Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  She seemed nervous.

  Of course. After spending years alone, she was probably terrified of people. How old was she? Her body told him she was a woman, but she sounded young. In her late teens, he guessed.

  ‘They said full-bloods were dangerous,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m sworn to protect Malaunje. I would die to protect you.’ And he meant it. The thought of what they’d done to her infuriated him. His gift surged and he wanted to use it.

  ‘There it is again, like beautiful music on the edge of hearing.’

  He had to rescue her. And this was his chance to tell her the truth.

  But he hesitated. The Mieren who imprisoned her had been indoctrinating her for years. She might take fright and run. He mustn’t lose her. He had to make her see the danger. ‘They chained me to the wall.’

  ‘I know...’

  ‘They’re going to sacrifice me to their gods–’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Malaunje have been going missing–’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then why did they drug me and chain me down here?’

  Finally, she said, ‘He’s keeping me safe. He wouldn’t lie to me.’

  But there was a thread of doubt in her voice.

  ‘He’s already lied to you,’ Graelen guessed.

  ‘He said you were a dead body. I didn’t come back, until the mute brought down the food. A dead body doesn’t need food.’

  ‘Clever and beautiful.’

  She looked up surprised. Had no one ever told her she was beautiful?

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Dia.’

  ‘I’m Grae. I can get us out of here, Dia. If you unchain me, I can overcome the will of the True-men. I’ll take you to the city and–’

  ‘The Celestial City?’

  ‘You’ve heard of it?’

  ‘We can’t go there. The king’s going to attack the Wyrds.’

  ‘What?’ He surged to his feet, sprang forward and tried to grab her arm, tried to give her a taste of his gift, but she was too fast. In the scuffle, the candle went out.

  He heard her backing away and strained against the chains as he switched to the empyrean sight. ‘Come back, Dia. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’

  ‘You tried to do something to me. I felt it.’

  ‘I tried to share power with you.’ Fool! He’d almost won her. But the thought of the Mieren king attacking his city... ‘Dia, they’re my people. I have to warn them.’

  She backed up further.

  ‘Dia?’ Desperate, he pulled at the chains. ‘Dia, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to use my gift on you. But I have to warn them. Dia, come back.’

  She turned and ran, until she was swallowed by darkness.

  In a rage, he grabbed the chains, planted his legs against the wall and strained until his head pounded. Cursed. And tried again. Tried, until he was battered and bleeding.

  And, all the while, his useless gift raged.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  SORNE WAS DRESSED as a beggar again. He’d ridden into the port on the borrowed horse and returned it to the sisterhood’s warehouse. When he’d shown them the token, they’d offered him food, wine, fine clothes and a feather bed. He’d asked for their oldest cast-offs and a simple meal.

  Now he shuffled down the streets, head bowed. It was strange – without his scars, he felt vulnerable. People used to glimpse those scars and look away. The bandage covered his eyes, and his hands were wrapped, so that it looked like he had only stubs of fingers.

  If the Mieren found him, they’d string him up like poor Harosel.

  The last place he’d known Valendia to be was the Father’s church. If he had to slip inside, find Zabier and threaten him, he would. How had it come to this?

  Everything started to go wrong when they came to port all those years ago. Oskane and Franto had taken Zabier away from them. Sorne recalled him bounding into their chambers, full of news about the crypts. He’d been fascinated by the tunnels under the church. Of course, Zabier would not send Valendia away, not when he wanted to keep her safe.

  But Sorne had no idea how to get into the crypts. He passed the courtyard where the church fed the poor. It was filling up with the lame, the blind and the sick. Among them were skinny children with cunning faces and quick fingers. Food went into the hand and into the mouth, or it was lost. He’d fit in perfectly here.

  Keeping his head down, he shuffled through the gathering. He had been planning to ask questions, but he heard the kitchen staff talking through an open window

  ‘...killed the Warrior’s-voice and four of his priests.’

  ‘Four? I heard it was five.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Serve him right for trying to outdo the Father’s-voice, I say.’ Thump, rattle. ‘Everyone knows silverheads are dangerous.’

  The pots clattered and people shouted as Sorne took a spot under the window. At first he thought the Warrior’s-voice had made a mistake while conducting a ceremony, but the mention of silverheads made no sense.

  Then Graelen’s suspicions returned to him.

  Surely not. Zabier would never...

  ‘It’s not like we haven’t got enough work.’ The voice resumed. ‘Now we have to pack for travelling. Why does the king want the Father’s-voice at his tourney–’

  ‘A tourney? That’s not what I heard.’

  Lowered voices, lost in clattering. He wasn’t interested in what Charald was up to. At least the king wasn’t making war for the moment. That was Charald’s problem. Without a war to keep the barons occupied, he needed a tourney.

  Sorne had no illusions about those men. He’d seen them at their worst, while they were conquering the kingdoms of the Secluded Sea under King Charald’s banner. He was glad he was no longer the Warrior’s-voice, making offerings and calling up visions to justify the king’s ambition.

  His duty was to Valendia now. He thought of her sunny smile, shut away in the crypts, and wondered if he’d ever known Zabier.

  Sorne glanced to the old woman at his side. Her hands were curled into claws and he couldn’t see her eyes for wrinkles. Trusting to her poor sight, he leaned closer. ‘With winter coming on, it’s a pity they don’t open the crypts and let us sleep in there.’

  ‘Sleep wi’ the dead?’ She gave a sharp laugh. ‘That’ll happen all too soon for the likes o’ me.’

  Through the window behind him, a commanding voice ran off a list of things required for the journey. Sorne caught Baron Aingeru’s name. Why did that ring a bell?

  ‘Mind you, they did open ’em up one winter when it snowed so bad th’ trees split open. Come to think o’ it, the entrance was near here.’ The old woman lifted her head and looked around. ‘No... it was th’ old poor-door.’

  ‘Old poor-door?’

  ‘Afore the king built his new palace.’

  Thirty years ago. Sorne hid a smile.

  Just then, penitents came out with buckets of scraps and there was a rush for the food. In keeping with his disguise, Sorne grabbed a bit of soggy bread and retreated to gnaw on it, crouched under the window, where he heard the kitchen staff talking.

  ‘...will have his holy war, one way or another. And now there’s no Warrior’s-voice, it’ll be the Father’s-voice the king turns to for his visions.’

  Looked like the rivalry between the two largest churches was still going strong.

  The old woman screeched and clipped a child over the ear. The urchin was too quick for her and made off with her dinner. She went to go back for more, but the penitents upended the buckets to show they were empty.

  Sorne edged over to the old woman and offered her his bread. ‘Show me the crypt entrance.’

  She eyed the food, licking her gums.

  He tore off a third of the bread and gave it to her. ‘The rest when you show me the entrance.’

  She grabbed it and sucked on it. Sorne took her arm and they hobbled out of the poor-door courtyard. She took him to the old wall of the ori
ginal church grounds.

  ‘Was just over there. Reckon no one comes back this way much. Reckon you could get in, but my old bones won’t be makin’ th’ climb.’ She held out her hand and he gave her the rest of the bread.

  She smacked her lips and headed off.

  Meanwhile, Sorne studied the wall. He’d have no trouble climbing it, but he’d need a lamp and maybe chalk or string to find his way around the crypt.

  Holy war. The chatter of the kitchen staff returned to him. The king would have his holy war.

  It all fell into place. Baron Aingeru’s estate was less than a day’s march from the Celestial City. That’s why the king was staging the tourney there. Sorne knew how King Charald thought. He’d always wanted to crush the Wyrd city. With a vision from the Father’s-voice to justify his ambition, Charald could call it a holy war and use the feast of winter’s cusp as a diversion to attack an unsuspecting populace...

  Sorne had to send word to Imoshen.

  If he told the warehouse Malaunje now, one of them could get out the port gate before it closed. If he went down into the crypts, he could be all night looking for Valendia and still not find her. The messenger would be delayed by a day or more.

  He’d have to come back for Valendia.

  GRAELEN THOUGHT THE bolt was working loose. He’d wound scraps of blanket around his hands; the blood had made them slippery. So intent was he on breaking loose and so gradual was the approach of the light, that he almost didn’t notice her until she spoke.

  ‘You’ll be forever doing it that way. I’ll have to try to get the key.’

  He dropped the chain and turned so quickly he almost tripped. ‘Dia?’

  ‘I couldn’t leave you here in the dark. I couldn’t let mothers and children die.’ She placed the candle in a wall niche and frowned. ‘I don’t know why I couldn’t see this before.’

  ‘Oh, Dia.’ He took her in his arms. His gift surged and he wanted to protect her. ‘What they did to you was terrible. Shut away all these years. It’s a wonder you turned out like you have.’ And he kissed her.

  He didn’t mean to. She was looking up at him, with her heart in her face. She had no defences, played no games. She had such trust in him that he wanted to be the person she thought he was.

  She’d never been kissed, he could tell. She drew back, surprised.

  Then she pulled him down to her. Soft lips explored his. Her breath caught and she made a sound in her throat that made him want to throw caution aside. It was a challenge to hold back and let her set the pace.

  She stepped away and smiled shyly up at him. For her, he could be the man he should have been.

  ZABIER BROUGHT EIGHT burly priests with him into the crypts, to collect the big silverhead. He was not going to make the same mistake the Warrior’s-voice had made with the tithe-master. If he’d had time, he would have drugged the Wyrd’s food, but the king was organising things with his usual breakneck speed.

  War, he had learnt, was all about the logistics: moving men and equipment, moving men’s emotions to motivate them. To justify Charald’s holy war, they needed a holy site to make the offering. But the nearest site was a day’s ride to the north of Aingeru’s estate, so they had to get there to stage the ceremony, then back in time for the attack before the evening of winter’s cusp. His captive would have to travel in a heavy, barred wagon, draped with canvas to hide him from curious eyes. Even pulled with four oxen, the wagon was slow.

  Time was running out, and Charald was not a man who accepted failure.

  Which brought him back to the Wyrd. The king wanted a showy offering. Zabier wanted to survive. So he went down into the crypts with priests, armed with spears; great long things, with vicious heads. The Wyrd was already chained. A couple of wounds would slow him down. It didn’t matter if he was injured when Zabier sacrificed him.

  And just to be sure, Zabier had laced some wine with pure pains-ease. He figured the Wyrd would rather drink it, sleep and live another day, than have his throat cut. It wasn’t as if he knew or even suspected what they had in mind for him.

  Zabier was taking no chances. He didn’t want the Wyrd aware of their approach until the last moment, so he warned his men to tread softly.

  What he did not expect was to find his sister staring up at the silverhead, about to kiss him.

  Rage poured through Zabier. He wanted to tear the Wyrd’s throat out.

  Utzen caught his arm.

  Trembling with frustration, Zabier signalled the men to get into position, then strode in and caught Valendia by her glorious hair, dragging her back.

  She cried out and clutched at her head, falling to one knee. Zabier slapped her hard, splitting her lip open.

  ‘How could you? How could you go to him?’ He gestured to the Wyrd. They had him up against the wall, a dozen spear points pressed to his throat, chest and groin. His eyes were wild and he gasped for breath. ‘How could you let him touch you?

  Valendia sprang to her feet. ‘Don’t hurt him.’

  ‘Hurt him?’ Zabier wanted to shake her. ‘How could you do this to me? I’ve risked everything to keep you safe.’

  His secret was out now. He would have to make these burly priests his supporters, buy their silence with prestige.

  With this in mind, he confronted the Wyrd and gestured to the priests. ‘These are my holy-warriors, an elite force who serve the Father’s-voice. They will not hesitate to gut you on my signal.’ He beckoned his assistant. ‘Give me the sleeping draught.’ A flask slid into his hand. He held it out to the Wyrd. ‘Drink this. Drink it now, and drink it all, or...’ He saw the way the silverhead was trying not to look at Valendia as Utzen helped her to her feet. ‘Or I hand her over to my holy-warriors.’ He was feeling so angry with her, he just might.

  The Wyrd nodded and Zabier tossed him the flask.

  As he drank, Zabier whispered to Utzen. ‘I want you to take her away. Take her to Restoration Retreat.’

  ‘It’s a long way.’

  ‘Take people you trust. Take whatever you need. She can have her music, but nothing else.’ He turned. ‘Did you hear that, Dia? You’re going–’

  Valendia was reaching to the Wyrd.

  He cursed. ‘Stop her.’

  The holy-warriors went to grab her, but not before the silverhead gathered her in his arms.

  ‘Don’t just stand there!’ Frustration made Zabier’s voice harsh. The holy-warriors plunged in and pried them apart. It was sickening how they reached for each other.

  Utzen had two of the burly priests drag her away.

  With the holy-warriors pinning the silverhead, Zabier stepped in and swung at him, putting all his frustration into the punch. It slammed into the Wyrd’s head and he dropped.

  Hand throbbing, Zabier stepped back. ‘Get him into the wagon.’

  A little later, he met his assistant in a private courtyard, filled with busy priests and penitents.

  ‘They saw me load her into my cart. But I kept her under a hooded cloak and no one knows who she is,’ Utzen assured him.

  Zabier pulled the flap back. Valendia was surrounded by provisions, and her arms were chained to the back-board. She glared at him through tangled hair. Her top lip had split and blood ran down her chin. Serve her right for betraying him, after all he’d done to keep her safe.

  He let the flap drop. ‘I’ll go first.’

  As he passed the other wagon, he pulled the canvas aside, to find his men chaining the unconscious Wyrd to the floor ring. He’d keep the silverhead drugged until the night of the ceremony.

  A second cart followed, piled high with supplies for the supposed tourney. His holy-warriors had commandeered the seats and any perches on the cart. He mounted up. ‘Open the gates.’

  The gathered priests and penitents gave a tentative cheer, then a louder one. It warmed him. He hadn’t expected it.

  The gates trundled open to reveal a crowd gathered in the street outside.

  He stood in the stirrup and shouted. ‘Make way in the ki
ng’s name.’

  ‘Make way for the High Priest Zabier, the Father’s-voice,’ one of his holy-warriors yelled.

  ‘Is it true the king leads a holy war?’ someone shouted from the crowd. ‘Is it true you take a Wyrd to be sacrificed?’

  Zabier glanced to the wagon. Considering the logistics, it was inevitable the news would get out.

  ‘Filthy Wyrd!’ Something hit the barred wagon. Someone yelled abuse, several more took up the call. He could see people hurrying up the street, some swinging cudgels, some calling to others. At this rate, they’d never get out.

  Men jeered, women screeched insults.

  ‘Good people, good people.’ Zabier tried to get their attention. ‘I go on the king’s business. Don’t attack us when there are Wyrds right here in port–’

  He got no further. The mob turned and took off towards the docks. He heard shouting and running feet, smashing windows.

  About two blocks from the port’s eastern gate, someone on horseback rode past them. He wore a hood and kept his head down.

  ‘Wyrd!’ someone yelled.

  Several people dragged the half-blood from his horse and beat him; others swung a rope over shop sign. Zabier concentrated on getting his two charges out the gate alive.

  SATISFIED THAT HE had fulfilled his promise to Imoshen, Sorne returned with a lamp and supplies. He had kept to back streets, so it had taken him a while to return to the old section of the church. Scaling the wall was easy. He had thought he might have trouble finding the crypt entrance, but the symbol for the dead was etched into a time-worn portico. He went down the steps and forced the doors.

  Once inside, he lit his lamp and began a systematic search. Under the new section of the church, there were tunnels that were clearly used for storage and regularly visited. He avoided them.

  There were wall niches piled with bodies, chambers with ornate coffins and walls of skulls. He kept a note of the turns and paces. He found tunnels thick with dust and others with a narrow path of footprints.

  He found no sign of Valendia.