Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘But what’s going to happen to her? She can’t spend her whole life a prisoner.’

  Hiruna covered her mouth and looked across the table to Zabier.

  ‘You weren’t here. You’ve got no right to criticise.’ Zabier put down his wine glass, restrained anger in his precise movements. Remembering the eager child Zabier had been, Sorne did not recognise the man he had become. ‘Chalcedonia is not a good place for half-bloods.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Valendia said quickly, fixing on Sorne with desperate hope. ‘When you go away again, I’ll go with you.’

  Into war? Into the path of assassins? Sorne put his glass down. ‘Out of the question. I –’

  ‘You can’t be bothered with me.’ Valendia sprang to her feet. ‘I’m a burden on Ma and Zabier. No one wants me.’ And she ran inside.

  Sorne heard a distant door slam.

  Zabier pushed his plate aside. ‘I knew it was a mistake to bring you here. We were getting along just fine until you turned up. You’ve got no right, no right at all!’

  And Zabier stalked from the table.

  Sorne looked across to Hiruna; tears slid down her cheeks. This wasn’t what he’d wanted.

  ‘Don’t...’ – he went to her, knelt and put his arms around her shoulders – ‘don’t cry, Ma. I didn’t mean to spoil things.’ He felt like he was twelve again. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You said what had to be said.’ She pulled back and patted his arm. ‘I don’t know what’s going to become of Valendia. I’m sick, Sorne. I have the wasting illness. There are lumps.’ She gestured to her breast.

  He didn’t want to hear this.

  ‘Sorne, are you coming?’ Zabier called from the doorway.

  ‘Don’t tell Zabier or Dia,’ Hiruna whispered.

  ‘Don’t worry, Ma.’

  ‘She’s not your mother, Sorne.’ Zabier must have read his lips. ‘And Valendia is not your sister. Come, we’re keeping the king’s daughter waiting.’

  Hiruna squeezed Sorne’s arm and sent him off with his head reeling.

  He followed Zabier out of the secret apartment where his family was imprisoned and down to one of the church’s formal greeting chambers. There was no sign of Marantza.

  ‘Wait here,’ Zabier told him.

  So much for keeping her waiting. Sorne looked out on a courtyard where penitents clipped hedges into a knee-high maze. It seemed to negate the whole purpose.

  Nothing made sense today.

  Aware that he was not in the right frame of mind to start the negotiations, he was about to request they reschedule when Marantza entered, escorted by the Father’s-voice.

  ‘I have been giving what you said a lot of thought,’ Marantza said. ‘And I see that I have three choices.’

  ‘Really, what’s the third?’

  ‘Set sail and never come back. But this is my home, and I don’t want to leave.’

  ‘So you’ll marry King Charald?’

  ‘Tell the king I cannot marry when our land is full of strife and war. When Chalcedonia is at peace he can court me.’

  Sorne hid a smile. Had his little brother come up with this, or was it Marantza’s idea? Charald would hear what he wanted to hear in this answer. It wasn’t quite the response Sorne needed, but it would buy them all some time.

  ‘I will convey your words.’ He gave his bow and left.

  Six of his holy-swords waited to escort him across the plaza back to the palace. He just wanted to make his report to Charald, find his chamber and think through what had happened today. There was an underlying hostility in Zabier that puzzled him. Hiruna’s illness saddened him, and as for Valendia... she had no experience of the world, or of people. She was a total innocent. How would she survive, in a world filled with ambitious, conniving men?

  As he put his foot on the top of the broad sweep of stairs to the royal plaza, something made Sorne look up. A half-blood stood on the steps to the Warrior’s church, staring at him. Sorne was so surprised, he came to a sudden stop, and the holy-swords almost ran into him.

  The man was a warrior, by the way he carried himself. His clothing was rich and there was pride in his stance, reminding Sorne of the she-Wyrd. Here, in the True-men’s port, the Wyrds might be amongst enemies, but some of them were clearly not afraid.

  And they’d set someone to watch him.

  He kept walking as though the Malaunje warrior’s presence meant nothing to him, but it had surprised him. Now that he thought about it, returning to Chalcedonia in service to the king as the Warrior’s-voice meant he was bound to attract the attention of the Wyrds. After all, he was a Malaunje walking amongst True-men, and he wielded power.

  He’d proven the she-Wyrd wrong. A flash of memory came to him – the she-Wyrd lying dead on the floor, limbs splayed, eyes gouged out...

  He almost staggered. He’d left the she-Wyrd to die.

  She’d asked him to save her and he’d refused.

  At seventeen, he hadn’t understood the consequences of leaving her in the cell. She’d been raped and murdered, and her body mutilated by the barons. And then he’d sailed off with the king and the barons, tacitly condoning her murder. Stunned and sickened by the memory, Sorne was hardly aware of his surroundings.

  He had never even asked her name. It had been easier to think of her as the she-Wyrd than to acknowledge her humanity. He was a coward. And this came as a surprise to him.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  VITTORYXE COULDN’T UNDERSTAND why the Sagoras had sent her the treatise. She’d never had anything to do with Venerable Felesoi, and she wasn’t interested in their thoughts on inheritable traits. She almost threw it out, but something caught her attention.

  Why was there a whole section on her birds?

  ‘Imoshen!’ Her gift surged, and she let it.

  She stalked into the all-mother’s greeting chamber to find Egrayne with Aayelora. The two were always together. It only confirmed her fear that Egrayne would be named the next all-mother.

  ‘Look at this!’ Vittoryxe thrust the treatise under the all-mother’s nose. ‘Look what that... that sorry excuse for a sister has done now. She’s taken my prize birds and fifty years of breeding and given everything I’ve learnt to the Sagoras!’

  Aayelora looked sufficiently horrified. ‘Send for Imoshen.’

  Egrayne took the treatise to examine it.

  Vittoryxe paced. She didn’t know when she had last been so angry. There was a rushing in her head and she let her gift ride her body; she could feel it pulsing just below her skin.

  Imoshen arrived, slightly out of breath. ‘Sorry, we were about to take the children out on the lake.’ She glanced to Vittoryxe, and the smile left her lips. ‘Is something wrong? Is someone hurt?’

  ‘You are what’s wrong.’ Vittoryxe stalked towards her. ‘How dare you pretend to befriend me to steal fifty years of knowledge and give it to the Sagoras!’

  Imoshen went white as a sheet and took a step back.

  ‘You thought I wouldn’t find out. That’s it, isn’t it? You thought you’d claim all my work–’

  ‘No, I told them it was your work.’

  ‘Your name is on here, Vittoryxe, credited with supplying the charts,’ Egrayne said. ‘And your name is above Imoshen’s as author of the section on the birds.’

  ‘What?’ She was associated with Mieren scholars? She would be the laughing stock of the T’En, her stature ruined. ‘How dare you use my name? I didn’t write any of it.’

  ‘At first I was just interested in your bird breeding. But it wasn’t structured, so I drew up the charts. You said they made the links easier for you to see. Remember, we discussed the patterns? Then I wrote to the Sagoras to see if our insights matched theirs, and then they wrote back and–’

  ‘I didn’t give you permission to send anything to the Sagoras!’ Vittoryxe could not believe Imoshen had done this. That said, she could see a positive side. After this, no one would trust Imoshen’s judgement; the other sisters would shun her. It woul
d be such a blow to her stature, she would never recover. And the stupid girl had done it all herself. Vittoryxe could hear other sisters arriving, hear them whispering. She felt like laughing, but she had to play the victim. ‘You befriended me to get access to my birds. You never told me you were sending my work to the Sagoras.’

  ‘I never told you’ – bright spots of colour blazed in Imoshen’s cheeks – ‘because when I mentioned the Venerable Felesoi’s work on inherited traits, you wouldn’t look at it. You said Mieren knowledge was worthless.’

  ‘So you went behind my back? You betrayed me!’

  Imoshen flushed.

  ‘Did you send the work to the Sagoras without Vittoryxe’s permission?’ the all-mother asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  The gathered inner circle sisters murmured in shock and disapproval. Tears glittered in Imoshen’s eyes. Vittoryxe had no sympathy; the stupid girl deserved everything she got.

  ‘I did it, and I would do it again, because knowledge should not be hidden.’ Imoshen’s voice shook, but she did not falter. ‘Every piece of knowledge builds on what has gone before. The Sagoras are beginning to understand inheritable traits in people, and when they do, they’ll share this information. The treatise they write will save lives. There are indications the bleeding disease is an inherited trait–’

  ‘In Mieren?’ Vittoryxe let scorn drip from her voice, she could not be happier. ‘Who cares what happens to Mieren? They don’t care about us.’

  ‘How can you be so short-sighted?’ Imoshen appeared shocked. ‘If we understand inheritable traits, we’ll understand why some Mieren parents produce Malaunje babies. We’ll understand why T’En women have trouble carrying T’En babies to term. One day, we could choose whether we have boys or girls, Malaunje or T’En. T’En females could carry sacrare babies without fear of deformities.’

  Imoshen looked around the inner circle. No one made a sound.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ she appealed to them. ‘That’s why it’s important that knowledge isn’t hidden.’

  ‘Oh, Imoshen,’ Egrayne whispered.

  ‘She went behind my back. My stature has been insulted,’ Vittoryxe insisted. ‘I demand satisfaction.’

  ‘You’re challenging me to a duel?’ Imoshen asked, stunned.

  ‘I could,’ Vittoryxe said. But she wouldn’t. She wasn’t going to get herself killed. She wanted to make Imoshen suffer. ‘All-mother, inner circle, do you agree this sister has insulted my stature?’

  ‘What do you have to say in your defence, Imoshen?’ All-mother Aayelora asked.

  ‘Of the charge that I did not tell Vittoryxe what I was doing? I admit guilt. Of the charge that I shared knowledge so that everyone would benefit? I admit guilt.’ She gestured to Vittoryxe. ‘If it will make the gift-tutor happy, I will clean her bird cages for the next year.’

  This was a Malaunje job, and it was exactly what Vittoryxe was going to demand, but to have Imoshen offer to do it made her hesitate. How could Imoshen not feel the blow to her stature?

  ‘Are we all agreed Imoshen must make amends to Vittoryxe?’ the all-mother asked.

  The inner circle agreed.

  ‘Then choose the means for Imoshen to make amends,’ Aayelora told Vittoryxe.

  Imoshen accepted this without argument. Vittoryxe found it so frustrating she could scream.

  ‘There’s no need for Imoshen to clean my bird cages,’ Vittoryxe said. ‘I don’t want her near my birds. To make amends, Imoshen must promise not to send any more messages to Venerable Felesoi.’

  Imoshen’s gasp was everything Vittoryxe had hoped for.

  ‘There,’ the all-mother sounded relieved. ‘That seems fair. Imoshen, do we have your word?’

  Imoshen looked from her to Vittoryxe; she seemed shocked and disappointed. Vittoryxe was delighted. She felt Imoshen’s gift surge, and knew the silly girl was reading her. She didn’t care.

  The fight seemed to go out of Imoshen. ‘I give my oath I will not contact Venerable Felesoi about Vittoryxe’s birds.’

  AS IMOSHEN WALKED down the boulevard with Reoden, Vittoryxe’s accusations kept replaying in her mind. Why couldn’t the others see how important the Sagoras’ research was?

  Their children ran on ahead, escorted by Reoden’s hand-of-force, her sisterhood’s scryer and a gift-warrior. Two Malaunje followed with food and blankets. Imoshen carried some hand-reels; she planned to teach Reoden’s children to fish. Iraayel already knew how.

  She didn’t see why T’En were prohibited from preparing food. It was one of those customs that made no sense to her. What if they had to fend for themselves? Today she found the restrictions on T’En particularly irritating.

  The sound of laughter made her look up. Iraayel and Reoden’s choice-son, Sardeon, were teasing Lyronyxe. The boys had both turned twelve last winter’s cusp, but they were already taller than Lyronyxe, who had turned thirteen just after midwinter.

  Her sacrare son would have been eight. It still hurt to think of him; it always would.

  ‘You’re very quiet today,’ Reoden said.

  ‘Do you think knowledge should be shared?’

  Reoden blinked then laughed. ‘I never know what you’re going to say next. Why so serious? Look around you. Isn’t it a glorious day?’

  Shop doorways stood open, flowering plants hung from balconies, the sweet smell of baking reached them as the eateries prepared for the day’s mid-morning rush, while T’En, Malaunje and the occasional Mieren in their distinctive red half-capes passed by.

  Reoden linked arms with her.

  The youngsters were at the next cross-street. Imoshen frowned. ‘Wait for us, Iraayel.’

  When they caught up, Reoden’s hand-of-force grimaced.

  ‘A day on the barge, drifting across the lake... I am going to be so bored.’

  ‘Think of it as a well-deserved break,’ Reoden said.

  A loud clatter and a short sharp scream startled everyone on the street. It seemed to have come from a brotherhood eatery. Imoshen caught a glimpse of a courtyard, tables under a blossoming tree in the sunshine.

  ‘Someone’s hurt,’ Reoden said. ‘I must–’

  A Malaunje girl of about ten came running out. There was blood on the front of her work apron. ‘Someone help! Ma’s hurt and my brother–’

  Reoden turned to her hand-of-force. ‘Take the children to the boat-house. I’ll be down soon.’

  Imoshen gestured for Iraayel to go with the others and took the girl by the shoulders, escorting her inside the eatery. When they reached the courtyard, she saw the stairs from the balcony had collapsed.

  Shattered crockery littered the courtyard. Two people were injured. At a glance, there seemed to be broken bones, cuts and bruising. The youth was sitting up, holding a wound on his forearm closed. The mother wasn’t moving. Reoden went to the mother first.

  Imoshen sat the child down, checked her over for injuries, found none, then lifted the girl’s chin. ‘You aren’t hurt. Everything is going to be all right. Do you understand?’

  The child nodded.

  Imoshen went to help the healer. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘I don’t know. What can you do?’

  ‘I have basic healing training.’

  While they stopped the bleeding and strapped broken bones, Imoshen could feel the healer’s gift. With each touch, Reoden encouraged flesh and bone to knit. When the T’En brother who ran the eatery turned up, they were almost done.

  ‘You should keep your premises in better repair, if you value your Malaunje,’ Reoden told him.

  He bristled, but did not protest, and took over organising the removal of the injured.

  Imoshen lifted her head. The emergency was over, yet her stomach churned with fear and her gift surged.

  ‘Something’s wrong!’ Reoden said, rising swiftly.

  ‘Iraayel.’ Imoshen found herself on her feet, heading for the door. Out in the street, everything seemed normal, but she still felt sick with horror.

  She
kicked off her sandals and ran towards the boat-house. Barefoot, her feet slapping on the warm stones, she kept pace with Reoden.

  They’d left the free quarter now, and were in the last stretch before the causeway gate; brotherhood buildings stood on either side.

  Imoshen spotted Iraayel leaving the boat-house. He seemed to be following a T’En warrior, making for the brotherhood quarters on her left. Imoshen put on a burst of speed to try and cut him off.

  The brotherhood warrior saw her and sped up.

  He just made it through the brotherhood gate ahead of her, and she followed. Iraayel caught up with her as the warrior darted into the second palace down the street.

  Imoshen skidded to a halt. T’En women did not go into the brotherhood quarter uninvited, let alone into a palace. Stepping back, she looked up to the symbol over the gate. The eye of the seer. ‘Kyredeon’s brotherhood.’

  By now a dozen or so men, both Malaunje and T’En, were watching them. They carried themselves like warriors, and Imoshen’s gift surged, responding to their threat.

  ‘Just turn around and walk away slowly,’ Imoshen whispered to Iraayel.

  He nodded and they backed away.

  ‘What happened?’ Imoshen asked as they stepped out of the brotherhood quarter onto the boulevard.

  ‘They attacked us. They took the gift-warriors down first, then the old sister. The Malaunje tried to defend us, but there were too many of them.’

  ‘But you’re all right? You, Lyronyxe and Sardeon are all right?’

  Iraayel shook his head. His face crumpled and he gulped back a sob.

  Imoshen’s stomach twisted with horror. She broke into a run and threw open the boat-house door.

  Through the arch to the lake, sunlight glistened on the water. Inside the boat-house it was dim. Barges and rowboats rocked gently. She saw broken picnic baskets and scattered food. The sickening smell of spilled blood mingled with the stink of gift aggression. Imoshen staggered.

  A noise made her turn. Lyronyxe lay still, covered in blood, a boathook protruding from her chest. One glance told Imoshen they’d been too late to save her.