Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  Of course not. She had no soul, according to the church.

  Anger gnawed at him. He thought he’d come to terms with everything, but there it was – anger with Oskane for scourging them, and anger with himself for not being the man he should have been. He had a horrible feeling they had just ridden out that morning and left the she-Wyrd...

  Sorne forced open the door to the main building. A feeling of dread settled on him as he went down to the cellar.

  To his relief, time, insects and rodents had removed everything but her bones. She lay much as he remembered, sprawled on her back. Some of her bones had been gnawed.

  His legs gave way and he sat abruptly.

  Sobs shook him.

  He wept for her, for Izteben, for the boy he’d been. And for Zabier, because he could not love the man he had become.

  When he was done, he felt weary, but better.

  He was not going to leave her bones here, but he didn’t want to bury her with the True-men who had imprisoned her. So he laid out his blanket and gathered her remains, adding the trophies: her little finger bones and her hair. The last had remained virtually unchanged; rich copper waves.

  It reminded him of Valendia. She would have just turned fifteen – he had to make sure she was safe.

  Tying off the bundle of the she-Wyrd’s remains, he left the cell. There was one more thing he wanted to do.

  He went through the stable into the little kitchen Kolst had built for Hiruna. The table and chairs remained, and the cabinet. As he recalled Hiruna bustling about the kitchen, singing and laughing, it came to him that this was what he wanted for himself. Someone so loyal, they would defy convention for him. He wanted what Kolst had thrown away.

  But who would have him?

  The pain burned in his belly. For the first time since he’d recovered, he wondered how long before the wound killed him; if not directly, then indirectly, because he could not stand the pain and the remorse any longer.

  As he left the stable, he looked up at Oskane’s window. The priest had been a vindictive old man, who’d used people for his own ends. Sorne was glad he was nothing like him. Nothing like his father, either.

  He was glad he’d been born a half-blood, otherwise he would have been the heir his father wanted, and then what would his life have been? One long battle after another, to stop ambitious men from stealing his throne.

  He felt better. Coming here had settled more than the she-Wyrd’s ghost. Time to lay her to rest.

  There was a field, bordered by a stream, where he and his brothers used to go trout-fishing. In the spring the field was covered in wild flowers. That’s where he went now. He chose a hollow, laid her out on the grass, covered her with the blanket then piled rocks on top.

  Standing there under the open sky surrounded by mountain peaks, he felt satisfied. The she-Wyrd was free now.

  The urge to see Hiruna and Valendia returned, stronger than ever. Sorne grabbed his travelling kit and set off.

  TRAVELLING AS A blind cripple, Sorne accepted a ride with a farmer and his son, who were heading to market. Four piglets squealed in the back of the cart, as if aware their lives were going to be cut short. The smell was powerful, but at least he was headed in the right direction.

  All afternoon he’d listened to the farmer’s complaints. After four years of drought, if they did not get good spring rains, their farms would be nothing but dirt and brown stubble.

  The six year-old pointed to green fields on a distant hill. ‘What about there, Da?’

  ‘Wyrds.’ The farmer spat. ‘They stole the best land. You can bet their wells don’t run dry. Feckin’ Wyrds.’

  ‘Feckin’ Wyrds,’ the boy repeated.

  Sorne made sure his sleeves covered his hands. Upon reaching the town, the farmer picked a prime spot in the crowded market field and Sorne was about to thank them and slip away when he heard shouting and jeering. The farmer stood in the cart, to see over the crowd.

  ‘What is it, Da?’

  ‘Stay here.’ He tapped Sorne on the shoulder. ‘Stay with m’boy.’

  Sorne nodded. He was happy to wait. He didn’t like the tone of the crowd, but the disturbance was all over pretty quickly and the farmer returned, dusting off his hands.

  ‘What was it, Da?’

  ‘Bit o’ trouble with a local Wyrd. Here, jump down, lad. Make up the beds.’ The farmer thrust some blankets into the boy’s hands and drew Sorne away a little. ‘Caught one of them copperheads walkin’ down the main road, bold as anythin’. Sent him on his way.’ He chuckled. ‘That’s if he can swim.’

  Sorne thanked the farmer for the ride and headed off. He just wanted to get out of the field, with its many True-men and -women.

  He heard the babble of a stream and felt his way down the bank. Once he was out of sight, he lowered the blind-man’s bandage. There was just enough moonlight to make out the water, moving quite fast. No sign of the beaten half-blood. He’d either climbed out or been swept along. Sorne picked his way downstream until he came to a bend and found a dark shape snagged on a fallen trunk.

  He waded out into the freezing water and grabbed the injured man, dragging him back to the edge. Sorne’s stomach wound protested when he lifted the man onto the bank.

  The half-blood’s mouth was swollen, and he moaned as he regained consciousness. Seeing someone was crouching over him, he said, ‘They’ve taken my purse. I don’t have anything of value.’

  ‘Except for your life. If you lie here wet all night, you’ll catch a chill. Come on.’

  Sorne struggled to his feet and helped him upright. More pain in his gut.

  The man gasped and clutched his side. ‘Why are you helping me?’

  For answer, Sorne slid the bandage off his right hand and revealed his six fingers. ‘Which way is home?’

  The half-blood pointed up the bank, then shook his head. ‘Better not use the road. I don’t know what’s wrong with them. I’ve been passing through here for thirty years and never had any trouble.’

  ‘It’s the drought. They say the Wyrds stole the best land and their wells never run dry.’

  ‘If this drought keeps up, all the wells will run dry.’

  Sorne slid his arm under the man’s shoulder. They went along the stream bank, slipping in the long grass, staggering, struggling over fallen trees. The injured half-blood stopped to rest, and his breathing sounded bad; Sorne wondered if he would have to carry the man. ‘How much farther?’

  ‘Up the bank and across the road, to the Twin Oaks.’

  ‘Can you make it?’

  ‘I have to, don’t I?’ He reached for Sorne, who pulled him upright, but passed out before he could take another step.

  When Sorne lifted the man across his shoulders, his stomach felt like it was tearing open. Would the wound start bleeding again? All the healers he had consulted had taken one look at the ragged, bloodless tear and backed off.

  Somehow he made it up the bank, across the road and down the lane under the twin oaks. Adjusting the man’s weight, he kept going. Eyes on the ground in front of him, he almost walked into a metal gate set in sandstone walls. Hoping someone was waiting for the man’s return, Sorne called out in T’En.

  A pool of lantern light fell over him. He spotted two Malaunje, one with a lantern, and an armed T’En woman. A gift-warrior? Sorne turned, so they could see the man he carried.

  ‘Open the gate,’ the gift-warrior ordered. ‘It’s Bedore.’

  She stood back as the two Malaunje took the injured man from Sorne. His legs shook with relief.

  ‘What happened?’ the gift-warrior asked.

  ‘The Mieren beat him, stole everything and threw him in the river.’

  ‘You speak strangely.’

  Sorne felt her gift rise. It was different from Graelen’s but he still had to fight to resist the attraction. ‘I’m not from around here.’

  The gift-warrior grabbed him, swung him off his feet and slammed the gate shut. Before he could recover his balance, she’d
thrust him up against the wall. The back of his head hit stone, and his teeth bit down on his tongue.

  She held a knife to his throat. ‘Which brotherhood are you from?’ The knife point dug deeper. ‘Which all-father sent you?’

  He struggled to draw breath. The pain in his belly...

  Sorne came around lying on his back in a tiny room. He could smell roast beef and hear voices arguing. He was naked under a rough blanket, and his head hurt.

  ‘...looked suspicious, with that hood,’ the warrior was saying. He could just see her in the doorway. ‘How was I to know he was a cripple?’

  ‘Well, Bedore says the stranger dragged him from the river and helped him back here. We must at least give him shelter for the night.’ This was an older, richer voice. ‘If you’ve injured him and his all-father protests, we’ll have to pay compensation.’

  ‘His injuries look old. Did you see that wound on his belly?’ Her horror and disgust came across clearly.

  Sorne forced himself up on one elbow, swung his legs to the floor and looked for his clothes. He saw them on a chair, along with his poor-man’s bundle, which held the torc and orb. He didn’t know what the sisterhood would do if they discovered he used to be the Warrior’s-voice. He had to get out of here.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t.’ A plump T’En woman entered. She placed her hands on his bare shoulders and pushed him back onto the bed. It did not take much effort on her part. He could not sense her gift at all.

  ‘I’m fine.’ He brushed at her hands.

  ‘Is that what you call it? I’m the herbalist. I’m here to look you over.’

  He held the blanket to his chest.

  She eyed him thoughtfully before turning to her companion. ‘Go away, Karyxe.’

  ‘I’ll be just outside, if you need me.’ She shut the door.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Sorne told the herbalist. ‘Food and sleep will see me right.’

  ‘Karyxe tells me there’s a wound on your stomach.’

  ‘It’s old.’

  ‘Then it won’t hurt to let me see.’

  He realised he wasn’t going to win this argument and released the blanket. She examined the wound, and he watched her face, ready for revulsion.

  She frowned. ‘This should have been seen to when it first happened. If one of the sisters treated her devotee like you’ve been treated...’ She shook her head. ‘Well, it just wouldn’t happen.’

  He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure what she was talking about.

  ‘Too loyal for your own good.’ She examined him further, clucking over his old scars and burns. ‘It’s a wonder you’re still walking, but you’re right. There’s nothing I can do for you. The sisterhood offers you food and shelter for tonight and longer, if you need it.’

  Sorne shook his head.

  ‘Have it your way.’ She came to her feet and dusted off her hands. ‘But I will say this. It’s a disgrace, the way they’ve treated you. And as for sending you out to spy... Yes, I saw your blind-man’s costume. Consider this. The Mieren roughed up Bedore just for being a half-blood. If they catch you spying, they’ll string you up.’

  The Malaunje brought him hot food, and took his clothes away to be laundered.

  They next morning, he had a hearty breakfast and dressed in clean clothes. When he reached the gate, they gave him a well-made leather travelling kit, packed with a clean blanket and food for the journey.

  He set off, aware that a lot of what Oskane had told him about his own people was an outright lie. The new leather travelling kit was too good for his disguise, but his old poor-man’s bundle was literally falling apart. So he put it inside the new bag and rubbed dirt on the leather, until it looked grimy.

  Restored, he set off for Port Mirror-on-Sea.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  TOBAZIM WONDERED IF he had looked so young the day he left the sisterhood’s estate to start his life with the brotherhood. It did not help that Athlyn was a particularly pretty youth. At almost seventeen, he could have passed for a girl, although certainly not naked, as he was now.

  Learon handed him clothes, boots and cloak. It was late summer, but the nights were cold in the mountains.

  While Athlyn dressed, Tobazim studied the front of Silverlode Retreat. It looked much the same as it had during his childhood. The sandstone glowed in the midday sun. Several white-haired T’En children peered down curiously from the walkway above the defensive wall. He could remember doing the same, and wishing he was grown up. But, when the day came for his choice-mother to declare him dead to her, he had not wanted to go.

  He’d been afraid his non-martial gift would make him a target in the brotherhood. Sensing this, his choice-mother had had taken him aside.

  It’s easy to kill and destroy, she’d told him, holding his ink-stained fingers in her hands. It is much harder to build and grow. The things you build will live on after you. Take pride in that.

  Not long after he’d arrived in the brotherhood winery, he’d found a silver nib in his bedroll with no explanation for how it got there. But he knew his mother had asked one of the brotherhood Malaunje to give it to him, as a sign of her faith in him.

  Now the children parted, as she appeared on the wall-walk. He waved and shaded his eyes.

  ‘Look at you, Tobazim,’ his choice-mother said. ‘All grown up.’

  The sound of her voice was enough to make him smile.

  ‘Not as big as me,’ Learon boasted. Coming up behind Tobazim, he caught him in a headlock and knuckled his head as if they were twelve. The children laughed.

  ‘I doubt there are many as big as you, Learon.’ There was love in their choice-mother’s voice.

  Learon released him. Tobazim straightened his clothes and brushed hair from his eyes.

  ‘Watch over Athlyn for me,’ she said. ‘He’s a good boy.’

  They glanced to the youth, who was sitting on the mounting block, tying his boot straps.

  ‘I’ll check his mount’s stirrups,’ Learon said, heading off with a wave to their choice-mother.

  ‘We would watch over him,’ Tobazim said, ‘but after we deliver Athlyn, we’re going to the city.’

  ‘That’s... Things have not been good in the city. An all-father broke his covenant oath, and the healer’s sacrare daughter was killed.’

  ‘We heard.’ He glanced over his shoulder. Learon was waiting, holding the horses’ reins. Athlyn sat in the saddle.

  ‘I heard about your bridge.’

  ‘It’s going to stand for hundreds of years.’ He couldn’t keep the pride from his voice.

  She smiled. ‘When you reach the city, be careful of Kyredeon. The all-mothers don’t trust him.’

  ‘He executed the two brothers who killed the sacrare. He knew nothing of their plans.’

  ‘Of course.’

  It was obvious that she believed the worst of All-father Kyredeon. Tobazim was disappointed.

  ‘I’ll look for your name,’ she said.

  ‘And I’ll keep your silver nib safe.’

  GRAELEN INSPECTED THE Mieren king’s greeting chamber. It was as fine as anything in the Celestial City – marble floor, frescoed ceiling, intricate screens over the windows.

  ‘Built in the last thirty years,’ Kithkarne whispered. They were both very aware of the Mieren guard on the door. ‘This is where the king’s gold went, instead of repaying us.’

  Graelen glanced to the door. The Mieren guard met his eyes, then looked away quickly. They thought T’En could overcome their will and enslave them with a glance.

  Kithkarne settled in a chair and placed the leather folder holding his notes on the table. He looked pale. They’d carried him in a cart and taken it slowly, making the journey in six days instead of four, but the old brother had still found it taxing. Then, this morning, they’d had to wait for an hour in the grand hall with everyone else who wanted to have an audience with the king, before a servant led them to this chamber.

  Graelen’s stomach rumbled. It was lunchtime, now, and he coul
d smell food cooking somewhere in the palace. He hoped the king would see them soon.

  They were kept waiting all day, and by dusk he was starving. A servant arrived to say the king been delayed and wouldn’t be able to see them. Four guards waited to escort them from the palace.

  Infuriated, Graelen had to help Kithkarne to rise.

  The old male winced as he bent to collect his folder. With dignity, he straightened up and informed the servant, ‘You can tell King Charald we will come every day, until he sees us.’

  They returned to Chariode’s warehouse, where Dragomyr was intensely curious as to why they wanted to see the Mieren king.

  ZABIER ENTERED THE queen’s private chamber on a wave of delicious anticipation. It seemed he was fated to fall in love with unattainable women.

  Strictly speaking, since priests were meant to be celibate, all women were unattainable for him. But the last king’s daughter – poor Marantza, who had died so tragically – and the new king’s wife were unattainable for almost all men. Why couldn’t he settle for some poor girl who would be grateful for a roof over her head and food in her belly, in exchange for certain favours?

  No, he had to desire Queen Jaraile. Not desire... love.

  Whoever had decreed that priests should be celibate was a fool. Men were not meant to go without a woman’s touch. The more he tried not to think of it, the harder it became. Lucky for him, the priestly robe could have been designed specifically to hide his indiscretion.

  Poor Jaraile. In late winter, the queen had lost her newborn and her father within a day and, ever since then, she’d turned to him for advice. Here she came now, slipping into the chamber almost at a run.

  She was a small woman, with soft curves and slightly protruding front teeth that made her top lip beg to be kissed; he found her mouth fascinating.

  ‘Father’s-voice, thank you for coming.’ She hurried over to him, carried on the whisper of silk and the scent of jasmine. ‘I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Tell me. I’m sure I can help.’ It would be Charald, curse him. Ever since poor Jaraile delivered the blue baby son, his rages had been getting worse. At least when her father was alive, the baron could calm the king. Since Jantzen’s sudden death, it had been left up to the queen and himself, and they didn’t have the knack. ‘Is the king in a rage?’ Again.