Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  Nitzane turned away abruptly and went over to the window. He stood looking down into the courtyard, three floors below. Sorne could hear the shouts of the men as they unloaded the carts.

  ‘Oskane wrote this just before I turned seventeen,’ Sorne said. ‘He planned to use me to take vengeance on your grandfather. We both lost our mothers because of Charald’s need for an heir and Nitzel’s ambition for his grandson to be the next king.’

  ‘I couldn’t stand Cedon. Only met him twice, but both times he was a spoilt brat,’ Nitzane admitted, his voice raw.

  Sorne closed the journal and repacked the chest. ‘Do you want me to look after these? There’s dozens of dry dusty scrolls–’

  ‘Seven save me, yes. Take them away.’

  Sorne shut the chest and came to his feet, dusting off his hands. ‘I have to ride out to the abbey tomorrow. See if your mother still lives. It has been eight years and no one’s heard from her. Do you want to come with me?’

  Nitzane swung around to face him. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  Sorne shrugged. ‘You can see your mother. I can’t.

  Nitzane’s brows drew together and he strode towards Sorne. ‘I won’t let you–’

  ‘If I meant to kill her, would I have told you?’

  The chamber door flew open and they turned as Captain Ballendin entered, Idan in his arms. For a moment Sorne could not make sense of what he was seeing. Why was the front of Idan’s chest wet? Why was there blood on his lips?

  ‘The Khitite prince is dying,’ Ballendin gasped, out of breath.

  ‘No!’ Sorne had known the youth since he was a boy of seven. ‘Have you called the saw-bones?’

  ‘Aye, he’s on his way. But Idan was asking for you.’

  ‘How did it happen?’ Nitzane demanded.

  ‘We were setting up the hall for the feast. He was joking around and sat in the baron’s chair, your chair. It had been rigged. His weight triggered a crossbow. The bolt–’

  Nitzane cursed.

  ‘Warrior’s-voice?’ Idan’s eyes opened and he reached for Sorne.

  ‘I’m here.’ Sorne took his hand.

  ‘The king has my gold,’ Idan said, between gasps. Blood ran from the side of his mouth. ‘I want my sister to have it. You’ll give it to her?’

  ‘I will,’ Sorne said.

  ‘Tell my mother...’ His body jerked in a spasm; blood frothed from his lips. In another heartbeat, he was dead.

  ‘By the Mother,’ Nitzane whispered. He picked up his cloak and swung it over his shoulders. ‘I’m going to the abbey.’

  ‘Now?’ Captain Ballendin asked. ‘It’ll be dark by the time you get there.’

  Nitzane walked out.

  Ballendin tried to pass Idan’s body to Sorne.

  ‘No, I have to go to the abbey too.’ Before Nitzane could warn his mother and complicate Sorne’s plan.

  ‘What’s at the...’ Ballendin asked, then his eyes widened. ‘The queen still lives?’

  ‘We don’t know. Are you loyal to Nitzane?’ Sorne asked.

  ‘I followed him and his brother across the Secluded Sea because I promised their mother I’d look after them.’

  ‘Then come with us.’

  ‘What about...’ Ballendin glanced down to the youth in his arms.

  For a moment Sorne didn’t know what to do. Then he had an idea. ‘Bring him.’

  They went down to the stables, where Nitzane was waiting for his mount to be saddled. The horse had been ridden all day and was reluctant to leave its warm stall.

  ‘Harness a cart,’ Sorne said. He caught Nitzane’s eye, hoping the baron would play along. ‘We’re taking the Khitite prince’s body to the Mother’s abbey, to lay him to rest. The queen is buried there. Royalty should be buried with royalty.’

  He’d committed himself now. He hoped the abbess would cooperate.

  It was dark by the time they reached the gates of the abbey. Sorne jumped down and rang the bell. He glanced back to the cart. Captain Ballendin held the reins, while Nitzane stared fixedly ahead.

  A slot opened in the gate. ‘We’re closed, come back tomorrow.’

  ‘Since when does the Mother turn her sons away?’ Sorne asked.

  ‘Since her sons rode in here eight years ago, took all the young pretty novices and rode off with them.’

  Sorne raised the lantern so she could see mulberry eyes. ‘I’m the Warrior’s-voice. Open up.’

  ‘We don’t accept Wyrds here.’

  ‘I’m King Charald’s advisor. Open in the name of the king.’

  The slot closed and they heard worried whispers, then scurrying steps. Sorne was about to ring the bell again when the gate finally opened. He walked in ahead of the cart.

  Four women in priestly white stood in the entrance to the courtyard. Looking around, Sorne had an impression of decay. Weeds grew in the cracks between the paving stones, and creepers crawled over the buildings.

  ‘Who else is here?’ he asked.

  ‘There are just the five of us,’ the gate-keeper said, coming up behind him. ‘The baron taxed the abbey until we could no longer afford to feed ourselves, let alone anyone else.’

  ‘Who is in charge?’ Sorne asked.

  ‘I’m the abbess,’ the smallest and oldest of the women said. ‘We heard King Charald had returned, but–’

  Looking grim and determined, Nitzane jumped down from the cart. ‘I’m looking for the queen.’

  ‘King Charald’s second wife died two winters ago,’ the abbess said.

  Nitzane groaned and sank to sit on the mounting block. Sorne put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You keep telling them that,’ Captain Ballendin climbed down from the cart. ‘We’ll all be safe and happy.’

  ‘Ballendin?’ The gate-keeper sounded stunned. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Reporting on your sons, my lady. Charald rewarded your eldest son with the kingdom of Navarone. And Nitzane, here, has had his father’s title and estates returned, along with his grandfather’s. He’s now the most powerful baron in Chalcedonia.’

  The gate-keeper turned to Nitzane. ‘Is really you, my little Zane?’

  Sorne grinned as Nitzane jumped to his feet.

  Leaving the three of them together, he went over to the old abbess. ‘Do you have a nun who was buried in the last eight years?’

  ‘We have several, why?’

  ‘King Charald wishes to remarry, so the queen must be dead. We need to establish a royal crypt here. Baron Nitzane will make a generous donation to ensure there is a suitable stone carved. And’ – Sorne gestured to the cart – ‘I have the body of Idan, prince of Khitan. Royalty should be buried with royalty.’

  ‘We don’t lay foreigners to rest in our sacred grounds.’

  ‘He swore to serve the Warrior. He’s a faithful servant of the Seven. I will make a generous donation to ensure a suitable stone is carved.’

  ‘In that case...’

  It took the better part of the night to prepare the crypt and lay Idan to rest alongside the nun, who would henceforth be known as the queen.

  Burying young Idan was hard for Sorne. He wept unashamedly as the crypt was sealed.

  The next morning, they shared the same meagre fare as the nuns, then hitched up the horses and turned their noses toward the castle. The abbess gave him a message of condolence addressed to the king, informing him that his queen had died two years earlier.

  Sorne took the reins while Nitzane’s mother hugged him one last time.

  ‘Good-bye, my little Zane.’

  As the cart trundled out the gate, Sorne asked, ‘Zane?’

  ‘My brother’s pet name for me. I misjudged you, Sorne. Consider me your friend.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  WHEN SORNE RETURNED with the news of Idan’s death, as well as the queen’s, King Charald was pleased. Eight years had passed since the king had taken Idan hostage to ensure the cooperation of the Khitite royal family. In that time, the boy had grown into a man, and al
lied himself with Chalcedonia.

  ‘If one of the royal hostages had to die, then Idan’s the best one to lose,’ he told Sorne, who hoped his face did not betray his true feelings. ‘Idan’s father is dead, his sister adores Etri and they have three children. Etri’s hold on Khitan is secure, and I trust him. He has the other royal hostages in his care. Just as well we didn’t lose the Maygharian prince. Norholtz is having problems. The man always was a pious prick with no head for strategy.’ Charald cast Sorne an assessing look.

  ‘Idan said you were minding his gold.’

  Charald laughed. ‘Yes, the lad had a way of making coin breed.’

  ‘He wanted me to take it to his sister.’

  ‘I’ll send it to Khitan.’

  ‘I promised him I would do it.’

  ‘I have all my barons out claiming their estates, and it’s summer’s cusp now. Do you think it’s too soon to wed Matxin’s filly? I need to get a son by her before the year is out. I’ve heard the whispers. They say I’m getting on, that I’ve won an empire and made myself high king for nothing, since it will all die with me.’

  Sorne knew he should reassure Charald, but tonight he could not bring himself to speak the platitudes. He made his excuses and left.

  When he returned to his chamber, Sorne unpacked Oskane’s journals and scrolls, along with a bag of malachite he’d found in the chest.

  Although the scrolls were probably full of interesting information on Wyrds, he went straight to Oskane’s last journal. It started on his seventeenth birthday, just after winter’s cusp, and went through to summer’s cusp, when Oskane had died. If something had gone wrong in the preparation for the ceremony that killed Izteben, perhaps he’d find it here.

  Oskane’s last few entries made it clear that Matxin had been a great help to him. He also wrote of the pride he took in Zabier. The scholar’s plans for Baron Nitzel’s downfall did not correlate in the slightest with what had unfolded that evening. Clearly, it had been a terrible accident, and there were forces on the higher plane that could not be appeased with a T’En artefact.

  Sometimes it didn’t matter what you did, things were beyond your control.

  Flicking through the pages reminded Sorne how happy he’d been in the retreat. When Zabier returned to them, Hiruna had become her usual sunny self. Catching glimpses of his family through Oskane’s journal was painful.

  Then he came to the morning they’d set off for the port. Meticulous as always, Oskane had recorded the she-Wyrd’s passing.

  ...woke up this morning and found the barons had saved Franto the trouble of killing the she-Wyrd. This evening, when we made camp, they showed me their trophies. Norholtz has one little sixth finger and Etri the other. Bazajaun and Ferminzto divided the hair between them. Roitz took the eyes. I don’t know what he thought he could do with them.

  Sorne closed the journal with a snap. Until tonight, he had not understood how Oskane could beat them every day, yet continue to tutor them and take pride in their work.

  It was clear there was something missing in the man.

  Sorne returned the journals to his chest and hid them under oddities he’d collected in his travels, before concealing the chest under his bed.

  That night, sleep was a long time coming. He tossed and turned, troubled by what he had read. If he was any kind of man, he would hunt down the five barons mentioned in Oskane’s journal.

  Norholtz, Etri and Roitz had remained loyal to Charald, and now ruled Maygharia, Khitan and Welcai respectively. The other two had returned to Chalcedonia and sworn allegiance to King Matxin. Sorne could find out where they were now, if they still lived.

  The next morning, as he headed across the plaza, he saw that parts of it had been roped off, and performers were entertaining the crowds. A group of jugglers blocked his path to the Father’s church, so he took a side street.

  ‘Warrior’s-voice?’ A pretty Malaunje woman approached him. ‘Will you help me?’

  He didn’t know her... but he remembered Zabier’s saying how pretty Malaunje women were taken off the streets. Imagine if it were Valendia? ‘If I can.’

  ‘Come quickly.’ She took his hand, weaving through the crowds.

  ‘Wait, where are you taking me?’

  ‘Please?’ She looked up at him, wine-dark eyes wide with fright. And he remembered the she-Wyrd asking him to set her free. He’d failed her... maybe he could atone by helping this woman.

  She tugged on his hand and he followed.

  ‘THEY’RE COMING.’ HAROSEL ran lightly down the wine cellar steps and moved into the shadows. The cellar was long and deep, with huge barrels stacked all the way to the vaulted ceiling.

  Graelen’s gift surged, and he reined it in as he checked that the infant was still sleeping safely in her basket under the table. She was a necessary part of his plan.

  The Warrior’s-voice had been away from the city for almost a whole small moon, giving Graelen a chance to refine his original plan. As much as he would like to dispense justice, he needed more information first. If the churches were sacrificing half-bloods, he wanted to know where, when and who.

  While spying for Kyredeon, he had discovered that information freely given was more likely to be the truth, and nothing loosened a tongue more than a pretty girl in trouble – in this case, a pretty girl with a baby. If the Warrior’s-voice was sacrificing infants to feed an addiction to power, he would want the child and give himself away.

  Lysania drew the white-haired Malaunje down the steps.

  Hidden in the cellar were Graelen’s four Malaunje, plus two of Chariode’s, who were there to ensure Lysania and her daughter came to no harm. They all knew of Graelen’s suspicions, and – once the white-haired Malaunje’s guilt was confirmed – were ready to execute him on the spot.

  The half-blood seemed to sense this; he looked around, uneasily. The Warrior’s-voice was armed with a sword, worn low on his right hip for left-handed use. Yet, according to the treaty with King Charald the Peace-maker, Wyrds were not allowed to carry swords.

  ‘You said you would help me,’ Lysania pleaded. ‘I need–’

  At the sound of her voice, her choice-daughter gave a tentative cry. Lysania ran over to pick up her baby, crooning softly.

  ‘Boy or girl?’ the white-haired Malaunje asked, clearly interested in the infant. Graelen felt his gift surge, and knew his Malaunje warriors would be getting edgy.

  ‘Girl. Tamoria.’ Lysania settled the baby on her hip. The infant studied the white-haired Malaunje with frank curiosity. ‘She’s almost a year old. She’s the reason I came to you.’

  ‘I don’t know how I can help you.’

  This was not the reaction Graelen had expected.

  Lifting a hand, the half-blood went to touch the baby, but Lysania drew back.

  ‘If you two are in danger, you’d be safer with your own kind.’

  ‘They want to take her away from me,’ Lysania improvised.

  ‘Why would they do that? I know True-women have to give up their half-blood babies to the Wy... T’Enatuath, but–’

  One of the Malaunje shifted impatiently. The Warrior’s-voice thrust Lysania and the child behind him, drawing his sword. He handled the weapon with confidence.

  ‘Were you followed?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Lysania glanced to where Graelen was hiding, clearly desperate.

  The Warrior’s-voice was ready to protect her, and the last thing Graelen wanted was a dead Malaunje on his hands. Focusing his gift, Graelen prepared to overcome the half-blood’s untrained defences. All he had to do was slip into his mind and trick him into revealing what he knew.

  Gesturing for Lysania to step away, Graelen glided silently into her place and went to touch the half-blood’s neck. But before he could turn...

  SORNE FELT A gathering of power that was both terrifying and exhilarating. He’d been on edge ever since he entered the wine cellar, and now he realised he’d been lured into a trap.

  He turned, raising his w
eapon, to find a T’En warrior behind him. Well-dressed, scarred forehead, crooked knuckles on his left hand suggesting broken bones in the past. A fighter, then. Older than him, not an initiate; an adept.

  Seeing the warrior was unarmed, Sorne hesitated. Then he realised the T’En didn’t need a blade, not when they had their gift.

  Sorne swung his weapon, but before he could land a blow, someone grabbed his arm from behind and twisted. The sword hilt flew from his fingers and the blade clattered to the floor. A second assailant pinned his other arm and a third grabbed him around the waist.

  Sorne turned so swiftly, the one holding his arm lost his grip and was flung up against a wine barrel. The air was driven from the young Malaunje’s chest, with a crack that sounded like ribs breaking.

  The attacker who had Sorne around the waist lost his grip as Sorne drove his elbow into his throat and he went down.

  The third attacker tried to grab Sorne, who swung his leg out, kicking the man behind the knees and sending him to the floor.

  Sorne backed up. Three Malaunje staggered between him and the T’En adept, whose gaze flicked to something behind Sorne. He turned and failed to duck in time as a fist drove into his head, over one eye.

  He reeled and staggered, bent over double. Someone grabbed him from behind. Sorne reached down, caught one of his attacker’s knees and straightened up. The man went over backwards, clipping a wine barrel.

  Two of the attackers caught his arms and two more moved in on him. Their eyes blazed with anger, and their blows were driven by vicious determination. He didn’t understand what he’d done to earn their hatred. A fist slammed into his belly. He doubled over, and someone grabbed his hair. A knee slammed into his face, hitting his mouth.

  The two men restraining him hauled him upright.

  Still reeling, he sucked in a desperate breath. As one of his attackers went to punch him again, the T’En adept caught the man’s arm in mid-strike.