Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘Get Lysania out of here,’ the adept ordered, shoving the warrior away.

  This close, Sorne felt the force of the adept’s power. Like the heat of an open fire, it could so easily burn him up.

  As soon as the adept become involved, Sorne had felt his attackers relax their grip on his arms. He dropped, stepped back between them, and grabbed the backs of their necks as they staggered, driving them in together. Their heads met with a satisfying thunk.

  Sorne backed off, heading for the steps.

  Someone grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms at his side. Sorne threw his head back, heard the crunch of his attacker’s nose. That one let him go, but at least three of them pounced on him, driving him to his knees on the cold stone floor of the cellar. The sheer weight of numbers kept him down.

  ‘We have him,’ one of them reported.

  ‘You sure?’ the adept asked. ‘There’s one of him and only five of you!’

  ‘You said not to hurt him.’

  They spoke T’En, and apparently didn’t expect Sorne to understand.

  At a signal from the T’En warrior, they lifted him to his feet, but kept him pinned between them.

  The young woman and her infant were gone. Two injured half-bloods were a little unsteady on their feet, but that left three relatively uninjured Malaunje and the adept, who had not raised a sweat while Sorne staggered and bled.

  Anger curled through Sorne; he could feel the tug of the adept’s gift from a body-length away. Resisting the lure of power was what Oskane had spent years preparing him for. Sorne no longer felt a duty to Oskane, but that didn’t mean these Wyrds were his brothers.

  ‘I am Adept Graelen of Kyredeon’s Brotherhood.’ The full-blood spoke Chalcedonian. ‘And you are going to answer my questions.’

  Sorne lifted his chin and glared, the effect slightly spoilt by the way blood kept dripping into his right eye. In truth, his mouth was so swollen, he didn’t know if he could speak.

  ‘We could rough him up some more,’ the one with broken nose offered in the T’En language.

  ‘Because that’s worked well so far.’ Graelen grimaced, then returned his attention to Sorne. Lifting the lamp, he switched back to Chalcedonian. ‘Just who are you, Warrior’s-voice?’

  ‘You must know who I am, since you sent the woman to lure me down here.’ Sorne was pleased to find his words were only slightly slurred.

  ‘Show some respect,’ Broken-nose barked, kicking the back of his knees and driving him back to the floor.

  The adept crouched in front of him and tore his robe open, exposing his chest.

  ‘Make sure your hands do not touch bare flesh,’ Graelen told the Malaunje who held Sorne captive.

  Panic welled up in Sorne and he jerked back, to no effect. His heart convulsed as if a fist squeezed it, once, twice. He wondered if he could die of fright.

  Graelen closed his eyes. Sorne felt his gift gather like the threat of a thunderstorm. He inhaled sharply. The power seemed to have a taste and, as it hit the back of his tongue, it terrified him. Because he wanted it.

  Oskane had been right to despise him.

  The thought centred him. Pure, cold fury coalesced in his core.

  The adept rubbed his hands together, before placing his left hand over Sorne’s heart. Where flesh touched flesh, it burned, but not as much as the cold fire of Sorne’s anger.

  The adept frowned and moved his hand, pressing the fingertips of both hands to Sorne’s temples. Power beat on Sorne’s awareness and he went away to...

  The scourging frame. His back burned anew with each strike. The only thing that kept him from crying out was a deep, cold anger, that and the way Izteben held his eyes. If he faltered, Izteben would spring to his defence, prompting Oskane to beat his brother even more harshly.

  So he had to be strong.

  Had to hold on...

  It stopped and the end of the pain was so abrupt that he toppled forward.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  GRAELEN CAUGHT THE captive as he fell. The torn robe slipped from his shoulders to reveal his back, which was a mass of silver scars. Bright beads of blood clung to the deepest ridges.

  ‘That scarring is old,’ Harosel said. ‘Must have happened when he was a child, yet it’s bleeding.’

  ‘Go,’ Graelen said.

  The Malaunje hesitated.

  ‘Go. Leave us.’

  Graelen placed the unconscious captive belly down on the cold stone floor. He took a strip of material from the torn robe and wiped the blood from his captive’s back, using wine as a cleanser. The skin had been scoured so many times it was hard, like a carapace.

  The thought of someone doing this to a child infuriated him.

  Next he poured two cups of wine and watched as the Warrior’s-voice regained consciousness.

  ‘Wine?’ Graelen offered.

  No response.

  He put the cup halfway between them and went to sit, with his back to a barrel.

  The white-haired Malaunje wouldn’t look at him.

  ‘You didn’t break,’ Graelen said.

  He looked up swiftly, then away.

  ‘No, really, I couldn’t break your walls. Who made such a mess of your back? Was it the Mieren?’

  No response.

  ‘At least have some wine. You need it.’

  The Warrior’s-voice glanced to the cup, and Graelen realised he was exhausted. Moving slowly to appear less threatening, Graelen crept over on his knees, picked up the cup and handed it to the half-blood, who took it in both hands and drained it.

  Now that Graelen was close, he could see several more scars on the captive’s chest. He gestured to them. ‘What did they do to you?’

  ‘They tried to assassinate me. And failed.’ He said it with pride.

  ‘How many times?’

  He shrugged. ‘I was... am King Charald’s advisor. They thought if they could kill me, they’d weaken him.’ The half-blood cast him a thoughtful glance. Graelen wasn’t used to being so frankly assessed by a Malaunje. ‘You sent the others away. Why?’

  ‘I thought we’d start again. I am Graelen, an adept from Kyredeon’s Brotherhood. I’m investigating something and I need your help, Warrior’s-voice.’

  ‘Sorne.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My name is Sorne.’

  ‘Very well, Sorne. We lured you down here because we’ve heard rumours of Mieren sacrificing Malaunje infants–’

  ‘What?’ He came to his knees, horrified. ‘Impossible.’

  ‘It’s not impossible, that’s the problem. In recent years, we’ve had less than half the usual number of Malaunje babies delivered to us.’

  ‘Coincidence.’

  ‘Both here and at the Celestial City?’

  ‘How many years do your records go back? How do you know this is unusual? It could be part of some sort of cycle.’

  ‘Good point. If that was all it was. But then there’s you. You receive visions at places the Mieren have begun to call holy sites. We know these are sites where the walls between the planes are weak. The king boasts of your visions, but the fact remains that only T’En have visions, and then only seers or scryers. Your hair has gone completely white, yet you’re... How old?’

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  Graelen nodded. ‘Only Malaunje who have been in contact with great power go white so young. I’ve been told that to get these visions you make offerings–’

  ‘Of T’En artefacts that True-men bring to me. I would never...’ Sorne shuddered. ‘That’s why your men beat me?’

  Graelen nodded.

  He shuffled forward on his knees, determined to defend himself. ‘I find the artefact with the most residual power. I use my own blood to lure a creature. It breaks the walls between the earthly plane and the higher plane. When the creature takes the sacrifice and returns to its proper place, power is shed. The power hits me, knocks me out. I wake with a vision. That’s all.’

  ‘That’s all? You risk death, for wha
t? A jolt of power and a vision?’

  Sorne met his eye with cold determination. ‘I risk death for respect. True-men despise half-bloods. The only thing they respect is power. The visions give me power, power over them.’ His lips twisted in contempt. ‘They believe the creatures of the higher plane are their gods.’

  Graelen swore softly, amazed at Sorne’s daring.

  ‘I admit the power behind the Warrior’s-voice is based on a lie,’ Sorne said. ‘But it is not based on...’ He shuddered. ‘I would never–’

  ‘What of the Father’s-voice? He...’ Graelen noticed Sorne was already shaking his head. ‘Hear me out. The Father’s-voice has been making offerings and having visions for the last eight years, ever since King Matxin came into power.’

  ‘No.’ Sorne staggered to his feet, and Graelen rose to steady him. Sorne brushed his hand away. ‘The Father’s-voice is my brother, Zabier. He would never–’

  ‘You’ve been away for the last eight years. How do you know what–’

  ‘I know what kind of man Zabier is. When he was a boy, his father took him away from us to live with True-men. Zabier was only twelve when he made his way back. He chose us over True-men. He’s still doing it. For the last eight years, he’s protected our half-blood sister. He loves Valendia. How could he sacrifice other half-blood children?’

  ‘So the rumours are –’

  ‘Horrible lies.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Graelen conceded. ‘But you have shown others how to break the walls between the planes. Children are missing. It’s possible that other True-men have seen what you can do, and–’

  Sorne cursed. ‘I never meant... I never thought True-men would... The first time we broke the walls it was an accident. We–’

  ‘We? You and Zabier?’

  ‘No. My brother Izteben and I discovered we could open the walls between the planes. The gods and their visions seemed like a way to gain the respect of True-men.’

  ‘Where’s Izteben now? Perhaps he–’

  ‘Izteben died the night Matxin came to power. The higher plane took him.’

  ‘And you kept doing it?’ Graelen wanted to shake him. ‘Do you have a death wish?’

  ‘I didn’t have any choice. I was King Charald’s captive vision maker. I was alone in the middle of his army.’

  ‘In Khitan?’

  Sorne nodded.

  ‘So you’ve no more idea what’s been going on with the Mieren priests these last eight years than I have?’

  ‘No. But if they are sacrificing innocent half-blood children to the creatures of the higher plane, then it’s my fault. I led them to believe these creatures were gods. I’ll see what I can find out.’

  ‘Good.’ It was suddenly very important to Graelen that he bind Sorne to him in some way. ‘If you hear who is doing this, you must tell me.’

  ‘How?’

  Graelen thought quickly.

  ‘I can’t be seen to associate with Wyrds,’ Sorne said.

  ‘But you’re a Malaunje.’

  Sorne shook his head. ‘I’m the Warrior’s-voice, blessed by True-man gods. I have to distance myself from ordinary Wyrds.’

  ‘He could come here,’ Harosel said from the shadows. ‘Leave a message–’

  Graelen stiffened. ‘I thought I sent you away.’

  ‘I came back.’ Harosel stepped into the lamp light. He carried a bundle, which he deposited on the table and began to unroll. ‘I’ve brought clean clothes. It would be dangerous for the Warrior’s-voice to walk through the port bloodied and beaten.’

  ‘I wasn’t beaten,’ Sorne said.

  Graelen hid a smile, but all he said was, ‘Thank you, Harosel.’

  SORNE REMOVED HIS sword belt with its empty sheath, and his ruined robe dropped to the floor. He reached for the robe that Harosel had offered him, a plain dark garment that was enough like a priest’s robe to pass at first glance.

  ‘You can’t go out like that,’ the T’En adept objected, gesturing to his face. ‘You’re covered in blood. Harosel, fetch some warm water and a cloth.’

  Sorne bristled on Harosel’s behalf, but the Malaunje went off without complaint. Graelen ordered him and the other half-bloods around with an arrogance that clearly came from long practice.

  The adept both fascinated and repelled Sorne. Graelen’s gift poured from him in waves. Maybe Sorne’s defences had withstood a direct assault, but he was not sure he could withstand the gradual attrition of the constant tug of T’En power.

  The adept retrieved Sorne’s sword and handed it to him.

  ‘You know we Wyrds are not allowed to carry swords. The treaty allows us only our long-knives. How is that you are allowed to go around armed?’

  Sorne sheathed his weapon. ‘After I fought off the first assassin without training, the king appointed the holy-swords to protect me. They weren’t there when the second assassin came after me. That was when I asked for lessons, and Charald agreed.’

  ‘Charald?’ Graelen raised an eyebrow. ‘A half-blood who calls the king by his first name?’

  Sorne shrugged. ‘They told me things about Wyrds when I was growing up. I don’t know what to believe.’

  ‘Ask.’

  ‘Can you catch an arrow in flight?’

  Graelen laughed. ‘I offer to tell you our secrets, and that’s what you ask. No, I cannot catch an arrow in flight. At least, I’ve never had to.’

  The adept made him feel young and ignorant.

  ‘Where did you grow up, Sorne? Why didn’t your Mieren parents give you to us? Who beat you until your back turned into a carapace of scars?’ Graelen’s eyes widened. ‘They beat you to make you strong enough to resist T’En power. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  Sorne looked away, not sure what he should admit to.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything. I understand duty and loyalty. Although I don’t think you owe the Mieren anything.’

  ‘Why does it anger you, that they did this to me?’

  Graelen drew breath, hesitated, then answered. ‘I took an oath. All T’En swear to protect the Malaunje with our lives. That’s why I’m trying to find out if the rumour about the sacrifice is true.’

  Just then Harosel returned and put a bowl on the table. Graelen took the cloth from the water, wrung it and lifted it to Sorne’s face.

  He brushed the hand aside. ‘I can–’

  ‘Really? Without a mirror?’

  He had a point. Sorne grimaced and folded his arms. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Here...’ Harosel objected. ‘That’s not–’

  ‘What?’ Graelen asked in T’En.

  ‘He doesn’t show you proper respect.’

  ‘And you do?’

  Harosel flushed.

  ‘Wait outside,’ Graelen told him, then switched to Chalcedonian. ‘You can follow the Warrior’s-voice and make sure he gets back safely.’

  ‘I’ve crossed the port before,’ Sorne said.

  ‘And fought off assassins, I know. But now you are my spy, it’s in my interests to protect you. Sit.’

  Sorne sat on the table.

  As Graelen began sponging the blood from his brow, it was almost more than Sorne could bear. Very few people touched him, and the gift made it hard for him to think. His body reacted and when the adept turned to rinse the cloth, he put his hands in his lap.

  ‘There’s blood all through your hair. You can’t go amongst Mieren showing any sign of weakness. Take out your hair.’

  Sorne did as he was told. Graelen cleaned the blood from his face and hair, then his throat and shoulder. When the adept got to his mouth and swollen lips, Sorne closed his eyes and concentrated on the sensation.

  It hurt, but only a little. He’d learnt to bear pain, but he’d never learnt how to cope with pleasure.

  With a start, he realised he’d reached a point where he was happy to sit there and feel the adept’s gift beat against his skin like the fire of an open forge.

  It was a subtle assault.

  He caught Graelen’s
hand. ‘Don’t use your gift on me.’

  ‘I’m not. You must be sensitive to the power.’

  Sorne frowned, not sure if he was speaking the truth.

  ‘Your hair is completely white. You’ve been stealing power from the empyrean plane for years. You’re a gift addict, whether you like it or not.’

  Sorne flushed, furious, because he knew it was true. Yes, the king wanted him to experience visions, but he wanted it too.

  ‘Are you done?’ Sorne brushed the adept’s hand aside and stood up, forcing him to step back.

  Turning away, Sorne pulled the robe over his head before the adept could notice his arousal. And to think he’d been so proud of his self control. He buckled on his sword belt, fingers slowing as he felt the tug on his hair. He jerked away from the adept. ‘I can plait my own hair.’ He quickly bound his hair and then turned around. ‘Now, will I do?’

  ‘There’s swelling around your eyebrow and your mouth is a little uneven, but yes.’

  ‘Good, I’ll ask around, see what I can learn. If I hear anything, I’ll leave a message here.’

  ‘And I’ll meet you the next day.’

  ‘I’ll leave a message. There’s no need–’

  ‘Only True-men think it’s a crime for men to be lovers. We live in brotherhoods and sisterhoods. What do you think happens?’

  Sorne could not look at him. He hurried up the steps.

  ‘Who would have thought King Charald had a secret family of half-bloods,’ Graelen remarked.

  Sorne stopped halfway up. ‘You’re provoking me to test your guess.’

  ‘Is it working?’

  He felt a smile tug at his swollen lips. ‘They’re my choice-family. I’m–’

  ‘Queen Sorna’s son.’

  Sorne nodded, not surprised he’d guessed. ‘Charald had my mother murdered so he could marry again, and sent me away.’

  ‘Why do you serve him?’

  ‘I don’t serve him. I serve myself. It just happens to have aligned with what he wants.’

  ‘What’s going to happen when you want something different?’

  He didn’t have an answer for that.

  Chapter Forty-Three