Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

Behind him, he heard the youths muttering, trying to make sense of what had happened. Why they been attacked?

  ‘We just built a bridge for everyone,’ Charane whispered. ‘Why attack us? Why now?’

  Further downstream, well out of sight of the winery, they found the boats pulled up on the bank, surrounded by those who had fled the fighting. Tobazim slid into the icy river and dragged the raft to the bank.

  Once they were all ashore, Tobazim counted seventeen survivors. They stood shivering in the cold night air. Several of them were injured, and none of them understood what had happened.

  Paravia pushed through the others and threw her arms around Learon, sobbing and kissing him.

  ‘What should we do?’ Athlyn asked. ‘Will they come after us?’

  Learon set Paravia down and turned to them. ‘We have to go to the city. Have to report this to the all-father. We need justice.’

  ‘It’s a long way by foot,’ Tobazim said. ‘We’ll have to travel at night to avoid Mieren. First we should hide the boats, hide everyone. Tomorrow, Learon and I will return to the winery, see if there are any survivors and discover who is responsible for this outrage.’

  ‘Mieren.’

  ‘Filthy Mieren!’

  ‘Yes, but which Mieren?’

  ‘What possible reason could they have for attacking us?’ Athlyn asked. ‘We haven’t done anything.’

  The others muttered in agreement.

  Tobazim spotted the stable master. ‘Maric, see to the injured.’

  As the Malaunje moved off, Athlyn rubbed his arms, teeth chattering. ‘I killed at least one Mieren. He’ll come after me, try to drag me with him into death’s realm. I don’t have the training to survive that kind of attack.’

  Learon went very pale. ‘I must have killed a dozen.’

  Tobazim felt the impact of their fear as he recalled the men he’d killed. But... ‘Violent death confuses the shades of the dead.’

  ‘What if they do find us?’

  ‘I’ll anchor you.’ Because he had to. Conviction filled him. He was not going to die, ambushed by the shades of the men he’d killed in self-defence.

  Responding to his certainty, they relaxed.

  And just like that, he became responsible for all their lives – T’En and Malaunje.

  TOBAZIM STOOD IN the blackened ruins of the villa. He held Baron Nitzane’s banner in his hands. It made no sense. The winery hadn’t had any trouble with the baron. Why would he send his men to attack them? He rolled the banner up.

  Nothing remained of the villa other than shattered stone walls and collapsed beams, some of which still smoked. The bodies of his people had burned, along with some of their attackers. Thankfully several of the outbuildings had survived intact.

  ‘Maric, take the others and check the stables.’

  ‘They’ll have taken the horses,’ Learon said.

  ‘They might have left blankets or tools. Check the outbuildings for food.’ Tobazim picked his way through the broken masonry and charred timbers. He prodded something with his boot, revealing glowing coals.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Learon asked.

  He had hoped to find the silver nib his choice-mother had given him, but it would be a puddle of melted metal now. It was only a symbol; you could not kill the idea.

  Tobazim looked up. ‘There’s nothing here for us to bury.’

  The others returned with blankets, an axe and some ropes.

  ‘They stripped the store rooms,’ Maric reported. ‘Took all the food. There wasn’t much left in the stables.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to forage as we go,’ Learon said.

  ‘Seventeen people, three of them injured.’ Tobazim had been thinking. ‘We’ll take the river west, then strike north for the city.’

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  IMOSHEN MET THEM at the door to the solarium. They handed her the injured spy’s travelling kit; as they carried him through, she caught a glimpse of pure white hair.

  ‘Did he say anything on the journey?’ she asked one of the Malaunje who’d arrived with him.

  ‘He was rarely lucid.’ The man lowered his voice. ‘The journey exhausted him.’

  ‘To be expected. I’ve sent for Healer Reoden.’ Imoshen thanked them as they left.

  While the sisterhood’s herbalist bathed the injured Malaunje and checked his injuries, Imoshen opened his travelling kit, which bore their sisterhood’s symbol. There was nothing of an identifying nature in his bag, just a change of clothes and the two items of interest mentioned in the message. The stone on the silver torc was most unusual, but it was the glass ball that fascinated her. If she held it in one hand, nothing. If she cupped it in both, it glowed, pulsing. What did it mean?

  Behind her, the herbalist gave a soft gasp. ‘This is bad.’

  Imoshen put the travelling kit away and crossed to the wounded man. He lay on a bedroll, pale chest bare, face turned away from her. As she circled him she noticed, although his body was badly scarred, he was not elderly. Young face, white hair and burns. Could it be...?

  The Warrior’s-voice had been sent south two – no, three years ago. The last she’d heard, he was dead, killed in the Maygharian uprising.

  ‘This stomach wound.’ The herbalist pointed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. The skin’s dead, but there’s no decay.’

  Catching sight of the ugly wound, Imoshen drew back. Her sight shifted to take in the empyrean plane, and she saw the wound was slowly but surely leaching the life force from him. How had he survived this?

  Her sight returned to normal. ‘Send for the gift-wright.’

  The woman looked confused for a moment, and then her features sharpened with fear. She sprang to her feet, darting out of the solarium.

  Imoshen was left alone with the white-haired Malaunje. She studied him.

  ‘Are you who I think you are?’ she whispered, as she placed her hand on his forehead and probed with his gift. As if sensing her power, he stirred, but even in this state his shields were solid. ‘What did the Mieren do to you? Why did they tell everyone you were dead?’

  And what would the T’En do to him if they knew who he was? She’d gained the distinct impression the T’En did not approve of the Warrior’s-voice.

  ‘...never seen anything like it,’ the herbalist said, leading Reoden in. ‘We’ve sent for the gift-wright.’

  The healer sank to her knees opposite Imoshen.

  The herbalist left, and Imoshen watched as Reoden ran her hands over the injured man’s body, pausing over old wounds, studying how the recent wounds had healed. It seemed Reoden didn’t connect this injured Malaunje with the deceased Warrior’s-voice.

  ‘Can you–’

  ‘Heal him? Yes. But he won’t get better unless the gift-wright can heal his stomach wound.’

  Imoshen had guessed as much. ‘I’ve never seen Ceriane at work. This should be interesting.’

  But when the gift-wright arrived and examined him, she was not hopeful.

  ‘His wound is of empyrean origin so he must be someone’s devotee,’ Ceriane said. Imoshen didn’t correct her assumption, or identify him. ‘His T’En should have brought him to me when it first happened. Then, I could have healed him, by drawing on the T’En’s gift. Now...’

  ‘Can’t you do anything for him?’ Imoshen pressed.

  Ceriane lifted her bony hands. She was a thin, angular woman, who radiated determination. ‘I’m a gift-wright. He has no innate power for me to work with.’

  ‘If Ceriane can’t heal his empyrean wound, then there’s no point me healing his physical wounds,’ Reoden said, her voice heavy with regret. ‘He’ll only suffer. He must have been suffering horribly as it is.’

  ‘I think we can heal him,’ Imoshen said.

  Reoden and Ceriane sent her sympathetic looks.

  ‘Sometimes it is kinder–’ Reoden began.

  ‘No, I really do.’ It frustrated Imoshen that even these clever women could only see what they’d been told. ‘Whe
n we go to the empyrean plane, our bodies are constructs, yet if we take a bad wound on the empyrean plane, our physical body will mirror that wound. While we are on the higher plane, if we have the time and the power to spare, we can heal the wound. When we do that, our physical body heals.’

  Ceriane frowned. ‘You’re saying...’

  ‘We take his essence to the empyrean plane and heal him there.’

  The gift-wright and healer hesitated.

  ‘Would it work?’ Imoshen asked.

  ‘It might,’ Reoden admitted. ‘But it’s too dangerous.’

  ‘She’s right,’ Ceriane said. ‘The use of power would attract predators.’

  ‘I’ll defend you while you gift-work.’

  ‘His physical body is weak. He might not have the will to hold his essence together on the higher plane,’ Reoden warned.

  ‘He’s survived this long. I think his will is strong.’ Imoshen looked from Reoden to Ceriane. ‘Do you want to try it?’

  The gift-wright tilted her head. ‘I admit the challenge interests me. But he could die.’

  ‘He’s not getting better as he is,’ Imoshen snapped.

  Ceriane’s eyes widened.

  ‘Imoshen can be rather forthright.’ Reoden grinned. ‘Very well. If we knew who his T’En was, we could ask their permission. As it is, we’ll have to wait until he wakes.’

  ‘I’ll ask him.’ Imoshen returned to the bedroll and knelt. She placed a hand on his chest and let her power seep into him. His one good eye opened. ‘We can try to heal you on the higher plane, but it’s risky. If we fail, you’ll die. If we do nothing, you’ll linger like this as long as your will lasts.’

  He swallowed. ‘Water...’

  She held his head and let him sip some water.

  He lay back, and looked up at Imoshen. ‘Will I become addicted to your gifts?’

  Imoshen looked to Ceriane.

  ‘He’s already imprinted with his T’En’s gift. It will protect him from ours.’

  That’s if he was someone’s devotee, which he wasn’t.

  He closed his eye. ‘Do it.’

  Reoden knelt on the other side of the bedroll and Ceriane knelt at the head. They rubbed their hands together to help focus their gift in their palms, and placed their hands on the bare skin of his chest and his forehead.

  ‘His defences are too strong,’ Ceriane said.

  ‘You’ll have to lower your shields...’ Imoshen said, and then realised she didn’t know his name. She wasn’t going to call him the Warrior’s-voice in front of the others. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sorne.’

  ‘I’m Imoshen. For us to get a grip on your essence, you’ll have to lower your defences.’

  ‘I don’t know how.’

  ‘Of course you do,’ Ceriane snapped. ‘We’re trying to help you.’

  ‘Think of someone you trust,’ Imoshen said. ‘This will lower your shields enough for us to get a grip on your essence.’ But with the strength of his will, he should not be imprinted by their gifts. ‘Imagine that person is here with us, now.’

  ‘Does she have to still be alive?’

  Imoshen winced for him. ‘She only has to be alive to you. She would want us to help you.’

  He nodded and closed his eyes. As he did this, Imoshen heard a woman singing.

  And just like that, they were through.

  Imoshen took on the task of making the empyrean plane conform to her will. They stood on a cliff top, on the island where she’d grown up. To her left, far below, waves crashed on the rocks. To her right, the land fell away steeply, to dunes and then more sea. A silvery winter sun warmed the earth, giving crisp colour to the grass and sea.

  Imoshen circled the others, watching for predators.

  Ceriane and Reoden knelt in the same positions as they had on the earthly plane. She could feel their intensity as they focused on healing him. As if attracted to their power, a shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds and illuminated the cliff top.

  Imoshen could defeat a single beast, even a pack of scraelings, but she could not defeat the plane itself, and it was always hungry for T’En power. Now she felt it take an interest in them as a breeze swept in from the sea and the waves thundered below, clawing ever higher.

  She scanned their surroundings, then returned her attention to the healer and the gift-wright.

  On this plane, she could see Reoden’s essence: her kindness, and the wound where her sacrare daughter had been torn from her. Here, Ceriane was beautiful in her determination and compassion.

  Here, Sorne suffered from the blight of acts committed and regretted. He’d done something in his past that he carried like an open wound. This was why the empyrean plane had been able to get its claws into him.

  Reoden and Ceriane battled, but Imoshen’s raedan gift told her that until he could forgive himself, he would not fully heal.

  She knelt opposite Reoden and reached out to Sorne.

  Now she walked with him through a city ravaged by war. Packs of men ran wild in the streets like beasts. The innocent lay dead all around them. The city, the country... all lay in ruins.

  They left the streets and entered a square. King Charald stood on the plinth of a toppled statue, while the men who were beasts worshiped him.

  Sorne felt responsible for unleashing the king and his army.

  Imoshen took Sorne’s hand and pointed to Charald, exercising her raedan gift. The king’s features dissolved to reveal he was as much a beast as the men he commanded.

  Sorne could not be responsible for Charald’s nature; the king would always seek the path of war.

  Imoshen felt it the moment Sorne accepted this. Relief swept through him. She felt the power of the gift-wright and the healer as they repaired and restored.

  Then something stung her forehead.

  She opened her eyes. They were still on the cliff, but stormy clouds hung low overhead and the sea had risen. Waves crashed, showering them with spray that stung exposed skin.

  Time to go back.

  In another heartbeat, they knelt in the sisterhood’s solarium once more.

  Ceriane toppled sideways. Imoshen just caught her, but she couldn’t save Reoden, who slumped beside her patient, head near his feet.

  Imoshen laid the gift-wright down gently, and came back to kneel next to Sorne. He seemed to be sleeping. His face... the burn scars had healed, but the eye socket contained no eye, only smooth skin. As for the wound on his belly, it was now a single silver line.

  She pulled up the cover and stood.

  For a moment, the room swung around her. When her head cleared, she went out to the corridor, calling for warmed wine and food to restore them after gift-working.

  And she sent for Frayvia, because she knew her devotee would want to meet the Warrior’s-voice. Imoshen left Sorne in Frayvia’s care, with instructions to call her the moment he recovered.

  ZABIER HAD TO admit there was something to be said for victory. It made a man feel... As his gaze was drawn to Queen Jaraile he was grateful for his voluminous priestly robes. Tonight, he sat at the king’s private table, sharing a meal with the barons. They spoke of the ease of the attack.

  ‘...no one left alive,’ Baron Eskarnor said.

  ‘What, not even the children?’ Jaraile went white.

  ‘Little Wyrds grow into big Wyrds,’ the king told her; he rolled his eyes as he turned back to the barons. ‘How many of the full-blood T’En did you kill?’

  The two barons exchanged looks. Zabier waited to hear the number. It had been growing during the ride back, and the fire had made it difficult to ascertain how many had been killed. Most convenient.

  ‘At least twenty,’ Eskarnor said. ‘It was a small estate.’

  ‘But they were fierce. Terrible fierce,’ Hanix assured him. ‘Pickings were poor.’

  ‘Hardly any prizes for the men,’ Eskarnor agreed. ‘I thought these Wyrds were rich as kings.’

  ‘You’re thinking of Cesspit City.’ Charald lift
ed his glass, eyes blazing. The king was heading for one of his manic states, and would sweep everyone along with him. ‘To ridding Chalcedonia of Wyrds.’

  ‘To victory.’

  As they began to discuss the best time to attack, and the logistics of getting men and supplies near to the city without alerting the Wyrds, Jaraile came to her feet. ‘If you will excuse me, sire.’

  Zabier was too busy to watch her go.

  ‘It won’t take much to turn the people against the Wyrds,’ Charald said. ‘They’ve always hated them. Why, only recently, my palace guards caught a Wyrd spy in a whorehouse, sniffing around True-men. They strung him up as an example to his kind and not a peep did I hear from the port Wyrds. But we’ll need more than one spy to justify an attack on their city.’

  ‘A massacre?’ Eskarnor suggested.

  ‘But the Wyrds haven’t...’ Zabier fell silent as the king and his two barons turned to him, with the eyes of cold-blooded killers. He wanted to sink under the table, but if he didn’t protest, he would look weak. ‘I’m a man of the church. I–’

  ‘The drought has meant another poor harvest,’ Hanix complained. ‘Our people need something to distract them. A war with spoils will–’

  ‘The drought.’ Zabier sat forward in his eagerness. ‘We can blame the drought on the Wyrds.’

  ‘What do they have to do with the fact that we haven’t had decent rain in almost five years?’ Charald asked.

  ‘They don’t worship the Seven.’ Zabier looked from face to face, and saw them make the connection. ‘The gods are angry. They’re punishing–’

  ‘Well done.’ Charald clapped him on the back. ‘We’ll make a strategist of you yet. Send the Seven’s priests out to spread the word. They can use their sermons to rouse the populace. Which reminds me, we’ll need a vision from the Warrior’s-voice to make the holy war official.’

  This was the only thorn in Zabier’s side. The king was firmly devoted to the Warrior god. Zabier was torn. On the one hand, this meant he didn’t have to risk his life making the offering but, on the other hand, it meant his counterpart from the Warrior’s church had the king’s ear. ‘Yes, sire.’