by Jo Zebedee
Sunset Over
Abendau
The Inheritance Trilogy
Book Two
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Jo Zebedee
Published by Tickety Boo Press
www.ticketyboopress.co.uk
Edited by Teresa Edgerton
www.teresaedgertoneditor.com
Copy-edited by Sam Primeau
www.primoediting.com
Cover Art by Gary Compton
Book Design by Big River Press Ltd
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Sunset was my second book and, as ever, I needed some wise guidance and lots of support to get me to this point.
As ever, my family. We’ve had a blast in the last year, since Abendau’s Heir came out, and their enthusiasm has been a real treat to share.
The readers. The Hex-Men line-up when I was writing this: Anna Dickinson, Suzanne Jackson, and John J Brady. Their patience and guidance was astounding. Jim Kane, for his military knowledge and good-humoured guidance. The beta readers – EJ Tett, who helped so much with the Lichio-Josef dynamics, Kerry Buchanan and, for a late beta that shaped the end of this book into something I feel represents what I wanted for it very well, Bryan Wigmore.
And, finally, the professionals. Teresa Edgerton, as ever – I’m very lucky to have her as an editor. She challenges me to do better, sees the nuances I’m trying to aim for, and is supportive to the end. Sam Primeau for an amazing, as ever, copy edit. Of course, Gary Compton of Tickety boo Press, who’s encouraged and supported and put so much energy into the press, and myself.
And, lastly, a shout out for those who have supported my launch as a writer this year. The Sffchronicles, and Brian Turner, for reads, reviews and shout-outs. The many, many writers I engage with on Facebook and Twitter, too many to name individually, but all such a support. Titancon, for allowing me a glimpse into the world of cons, and for a fun weekend. The booksellers who’ve taken a chance and stocked me – Waterstones, Blackwells, the independents who’ve supported. In particular, Easons have taken me to cons, ran events with me, and taken me into many, many of their stores.
It is so, so much appreciated.
Jo.
Sunset Over
Abendau
by Jo Zebedee
Once again, for Chris, Becky and Holly. You are just amazing!
PROLOGUE
The ship’s engines shut down, leaving a heavy silence. Averrine looked through her viewing port to the moon’s surface of black rock shot through with purple glass, bleak and unchanging. A tower of the same rock stood, looking organically formed rather than built.
The soft hiss of her cabin door made her turn. Her captor, his blue eyes cold, held out a breathing mask. She met his eyes, but didn’t reach for it.
“We have two ways we can do this,” le Payne said. “You can put the mask on and walk to the tower, or I can have you dragged. I really don’t care.”
She didn’t reply. He shouldn’t be escorting her, it wasn’t befitting someone of her importance, but she hadn’t seen her bastard of a son Kare since he’d overcome her, taking both her empire and her powers. Her demands to meet him had been rejected and le Payne had made it clear there were other, worse, conditions which could – would – be applied if she continued to ask. Looking at him, grim-faced, holding a weapon in her presence – in her presence – it was hard to reconcile him as the man whose mind she had invaded until he’d knelt in fealty before her.
If she had her power, he’d do so again. If. She searched her mind, as she had every day of her imprisonment, and found only the hard wall where it had once been. The block Kare had placed was seamless and inaccessible.
“Let’s go.” Le Payne jerked his head towards the corridor.
She reached for the mask. Le Payne watched her put it on and indicated for her to leave the cabin. He prodded her with his blaster – prodded her – to the front of the ship, and pulled his own mask on. At the bottom of the gangway a squad of soldiers waited, faceless behind their masks. Anger rose, not red and urgent, but white, slow burning, made to last and endure. Le Payne and the others would pay for this day.
He forced her from the ship, holding her elbow firmly as the grav-reg’s effect ceased, and tethered her belt to a wire-reel leading to the tower. She took four paces, body light in the low gravity, to a gaping hole in the rock and stepped into it. A short flight of steps led into an antechamber enhanced by artificial gravity.
A soldier removed the reel, tugging at her belt. The portal above sealed, closing with the dull thud of a tomb. She had to force the first touch of fear away. She wouldn’t be cowed by this boy and his squad.
“Air’s stabilised.” Le Payne pulled his mask off, his squad following suit. He gave her a curt nod. “And you.”
She glared at him before taking off her own, slowly unclipping it, taking her time. He took it from her and set it beyond her reach, his eyes on her the whole time, missing nothing. Once, he’d have been dead for this. One day he would be. Sooner or later, her son would be forced to free her: the weakling would never stand against the great families. When Kare was forced from power, she’d ensure he and Lichio le Payne were repaid for every humiliating step forced on her.
They moved into the main body of the tower. Its walls stretched up and up, until the metal stairwell hugging them almost disappeared from sight. He pointed to the stairs. “Climb.”
The central chamber of the tower was empty, and cold, the dark rock barely illuminated by lights set at intervals. Sensors protruded from every wall, remote and faceless; laser guns moved in parallel to them.
She struggled not to shiver in the cold air. She was Simon Pettina’s daughter, and stronger than anyone. She would not show fear. She went to the staircase and started to climb, her steps slow and regal. She may have been forced into prison garb – cargo trousers and a plain top – but she wore them as she had her finest gowns. Behind her, le Payne’s soft footsteps tracked her; ahead, the squad.
She didn’t know how long she climbed. Five minutes, ten? Her legs tired, but the thought of being forcibly taken kept her going. That, and hate. She repeated the names, fuelling the hate with each step: Kare Varnon, her bastard of a son; Sonly le Payne, his bitch of a wife; the turncoat doctor, Prentice; Lichio le Payne, her angelic-faced captor. She reached the top and stopped at a single open door.
Le Payne indicated for her to go in, and she found herself in a small living area, sparsely decorated. No plants, which she’d surrounded herself with in Abendau, no colour to break the monotony of the dove-grey walls. Her arms goosebumped in the cold air.
He gestured around. “You have a bathroom and a bedroom. There’s access to limited entertainment systems. Food will be delivered three times a day, and will be more than sufficient for your needs. Water is available all the time.” He turned to go.
“Wait.” Her voice, for the first time, wavered. “Who brings my food?”
He looked over his shoulder. “The food unit. The cleansing units will clean for you. Your health will be monitored by the sensors; if you need medical assistance, it will be arranged.”
“You won’t get away with this,” she said. “When the families hear the way I have been held, you will pay for this. I am the Empress, this is not fitting–”
“Would you prefer your son’s cell in Omendegon?” His face hardened. “Or to take my place in the quarry? It could be arranged.”
He walked out
. The door sealed behind him, and she sank into the seat opposite. A camera followed her movements. She glared at it, and thought again of the list of names: Kare Varnon, Sonly le Payne; Sam Prentice, Lichio le Payne. It was a song, a mantra which gave comfort and focus.
CHAPTER ONE
TEN YEARS LATER
Baelan kept his head down, taking care to walk slowly and steadily. It was hard when every shout or crash made him startle and want to run. A cloth, wrapped around his lower face, and sunglasses, supposedly for protection from the harsh sun, kept his eyes hidden but that didn’t feel like enough of a disguise – not here, so close to Abendau’s palace.
He followed his mother across the souk. Traders called to her, holding out handfuls of spices, promising the quality of their stock, but she ignored them, stepping around their stalls and leading Baelan into the heart of the market. It had been years since he’d been in the city, and he dragged his feet, enjoying the colours and sounds. In the desert, everything was red and the always-present dust dulled his senses. Here, the smell of spices baking in the heat enveloped him, and the colours of the city dazzled him: the green of the gardens; the white palace and silver port reflecting the hot sun; the warm red walls of the Old Quarter.
People bumped against one another, moving to the city’s rhythm, part of a song he’d never known. The cacophony of voices joined the frequent roar of space ships coming into the newly expanded port. He stopped, just for a moment, to gather his senses but when he turned, his mother was gone. His heart pounded hard against his ribs. He jumped onto one of the vendors’ low stools, craning his neck until he thought he saw the red of her shawl. He hopped down and ran towards her, ducking around people, eyes darting. He couldn’t be caught on his own: it might bring attention to him. His mother was still not in sight. He sped up, waiting for the hard hand of a soldier to fall on his shoulder.
“Baelan!” His mother was waiting for him close to a stall selling nightfire and ankhar pendants, her eyes wide and worried.
“I’m sorry.” He skidded over. “I didn’t mean to lose you.”
Her mouth tightened and she stooped down. “You must be more careful.” Her voice was a soft murmur, but firm. She, too, was tense – he could see it in her narrowed eyes and sharp glances around. She straightened. “Now, stand by my side and don’t move.”
She lifted one of the ankhars from its display stand, one with a heavy silver chain and a large, emerald-coloured stone, practically the same colour as his eyes.
“This one,” she said, and started to haggle with the stall-holder.
His mother would come out the victor, she always did. Baelan turned away and stared at the palace. Its glistening white stone contrasted with the red desert rock, and its domed turrets, framed with coloured tiles that seemed to shift in the sun, dominated the city. Could the Emperor feel Baelan watching? His urge to be known was so strong, it seemed to cry across the city to the palace. He willed his father to sense him, straining forwards, fists clenched. Surely, his father must feel him.
“Baelan.” His mother tugged his arm. “Pay attention.”
He’d been standing too openly, the cloth falling from his face, his too-big glasses slipping down. He pushed them back, ignoring the rush of sick fear, ducked his head, and followed her out of the souk and into the quieter streets of the Tribal Quarter.
Here, there were no houses of imported stone; everything was built of the traditional red desert rock. They came out into a smaller square, this one unmanned by soldiers. Baelan took off his sunglasses and cloth, stretching his arms wide so they caught the slight breeze in the desert-warm air.
His mother pointed to a red-stone building, housing the Quarter’s bath-house. “Go, Baelan. You must be pure tonight.”
He took the small roll of clothes from her, ran to the baths and moved to the sunken pool at the centre of the temple, shedding his clothes before entering its cool, cleansing water. He swam, tasting the slight soapiness of the water, until he reached the central fountain. The water poured over his head and down his face, a beat-beat of rhythm. He chanted the blessing of his Lady the required three times, in time to the water’s rhythm, before swimming back.
Dressing in the ornate tunic and wide-legged trousers his mother had given him, he left his feet bare, as befit a tribesman. His mouth twisted; this was what his father was famous for, fighting barefoot, yet his tribal brothers did it every day.
He closed his eyes so tightly he grimaced, and prayed for strength, for acceptance of what was asked of him, for bravery. This was his naming day, the day he’d find what lay ahead for him.
The day he’d find out if the tribes would accept him as a man. Nerves pulled at his stomach, making it churn, but he kept his head down and focused on the prayer.
Soft footsteps approached from behind, and he turned. His mother, her brothers standing at each shoulder, waited. Wordlessly, he got to his feet – from now until he gave his oath he would be silent. He hoped it would be soon. He pushed the thought away as unworthy but it came back a moment later, slipping through his defences, carrying the fear that to stay silent and accept unquestioningly whatever fate lay ahead was beyond him.
He followed his mother through the baths to the chamber furthest from the entrance. His uncles had to duck to pass through the archway to the source of the bath water, a spring hewn through rock. The water streamed out, its steady gush a miracle in the dry land. The room had a mustiness he’d never known anywhere else, so strong it caught the back of his throat.
He knew where they must be going. Hope flared in him – he’d never been deemed important enough to be taken this way before. This, more than anything else, brought home to him that he really was of age and no longer a child. Fear followed the hope: a man cast out told secrets only to the desert creatures as he died.
One of his uncles pressed the keystone of the alcove. The other pushed against the wall to the left and it gave inwards, revealing a dark space beyond: the entrance to the tunnel system held within the sands, so ancient it predated even his Lady. This was the true tribal secret, their means of freedom from the high walls of the quarter.
Baelan slipped inside. The moist air disappeared, replaced by familiar dryness. His mother shone a light, held high in the palm of one hand, and pushed past to lead the way.
The rock-door thudded closed. His uncles in the temple would secure it. There would be no way back, only onwards. His mother’s light cast barely a few feet into the darkness. Soft sounds came from all around: the skittering of beetles, the shifting sand under his feet, forcing him to concentrate on his steps. He hurried as best he could, trying not to think about the desert above and the weight of its sand.
At last, they reached a branching in the corridor. His mother led him to the right, and then right once again. A set of steps were cut into the rock, and Baelan could see the slightest sign of light at the top. He sped up, more relieved than he’d admit. His throat had tightened without his noticing, and it was only at the first scent of sweet desert air that he managed to take a proper breath. He clambered up the steps, pausing to help his mother up the last, steepest stairs, and came out in a ruined desert building, part of what must have been a small settlement. It had obviously been long abandoned, given the depth of the sand on the floor of the building and the hole-riddled roof.
“This way.” His mother led him outside and started to cross to a second, more robust, building. He followed, alert for the sound of transports. In the open it was too easy to be spotted.
They ducked into the second building, an old temple. He stopped at the entrance, before the icon of Ankshara the desert goddess, and murmured his obedience to his Lady, the living epitome of the goddess.
“Bring the boy forwards.” The voice was quavering and old. A spear of cold fear seized Baelan as he realised who it must be. He found himself moving closer to his mother, but she blocked him and forced him ahead of her.
Sitting at the centre of the old temple,
dwarfed in a seat of stone, a small, stooped figure waited. It could be only one person – Taluthna, the Great Master. Hidden by the tribes, nomadic to avoid discovery, Taluthna was the secret pride of the tribes. Varnon had taken their goddess, their land, their right to worship, but he hadn’t taken their Lady’s brother. He wanted him, he’d searched for him, but the tribes had kept this secret.
Baelan stumbled onto a flagged circle of stone in the centre of the temple. Once, it must have been a mosaic; he could feel the sharp edges of the few remaining tiles under his feet. He dipped his head, knowing until his name was called he was not worthy of meeting the eyes of the old man.
He bit his lip, hard enough to draw sharp-tasting blood. Why had he been brought to this hidden place? Was he here to be cast out? Fear held him tight to the spot. If he couldn’t be part of the tribes, what was left to him? He couldn’t stay with his mother past the age of ten without his ankhar. He would have to give himself to the desert.
“Baelan of the Benadii,” said the old man. “Come to me.”
He found the strength to step forwards, close enough to smell the old man’s robes, stale with sweat.
“Who brings this child to me?” Taluthna’s voice gave nothing away. Indeed, it held the edge of humour, as if tormenting Baelan was an amusement. That fitted the man he’d heard about. His stomach clenched, making him want to double over. Stories were told about the old man by the children, whispered tales of horror. Being cast into the desert might not be the worst fate he could meet this day.
His mother stood at Baelan’s left shoulder. “I, Shanisa of the Benadii.”
“And his father?”
Baelan struggled not to squirm. His father was feasting in the palace, his lady-wife beside him, triumphant in their victory. If his fate was to be decided by who his father was, he was doomed.
A sound of footsteps came through the temple, slow and commanding. Hope flared in Baelan, but he tamped it down – a lifetime of being the outcast, tarnished by his pale skin, his eyes, the likeness to the face on Abendau’s coins and the flag over the palace, had taught him not to hope.