Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘For an undertaking of this scale, we need a suitable offering.’ The king looked thoughtful.

  ‘Even after our victory, the Chalcedonian barons may be wary of attacking the Wyrds,’ Eskarnor said. ‘They piss themselves whenever Wyrds are mentioned. Especially the full-bloods.’

  ‘That’s it!’ The king slammed his fist on the table. ‘We’ll sacrifice a silverhead, one of those two T’En who came sniffing around here demanding an audience with me.’ He gestured to Zabier. ‘You’ll capture them and keep one in reserve.’

  ‘You want the Warrior’s-voice to sacrifice a silverhead?’ Zabier asked, greatly relieved he wasn’t doing it.

  ‘Of course. Why not?’

  Zabier came to his feet. ‘I’ll make the arrangements now.’

  He left while the king talked logistics with the barons.

  How was he going to incapacitate the two T’En delegates? The old fat one would be easy, but the big one with the hard face...

  He’d need pure pains-ease.

  SORNE WOKE FROM a nightmare vision. He woke babbling of half-bloods and True-men and danger. Every time he closed his eyes, he caught glimpses of the frightened Malaunje and T’En children being loaded onto the cart.

  ‘Bad dream?’ a sweet-faced Malaunje woman asked.

  He looked around. And it all came back to him. ‘Where’s the T’En woman?’

  ‘There were three of them. Imoshen, Re–’

  ‘Imoshen.’

  She spoke to someone outside, then came back to him. ‘She’ll be here soon. You have time to bathe. I’ll help you.’

  She helped him up, and he winced in anticipation of the pain in his stomach, but it wasn’t there. Looking down, he saw smooth, healthy flesh and a single silver scar.

  It was such a relief, he felt like laughing.

  The bathing chamber was as fine as any in King Charald’s palace. He remembered Imoshen guiding him to the revelation that the king would have chosen the path to war without his influence. He had not been responsible for the massacre that had followed.

  Hot tears fell from his remaining eye.

  The Malaunje woman said nothing as she ran the bath, and helped him in. He was so weak, his arms shook. To think he had once been proud of his strength. Proud and arrogant...

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Frayvia.’

  ‘I’m–’

  ‘Sorne. I know.’

  And she sang under her breath as she ran soft but firm hands over his body. He felt his muscles relax. The dull ache in his collarbone was gone. Everywhere her hands moved, he discovered smooth skin where there had been scars.

  ‘Are...’ He almost didn’t want to ask. ‘Are there scars on my back?’

  ‘Not a one.’ She ran her hands down his back from shoulder blades to ribs, and the touch of her hands seemed to strip all those years of scourgings from him, taking away the anger buried deep inside to reveal the boy.

  More tears fell, but they were happy tears, and they were washed away by the warm water she poured over his head and shoulders. When she reached for the soap again, he took it from her. ‘I can manage.’

  ‘I’ll fetch some clothes,’ she told him.

  Rising from the bath, he looked into the mirror to see what had become of his face. He discovered the hair over his left temple was still missing, as was that eye, but where the burn scars had been was now just smooth skin.

  The person in the mirror was familiar. He’d seen him somewhere before...

  ‘Imoshen’s here,’ Frayvia said, as she returned and helped him dress. ‘Do you want me to comb your hair?’

  Two voices reached him. ‘Who’s–’

  ‘Healer Reoden. She and Imoshen lead the two largest sisterhoods. The other one who worked on you was the gift-wright, All-mother Ceriane.’

  He was deep inside the sisterhoods, surrounded by the full-bloods he had been raised to fear and destroy.

  If they knew who he truly was, they would despise him.

  ‘Come.’ Frayvia led him out into the solarium.

  When he approached Imoshen and the healer he could sense their gifts like the drumming of rain on a roof, but without the pain in his core, he did not feel a desperate need for their power. He was drawn to them, like the fire on a winter’s night.

  ‘You’re doing well, considering it’s only been a day,’ Imoshen told him. ‘How do you feel?

  Raw – emotionally and physically. He didn’t know what to say.

  ‘You surprised us all,’ Reoden said. She looked him over with interest. ‘Any pain?’

  ‘None, not even...’ His hand fell to his stomach. ‘I don’t remember much, but I do know I’m in your debt. All-mothers Reoden, Ceriane and Imoshen – you saved my life.’ He gave the obeisance of gratitude, hoping he’d remembered it correctly. As far as they knew, he was one of their sisterhood half-bloods.

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t rebuild your eye,’ the healer said. ‘There has to be something to work with, and–’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Sorne woke with a vision,’ Frayvia said.

  He turned to her, shocked.

  She gestured. ‘Go on. You asked me to get Imoshen so you could tell her.’

  Did they all know who he was? And they had still healed him? ‘I’ve had another vision–’

  ‘Malaunje don’t get visions,’ Reoden said. ‘The only half-blood who ever claimed to have visions was the Warrior’s-voice, and he...’ She took a step back and looked to him, and then to Imoshen. ‘You knew?’

  Imoshen nodded. ‘I guessed. And I suspect he does get visions. After all, he suffered an empyrean wound, and Malaunje don’t usually–’

  ‘He’s supposed to be dead. He’s the Mieren king’s spy.’ Reoden said. ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Trying to tell us about a vision.’

  ‘And you believe him? He could be lying.’

  ‘I don’t think he gave himself a gift wound, then turned up nearly dead–’

  ‘What better way to win our trust?’

  Sorne sighed as he realised he had no option but to tell them everything. ‘I’m King Charald’s unwanted half-blood son, raised in secret. I’ve been having visions since I was seventeen.’ And he confessed how he’d been luring beasts from the higher plane with T’En artefacts. ‘The power that’s shed knocks me out and triggers my visions. These happen as I regain consciousness.’

  Reoden looked dubious.

  ‘I’ve been researching inheritable traits,’ Imoshen said. ‘I believe if Sorne had been born T’En, he would have been a seer, but he was born Malaunje. The visions would have been latent all his life, if he hadn’t been playing around with T’En artefacts and lured the beasts from the higher plane. The surge of power triggers his visions.’

  Reoden shook her head, but in wonder rather than denial.

  ‘This vision was more detailed than the last one,’ Sorne said. ‘I saw half-blood and T’En children being herded onto a cart, while True-men jeered at them.’

  ‘That’s not likely,’ Reoden said. ‘T’En children are kept segregated.’

  ‘Not by True-men,’ Imoshen countered.

  ‘Mieren,’ Reoden corrected absently.

  ‘Do your visions always come true, Sorne?’ Imoshen asked.

  He nodded. ‘I think so. Some haven’t come to pass yet.’

  Imoshen turned to the healer. ‘I think we have to take this seriously.’

  ‘And do what? It could happen thirty years from now. Who do we tell? He might have convinced the Mieren he has visions, but the T’En aren’t going to believe it. Can you imagine how Vittoryxe would react?’ Reoden shrugged. ‘Besides, if we revealed his identity, they’d say it was a trick.’

  ‘I’ve an idea.’ Imoshen caught the healer’s arm. ‘Ask your scryer to confirm his vision.’

  Reoden glanced to Sorne, and led Imoshen away, where she conferred with her. Sorne saw Imoshen’s face fall in sorrow.

  He
remembered Zabier telling him of Valendia’s death, and in the very next breath he recalled that Zabier had lied to him. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Go...’ Frayvia repeated. ‘Why?’

  ‘My sister’s being held prisoner by the Father’s-voice. I have to save her.’

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  GRAELEN SMILED TO himself as Kithkarne bustled ahead of him. The king had finally agreed to see them. The palace guard showed them to the usual greeting chamber.

  ‘See.’ Kithkarne gestured to the food. ‘The king has come to his senses. He knows he must negotiate with us, and he’s trying to put us in a good mood.’ The plump tithe-master poured some wine and tasted it. ‘My. That’s surprisingly good. Have some.’ He took a mouthful of tart, swallowed and licked his fingers. ‘Now that is good. I must ask for the recipe.’

  Graelen was less enthused by the hospitality. Harosel’s death still left a bitter taste in his mouth. ‘I’ll be glad to leave this place.’

  Kithkarne’s sharp eyes fixed on him. ‘You are not to blame for the actions of a mob.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Sit down, lad. Celebrate.’ Kithkarne poured him a glass of wine. ‘By tonight, we’ll have good news to take back to the all-father.’

  He took a seat and tried the wine; not bad, and the pastries were surprisingly good.

  Kithkarne put his leather folder on the table, then went to undo it, but his fingers fumbled with the ties. He blinked and frowned.

  ‘No more wine for you,’ Graelen tried to say, but his mouth was numb. Poison? His thought moved slowly, like cold honey, and when he tried to call on his gift, he felt disconnected from it.

  As Graelen lurched to his feet, his chair scraped across the floor and the room reeled around him. He reached for the table to steady himself and went to warn Kithkarne, but the tithe-mater had his head on the table. Snoring.

  Now? For some reason this seemed terribly funny.

  They had to escape...

  The floor came up and hit him in the face.

  ‘KEEP YOUR GLOVES on,’ Zabier told the priests. From Oskane’s experiments, he knew the T’En had to be conscious to use their gifts, and these two were definitely unconscious, but it didn’t hurt to be careful. He gestured to the plump, elderly True-man who had replaced Sorne as Warrior’s-voice. ‘My advice is to keep the silverhead drugged until the day of the sacrifice.’

  The Warrior’s-voice did not look happy, and Zabier didn’t blame him. They all knew what had happened the last time True-men underestimated the dangers of the ceremony, and these were T’En, their people’s ancestral enemy.

  ‘Which one do you want?’ Zabier asked.

  They both stepped back as their priests trussed up the two full-bloods.

  The Warrior’s-voice grimaced. ‘I’ll have the fat one.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll take care of the other one.’ Zabier was going to hide him somewhere deep and dark. See how much fight he had left in him after he’d been given nothing but water for days on end.

  ‘What will you tell the other Wyrds if they come looking for them?’ the Warrior’s-voice asked.

  ‘That they set off for Cesspit City. I can’t help it if they were attacked on the way.’

  The priests covered the unconscious T’En with blankets. Getting them across the plaza was easy enough, with a blanket thrown over the bodies in a cart. Halfway across, Zabier and the other priest parted ways.

  Zabier entered the Father’s church through a side gate. His priests rolled the Wyrd onto a blanket; it took six of them to carry him down the steps into the crypts.

  Zabier had chosen an entrance that was a good distance from where he’d left Valendia, but they made so much noise struggling with the unconscious silverhead that he wasn’t surprised when he saw a shadow following them.

  ‘Go to the next corner and wait at the top of the stairs,’ he told his priests, before hurrying back the way they’d come. Sure enough, Valendia was there, pale and ethereal in the candlelight.

  She went to hug him, but he held up his hand. ‘I’m on church business.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ she whispered. ‘Was that a body?’

  ‘Yes. A fat old priest. We’re going to put him away down below. Nothing for you to worry about.’

  She nodded. ‘Will you come visit me tonight? I get so lonely.’

  ‘I know.’ He felt awful. ‘I’ll try. But the king has me working on a new project.’

  ‘I’m proud of you.’

  He smiled and hugged her. ‘Don’t follow us. I’d have a terrible time explaining you to the others. There’s already whispers of a ghost in the crypt.’

  She laughed, but it wasn’t her old laugh.

  He left her, wishing he could do more for her. But what could he do, with the king planning a campaign against the Wyrds?

  TOBAZIM AND HIS party approached the causeway in silence. They’d crossed Chalcedonia at night, avoiding all contact with the Mieren. Now they saw the enemy had access to the T’Enatuath stronghold. True, the Mieren wore the usual identifying red half-capes and they had to line up for inspection as they entered. But, once the gate guards were sure they were unarmed, they were allowed in. It did not look like their peoples were at war.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Learon whispered.

  Tobazim greeted the warriors on gate duty. The symbol on their arm-torcs told him they were from Hueryx’s brotherhood.

  ‘Why aren’t the gates closed?’ Learon muttered. ‘Why are they still letting Mieren come and go?’

  ‘Things will be different after we see our all-father,’ Tobazim said. He had listened to enough tales of the city to make his way to Kyredeon’s palace. They walked through the entrance, into courtyard and deep into the palace.

  Busy Malaunje came and went on errands, while T’En strolled by talking and laughing. From their talk, they were looking forward to the winter’s cusp feast. It all had an air of unreality.

  Tobazim spotted a thin, older T’En man, who was inspecting a small child’s foot.

  ‘It’s just a sprain. Keep her off it for a few days and she’ll be fine,’ the saw-bones said.

  The mother thanked him and carried the little girl away.

  Tobazim approached and made obeisance. ‘I am Adept Tobazim of Vanillin Oak Winery. This is Adept Learon and Initiate Athlyn. We need to see All-father Kyredeon. I have three injured Malaunje.’

  ‘Ceyne, inner circle, Kyredeon brotherhood,’ the saw-bones introduced himself. ‘You can’t see Kyredeon looking like that.’

  ‘We look like this because we escaped the massacre at Vanillin Oak Winery,’ Learon said.

  Ceyne glanced over his shoulder. ‘Keep your voice down. Who was it, All-father Chariode? Hueryx?’

  ‘It was Mieren, and I can prove it,’ Tobazim said, indicating the banner he carried. ‘They wiped out the winery. We barely escaped.’

  One of Paravia’s friends began sobbing softly.

  ‘Hush, now.’ Ceyne took her arm and led them to his chambers. As they all filed in, he looked them over. ‘Your wounded seem well enough.’

  ‘We need to see the all-father,’ Learon said. ‘This is war.’

  Ceyne drew Tobazim, Athlyn and Learon aside. He gestured to the others. ‘You Malaunje stay here. I’ll be back soon to treat the wounded.’

  ‘We’re hungry,’ the drummer boy said. ‘Awful hungry.’

  Ceyne smiled. ‘I’ll have food sent up. But don’t talk to anyone.’

  Outside, he stopped a passing Malaunje. ‘Food for fourteen in my chambers.’

  ‘Why mustn’t they talk to anyone?’ Tobazim asked, as they followed the saw-bones through the palace.

  Ceyne hesitated. ‘An attack makes Kyredeon look weak.’

  ‘But we have to warn our people,’ Tobazim said.

  ‘When did the attack take place?’

  ‘Seven – no, eight days ago.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t the Mieren king surrounded the city?’

  Tobazim lo
oked to Learon for help.

  ‘What if it was an ambitious baron, acting alone? Do you want to jeopardise three hundred years of peace?’ Ceyne saw he had them wondering. ‘Don’t worry. Kyredeon’s waiting on good news. When that comes through, he’ll take this to an all-council. Come with me. You need to give your oaths of loyalty.’

  GRAELEN WOKE TO a terrible thirst, a pounding head and darkness. The air smelt dusty, dry and old. The cold came up through the ground. He shifted and felt manacles around his wrists and feet.

  Drugged. The brotherhood’s best assassin, drugged. How stupid was he?

  He’d failed in his duty to protect... ‘Kith? Are you there? Kithkarne?’

  No answer. Graelen opened his gift and probed the surroundings. He sensed no other life nearby. He searched farther; still nothing.

  Clearly, the king had decided it was cheaper just to lock them in his dungeon than pay his debt. Didn’t he realise there would be other brothers? Kyredeon had used diplomatic methods this time. Next time he would send an assassin, to make his meaning plain.

  But it wouldn’t be Graelen, because he was chained to a wall in the dark. Even with his gift-enhanced sight, he saw only oppressive darkness.

  He crawled forward, feeling his way. The chains clanked with every movement. He felt cold, dry stone. There was an empty bucket for his needs, and another filled with water. He drank greedily, then stopped. What if this was all the water he had? He should ration it.

  He found a blanket, but no food.

  The extent of his chains told him he was against a wall.

  He could segue to the empyrean plane, but that would achieve nothing.

  If only he had a shield-brother, he might have been able to reach him via their link. But he had no one, and since Paryx’s death, not one person would miss him.

  But he was determined not to give in.

  Rolling himself in the blanket, he prepared to sleep. As he drifted off, he thought he heard beautiful, haunting music.

  SORNE SLEPT WITHOUT pain. It was a luxury he had not known for three years. And, when he felt soft curves pressed up against him, silky hair flowing over his skin and warm lips on his, he thought he was dreaming. But no dream had ever been this good.