassed. ‘I’m just glad we both made it out.’

  The all-mother’s devotee arrived with a tray of glasses. The rich scent of warm spiced wine filled the chamber, and Imoshen felt herself begin to relax.

  When everybody had a glass, the all-mother raised her own. ‘To Imoshen’s quick thinking.’

  They echoed her toast. Vittoryxe grimaced.

  ‘No,’ Imoshen said quickly. ‘To a lucky escape, for both of us. All I did was run.’

  ‘True,’ Egrayne said. ‘But the important thing is that you didn’t panic and leave Vittoryxe behind.’

  Imoshen noticed the empowerer and the gift-tutor share a look. Would she ever understand the T’En women? At least one good thing would come of this.

  She and Vittoryxe had survived a common threat; now they could be friends.

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘WEAR THE CLOAK, pull the hood down, keep your hands hidden and follow me,’ Franto ordered.

  Sorne resented the way they made him hide his hair, eyes and fingers, but he knew the war barons didn’t like him. Whenever they discussed strategy with the king, he had to go into the alcove at the back of the royal tent.

  He’d been waiting all spring to see the fall of Port Khitan, so he put on the cloak.

  When they’d first arrived in port, he had to stay on the ship, and had only been allowed on deck at night. Through the tiny window of his cabin, he’d seen the blockade of the harbour and heard the strange language of the locals. He’d seen the camp fires of the besieging army on the hills outside of the port, and heard the distant roar of battle as Charald assaulted the port walls. It had fascinated him, until he became frustrated with being cooped up.

  Then he’d badgered Franto to speak to the king. Finally, he’d been transported to the royal tent on the hillside overlooking the port. From there he could watch as the constant assault wore down the Khitite defences, and listen in to the king discussing strategy with his barons. At night he was allowed out to wander through the camp, cloaked and hooded.

  Leaving the tent now, he found the king and his barons in full armour. With their banners unfurled and their war horses saddled, they were ready for the ceremonial entrance into the captured port. As pipers prepared to play a triumph, the bags produced those strange sounds he’d heard in his first vision.

  Behind the king, buildings burned and pillars of dark smoke obscured the twilit sky. Sorne gasped as he recognised the scene. ‘Look, Franto. It’s my vision come to life.’

  The little man nodded, but he had only ever seen the drawing. He hadn’t seen it like this, in vivid colour, with the banners snapping and the pipers playing.

  The king mounted his war horse and everyone cheered. Sorne felt the surge of elation he’d felt during the vision, and he waited for the king to beckon him and acknowledge his part in all this.

  ‘Word has just come through,’ Franto said. ‘The port has fallen, but the Khitite king must have been smuggled out. The palace is deserted. Charald’s going down to claim the port and the palace, but he’ll have to chase the king and his court across Khitan. This is summer’s cusp and it’ll be hot, dusty and uncomfortable on the plains.’

  ‘But we’ll be home for winter,’ Sorne said. Tonight was his triumph, the confirmation of his power, and it would be Izteben’s night too. For tonight, his brother made the offering before all the church officials. One day, half-bloods would be valued and respected by True-men.

  King Charald rose in the stirrups and signalled; the men-at-arms cheered. Then the pipers played a triumph, as the king entered the port with his barons.

  Whi
le Sorne remained behind, the unwanted half-blood.

  Disappointment and shame burned in him.

  And he vowed, one day, he would make the king acknowledge him. One day, Charald and his war barons would dance to his tune.

  ‘BRING A CUSHION,’ Matxin ordered.

  Oskane sank onto it with relief. He felt light-headed and his heart hammered in his chest. It was the climb that had done it, but he needed the right place to stage the ceremony and this tainted site – holy site, he reminded himself – was perfect, a natural amphitheatre to which seats and a stage had been added.

  It had served this purpose for a Wyrd sisterhood’s winery over a hundred years ago. But one season’s cusp, under the light of the double full moon, a salacious play was disrupted when the gods had struck down the Wyrds.

  The sisterhood had packed up and left the estate. Since then, the winery’s vines had gone wild, choked with brambles. Over on the next hilltop, the sisterhood’s villa had fallen into disrepair. The tiled roof had collapsed and trees now grew through the mosaic floor.

  In the last few days, Baron Matxin had cleared a path up to the amphitheatre. Now Oskane sat in the front row, where he had a good view of the stage. Behind him were the leaders of the Seven’s churches. On his left were two dozen nobles: the prince, Nitzel, his two sons and many supporters who would bear witness to the reclamation of this holy site.

  Oskane could hear Prince Cedon boasting, telling everyone what would happen based on what he had witnessed in the mine. Since the king sailed, the prince had been surrounded by sycophants, and his head was swollen with their flattery.

  ‘Are you alright, Uncle?’ Matxin asked. His help had been invaluable, taking on much of the preparation that his assistant would have seen to himself. Oskane was surprised how much he missed Franto. ‘I can get you some wine, if you need it.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He wasn’t. He felt terrible. ‘See that Izteben and Zabier are ready.’

  Yesterday, Izteben had selected a suitable sacrifice, a long silver braid. Now the chest was brought down and placed on a stool covered with red velvet.