‘I never got your messages.’ He understood why Charald would have kept them from him, but that didn’t mean he liked it. ‘I thought you’d rejected me because I’d stayed with King Charald. I’m sorry, Zabier.’
‘Zabier died eight years ago, when Izteben died.’ His features hardened, brows drawing together, and he fingered a ring, which Sorne recognised as Oskane’s. ‘I became the Father’s-voice. I had to, to survive. I’ve done things...’ His gaze slid away from Sorne and he went to stand beside Marantza. ‘I’m here to lend my support to King Matxin’s daughter.’
‘If you want to help Marantza, you’ll smuggle her out of the palace and give her sanctuary in the Father’s church. Oskane used to say, next to the king, the high priest was the most powerful man in the kingdom. In fact, he’s more powerful, in some ways, because the church endures, while kings come and go.’
Marantza eyed him suspiciously. ‘Why should I take your advice? Your loyalty is to King Charald.’
‘It doesn’t matter who my loyalty is to. These are the facts. King Charald is going to march in here and purge the kingdom of Matxin’s supporters. He’ll do it whether you live or die, Marantza. He’ll do it whether you are the Father’s-voice, Zabier, or whether some other priest takes the post. I’m trying to save your lives. Is that so hard to believe?’ He glanced around the chamber, spotting a door on the far side. ‘Where does that lead?’
‘To my bedchamber,’ Marantza said.
‘Is there another exit from your chamber? Because I have a dozen holy-swords in the antechamber who will report my actions, if I let you go out that way.’
‘We can get out through my bedchamber,’ Marantza said.
‘I’ll give her sanctuary,’ Zabier said.
Sorne noted the way he took her arm. So that’s how it was. That was going to be inconvenient for Zabier; priests were supposed to be celibate. This had never bothered Sorne, as he seemed to be numb to the desires of the flesh.
‘Zabier, you’ll need to find a disguise for Marantza. Do you have another priestly robe?’
‘I can get one.’
‘Do it. Leave now. Go straight to the Father’s church. From there you’ll both be in a better position to negotiate. Charald will need the support of the Seven’s churches to hunt down the rebel barons.’
Marantza and Zabier glanced to each other.
‘Go,’ Sorne said. ‘I’ll buy you the time you need.’
Sorne waited while they slipped out the door. When he felt that enough time had passed, he went to find the king. Charald was on the balcony of the throne room, sipping wine with Nitzane.
‘There you are. Pour yourself a glass,’ Charald said.
Sorne joined him, as the king gestured to the wharves. ‘My war barons are unloading their men-at-arms. In another day, this palace will be crowded with them, wanting their rewards, and with local nobility eager to prove their loyalty, along with the port’s merchants trying to insinuate themselves into my good graces. I already have a list of requests for audiences. At least I don’t have to put out fires and restore the water supply.’ He tossed down his wine and put his back to the balcony, resting his elbows on the rail. ‘Well, Warrior’s-voice? How cooperative are they going to be?’
‘Matxin’s daughter cedes you the palace and the city. She has sought sanctuary in the Father’s church, under the protection of the Father’s-voice.’
‘Has she just?’ Charald muttered.
‘As a sign of good faith, she revealed what the Chalcedonian barons are up to.’ And he repeated what Marantza had told him.
Charald grimaced. ‘So, I have to go around mopping up resistance before I can truly reclaim my kingdom?’
‘You have a city full of men-at-arms bristling for a fight. Send your war barons out to claim their estates.’
‘And what of my family’s estates?’ Nitzane asked.
Charald grimaced. ‘You’ve ridden on your brother’s coat tails ever since you came to me. Now it’s time to prove you can lead men. A baron who can’t support me in battle is a liability.’
‘Of course, sire.’ Nitzane said, quickly. ‘What of this Marantza? What will you do about her?’
‘What do you suggest I do?’
Nitzane opened his mouth then closed it.
Charald looked to Sorne. He had been doing this since they set sail, playing them off against each other.
Sorne was not going to oblige. ‘You know what you have to do, my king.’
‘What if she’s plain as a pikestaff and I can’t get it up?’
‘From what I’ve heard, that’s never been a problem for you,’ Sorne said.
Charald laughed.
Sorne went to leave.
‘Wait. There’s something else.’ Charald looked pointedly at Nitzane until he left them. As soon as he was out of hearing, the king snorted. ‘Old Nitzel would be turning in his grave. I guess the pup will grow into a wolf one day. Or at least a fox.’
Sorne said nothing. Nitzane was two years older than him. He’d been impulsive and careless for as long as Sorne had known him.
Charald studied Sorne. ‘Are you loyal to me?’
‘Have I ever given you reason to doubt me?’
‘No... There’s something preventing me marrying Matxin’s brat to secure the crown.’
Sorne waited.
‘I’m still married!’
Sorne blinked.
‘Yes, you and everyone else have forgotten, but I’m still married to Nitzel’s daughter. Matxin let her retire to one of the Mother’s abbeys where, as far as I know, she still lives.’
‘You want me to go and find out if she lives?’
‘I want you to go and make sure she doesn’t. I need a message from the abbess offering her sympathies on the death of my second wife, so that I can marry my third.’
‘I see.’ Sorne looked down. He had been the instrument of the deaths of tens of thousands of mothers and their children, throughout the kingdoms of the Secluded Sea, but he had never killed a woman or child with his own hands.
‘Is there a problem?’ Charald asked.
‘Do I leave before or after I’ve brokered this marriage?’
Charald barked a laugh. ‘You’re sharp, I’ll give you that. It’s a pity...’
He broke off and turned away, to look out over the port.
Sorne hesitated, not sure if he was dismissed. It had been a while since the king had had one of his irrational rages. They were unpredictable, but they were inevitable and they were getting worse. Perhaps it would be wise to complete his service and retire. But could he live without the thrill of wielding power? More to the point, would Charald let him? And if he did, where would he go?
‘Back in Restoration Retreat you had a vision,’ Charald said. ‘You saw me on the deck of a ship with a boy. But my son died.’
‘It wasn’t Prince Cedon. It was a much younger boy.’
‘You let me believe it was Cedon.’
‘I was seventeen.’ He lifted his hands, palms up. ‘You were the king.’
Charald nodded to himself.
Sorne was anxious to visit the Father’s church and see his family. ‘Am I dismissed?’
‘Yes, go.’
GRAELEN CURSED HIS luck. He’d arrived the very day King Charald’s fleet returned, and the streets were packed with Mieren. Between the locals, who ignored him and his Malaunje servants, and the foreign barons and their men, who stared openly at his party, it took the better part of the morning to thread through the packed streets. It didn’t help that he wasn’t used to riding and, after four days in the saddle, every step the horse took was agony for him.
To reach the docks and Chariode’s warehouse, they still had to traverse the wealthy part of the port. The quickest way was through the royal plaza. It was here that Charald had built his new palace, surrounded by the seven churches of the Mieren gods.
It was only the third time Graelen had been in a Mieren town, and the previous two times he had only been passi
ng through. The weight of so many unguarded minds was punishing, but he had expected that.
What he hadn’t expected was to see one of his own kind dressed in priestly robes, leading six Mieren in the same attire across the plaza. It was only as the male passed that Graelen noticed the coppery streaks at the end of his braid. Malaunje. What had he been doing, for his hair to go completely white?
‘Who was that, Harosel?’ Graelen twisted in the saddle to speak to the Malaunje veteran who acted as his guide and bodyguard whenever he left the city.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Ask around when we get to Chariode’s.’
Later that evening the veteran returned, and they retired to Graelen’s chamber. From here, Graelen could see the ships floating on the bay, lanterns reflected in the sea. It would be quite lovely if it wasn’t for... ‘What is that horrible smell? Fish?’
‘Seaweed. It’s low tide.’ The veteran smiled, then sobered. ‘The white-haired Malaunje goes by the title of the Warrior’s-voice.’
‘But he’s one of us.’
‘When King Charald came back from conquering the Secluded Sea, he had the Warrior’s-voice with him.’
‘Isn’t the Warrior one of the Mieren gods?’
Harosel nodded. ‘Apparently this half-blood has visions from the Warrior.’
‘Impossible.’
‘He tells the king what he sees, then the king acts on his advice. As a consequence, Charald has conquered the Secluded Sea.’
A Malaunje serving a Mieren king as his advisor. Graelen would have said it was impossible. As far as he knew, their kind did not live outside of Chalcedonia.
‘There’s more,’ Harosel said. ‘Apparently there’s a Mieren who calls himself the Father’s-voice. He served King Matxin. He came to power the night Matxin stole the throne from Charald.’
‘Don’t tell me he has visions, too?’
Harosel nodded. ‘Although Matxin’s dead and Charald’s back on the throne. Guess which one has better visions?’
‘They can’t have visions.’
‘The Mieren believe they do. And guess where they do it?’ He didn’t wait for Graelen to reply. ‘At holy sites.’
‘Holy–’
‘Places where the walls between the planes are weak.’
Graelen swore softly. ‘Where did you learn all this?’
‘Mieren taverns and whorehouses, mostly from off-duty palace guards.’
‘They let half-bloods in?’
‘Not on your life, but my hair’s going white, so I’m easy to miss. I keep my eyes lowered, not that these places are brightly lit, and my hands under the table. I listen and I ask the occasional question.’
‘What would happen if they realised?’
‘What do you think?’
‘A beating?’
‘At the very least.’
‘Ask around. See what more you can learn.’
Harosel nodded and left him alone.
To think, he’d believed this trip would be a waste of time.
SORNE FELT LIGHT as air as he told his holy-swords to wait and followed the priest. The Father’s church was beautifully designed, but the deeper he went into the labyrinth the older the buildings became, dating back hundreds of years.
Now that little Zabier was high priest of the Seven, he ranked alongside the king’s barons. In fact, Oskane would have said he ranked above them, since he was independent, with the vast power of the church behind him. Theoretically, as the Warrior’s-voice with the king’s trust, Sorne’s power rivalled Zabier’s. Perhaps they could finally realise Izteben’s dream for the half-bloods.
Right now, the priest was taking Sorne to see the Father’s-voice, but all Sorne could think of was his family. He wanted to hug Hiruna and laugh at her tears of joy. Would Valendia recognise him? He’d sailed just before she turned four, and all he could remember was red-gold curls, dimples and a little voice that repeated everything he said.
Now that he thought about it, he wanted time alone with Zabier, to ask how Izteben had died. Why had Izteben succumbed so easily, when he’d survived eight years of interactions with the higher plane?
At last they came to the high priest’s chambers. Zabier’s assistant, Utzen, looked up from his desk, and then gestured for Sorne to go into the next chamber.
Sorne was ready to confront Zabier about Izteben, but he didn’t see the Father’s-voice, he saw the boy who had crossed Chalcedonia to come home.
Zabier cleared his throat. ‘I take it you want to ask about Izteben’s death.’
‘You were only thirteen. Izteben knew what he was doing. I mourn our brother’s loss, but I don’t hold you responsible.’
Sorne wanted to grab him by the shoulders and hug him as if they were boys again, but the desk stood between them; that and eight years. He’d spent those years warring. He suspected Zabier had spent them politicking.
Zabier looked down. When he lifted his head again, he was the Father’s-voice. ‘Come.’
He led Sorne into the next chamber, to a sturdy wooden door, which he unlocked.
‘So they aren’t in the same apartment?’
‘That was eight years ago,’ Zabier said as he opened the door to reveal a narrow stair. ‘Valendia needed to be able to run around in the open air.’
Sorne followed his brother up a narrow staircase to another door, which Zabier opened.
The room ran along under the roof. Dormer windows looked out over a courtyard on his right. On his left, tall doors with many panes of glass opened onto a rooftop garden. One of the doors was open, and he could hear music; some sort of pipes. In the sunshine he caught a glimpse of an old woman in a chair with her feet up, her legs covered by a blanket, and a youth with long copper hair playing a small set of pipes.
Where were Hiruna and Valendia?
Zabier led him through the main room and onto the tiled balcony. There were raised flowerbeds and vegetable patches. Hiruna had clearly used her time in exile productively.
‘Sorne?’ Hiruna threw off the blanket and put her feet down. He’d known she was over forty, but seeing her like this stunned him. Her hair was nearly white and she’d lost several teeth, yet her blue eyes were as bright as ever, and brimming with tears.
He knelt beside her chair and she threw her arms around him.
He’d come home. In her embrace, everything he’d done or left undone was forgiven, and he felt he could still redeem himself. But she was so frail in his arms, her flesh soft over the bones, her skin fine as silk. He had a sense of her fragility, and an urge to protect her.
‘Back by winter,’ she chided, pulling away. ‘Eight years later...’ Then she hugged him again. ‘Oh, but it’s good to see you.’ As she drew away to study him, her gaze slipped to his hair. ‘So the white streaks overtook the copper?’
He nodded, unable to speak.
‘Ma?’ The voice sounded tentative.
Hiruna glanced behind him. ‘Say hello to your sister, Sorne. Dia’s been waiting all day to see you.’
He came to his feet and turned to the youth. Gone was the plump three year-old with red-gold curls. Valendia was almost as tall as Zabier now, and took his breath away. Had he and Izteben been like this, pale-skinned with such dark brows and lashes, such red lips and rich copper hair?
Valendia smiled, shy yet hopeful. ‘The song was for you. Did you like it?’ She showed him the pipes. ‘Zabier gave them to me.’
So innocent, so eager to please. He and Izteben had been five and almost six when the scourging had started. A flash of rage shot through Sorne. How could Oskane have done that to them? They’d trusted him, believed everything he told them, and all the while they’d just been his tools in his private feud with Nitzel.
Valendia’s eyes widened. She looked past him to Hiruna and Zabier.
Sorne found his voice. ‘It was wonderful.’
She beamed. ‘I made the music sound happy. But I can make sad music, too.’ She gestured to a larger, instrument that consisted of
a pipe and a bag very like the ones the martial pipers carried. ‘Would you like to hear–’
‘That’s enough music for now,’ Zabier said. He came over to hug Valendia. His hand cupped her cheek fondly. ‘Now run and fetch the treats.’
She darted off, her ankles showing, and Sorne realised her breeches were about a hand’s span too short. She must have had a growth spurt.
‘She plays more than one instrument?’
‘She plays several. The music carries across the courtyards, but I don’t have the heart to take them away from her,’ Zabier said.
‘She’s a credit to her teacher.’
‘She doesn’t have a teacher. She’s self-taught.’
‘Amazing.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Hiruna agreed. ‘Neither Kolst nor I had any music in us.’
‘You used to sing all the time,’ Sorne told her fondly.
‘Yes, but I could never play an instrument.’
‘Dia grew up listening to the church choirs rehearse.’ Zabier gestured to the courtyard beyond, which was hidden behind a screen. As if on cue, Sorne heard voices rise in a three-part harmony. ‘She was always pestering me to let her join the singers, so I gave her the first set of pipes.’
Just then Valendia returned with a tray of custard tarts; they’d been his favourites. He glanced across to Hiruna and she nodded with a smile.
As Valendia darted off to get the watered wine, Zabier set the table and Sorne went over to Hiruna, moving her chair closer so she could join them.
‘Doesn’t Valendia have any friends?’ he whispered.
‘How could she?’ Hiruna’s mouth tightened. ‘She’s not allowed to show her face beyond these rooms.’
Sorne held her chair as she settled herself, then took a seat. Valendia offered drinks and served the food, always watching Zabier for approval.
‘Why does Valendia have no friends?’ Sorne asked. ‘She needs company. When we were growing up, we three had each other.’
And there it was between them, Izteben’s ghost.
‘It’s all very well for you. You’ve been away. You don’t know what it was like here,’ Zabier said. ‘I’ve done the best I can. Valendia can read and write. She knows her history and she’s safe, from Wyrds and True-men.’
Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles) Page 36