Exile

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  Three days before spring cusp, another of the barons returned: one of Eskarnor’s supporters, Baron Hanix. Eskarnor greeted him with a laugh and they embraced, Dacian fashion, slapping each other on the back.

  Hanix had a similar tale to report.

  ‘Heads shorn, all dead, no women and children, but I did find this one, hiding in the scullery.’ Hanix signalled his man at the entrance to the tent, who left and returned with an aged full-blood female. They’d removed the tip from a spear and fashioned a noose on the end. She was led around with this. They drove her forward to stand in front of King Charald.

  ‘She claims to be one hundred and thirty,’ Hanix said. ‘And looking at her, I’m tempted to believe it.’

  She was certainly wizened. The barons drew nearer, peering at her, discussing her. They seemed both repelled and fascinated. So many of them crowded around her, the man-at-arms had to step back and lower his end of the spear.

  ‘A hundred and thirty?’ Charald repeated, eyeing the old woman. ‘Prove it.’

  ‘My grandmother saw King Charald the Peace-maker sign the accord. She said he had ice-blue eyes, like yours.’

  There was muttering at this. The captive’s gaze wandered over the gathering. When she saw Sorne, her mouth twitched with contempt.

  ‘The Warrior doesn’t value useless old women. She’s not worth sacrificing.’ Charald was dismissive.

  Sorne felt the build up of power. The old woman swayed and reached out as if to steady herself, but those sharp old eyes were on the king and her claw-like hand was aimed at his forearm.

  Sorne grabbed the back of Charald’s chair and tipped him over. The king went sprawling on the ground.

  The old woman staggered, collapsing against Baron Hanix, who went to push her away, but the moment his skin came into contact with hers they both disappeared. Their clothing dropped to the carpet.

  Everyone drew back, horrified. They cursed and swore, drawing in shaky breaths.

  Sorne helped the king rise.

  ‘Treacherous Wyrds,’ Charald spat. Sorne felt the king’s hands tremble. ‘The bitch tried to kill me. Bring wine.’

  A servant ran out, and several of the barons poked the clothing and whispered. Sorne heard them speculating, and realised they had no idea what had happened. Even if Zabier had explained about the higher plane, where the T’En did most of their gift-working, the barons hadn’t taken it in. They seemed to have grasped only the most basic concept of avoiding touch and, when presented with a “harmless” old woman, most had forgotten that.

  With Zabier dead, only one person had read all the information in the Wyrd scrolls and Oskane’s journals, and that was Scholar Igotzon. What if he should set himself up as an authority on Wyrds? Then the true limitations of the gifts would become general knowledge. Sorne needed to destroy Igotzon’s reports, the journals and the scrolls.

  Charald tipped half of his wine into another goblet and gave it to Sorne. ‘The Warrior’s-voice saved my life. I salute his quick thinking.’

  The others echoed him, but Sorne noted the way Eskarnor eyed him. The two southern barons had been close. Sorne tensed, expecting accusations and anger.

  ‘Why didn’t Hanix’s talisman protect him?’ Eskarnor demanded.

  Sorne realised he meant the malachite pendant. ‘Was he wearing it?’

  The men sifted through the baron’s personal belongings. Sorne was getting ready to say it was Hanix’s fault for forgetting to wear it, when they found the pendant.

  They handed it to Sorne, and he felt the power the pendant had absorbed when the old T’En female had segued to the higher plane. Even though the power tempted him, Sorne tossed the pendant into a brazier. ‘The talisman’s protective power has been used up.’

  ‘I didn’t know they lost power with time,’ Nitzane said.

  Sorne nodded. The less they knew, the more powerful he became.

  Nitzane removed his malachite pendant. ‘Is mine still good?’

  Sorne accepted it, felt precisely nothing and lied. ‘I’ll have to see if I can restore its protective properties.’

  In no time at all, everyone had returned their pendants and he went back to his tent. As he dropped the pendants onto his desk, the tent flap opened. He turned to see Baron Eskarnor. Sorne felt the lack of his sword. In theory, the church’s holy warriors would protect him, but Eskarnor could gut him before they answered his call.

  Pretending a calm he did not feel, Sorne went around his desk and sat down. He was the man of learning, shielded by knowledge from the man of violence. But if need be, he could resort to violence. ‘What can I do for you, baron?’

  Eskarnor leant on the desk, looming over Sorne. ‘You set that up. You got Hanix killed.’

  Sorne laughed. ‘If you believe that, you have an exaggerated idea of my abilities. I was as surprised as you.’

  The southern baron eyed him, unconvinced.

  ‘Hanix got himself killed. He underestimated the old woman.’

  Eskarnor drew back, his mouth grim. Sorne expected bluster and threat, but the baron shook his head slowly. ‘Why do you put up with the king? You might be his eldest son, but he’ll never acknowledge you.’

  Sorne went cold. He’d thought his identity a secret few knew.

  ‘The others see an accursed half-blood,’ Eskarnor said. ‘I see a man who can make a king dance to his tune. I see a man who is not valued as he should be. The king is old and will not live much longer. When he dies, his subject kingdoms will all revolt and Chalcedonia will need to defend her borders. You should reconsider your loyalties.’

  And he walked out.

  Sorne’s shoulders sagged. Eskarnor had been right about so much, but he was not right about Sorne’s loyalties.

  He bore Charald no love.

  WHEN A THIRD baron returned empty-handed from atttacking a Wyrd estate, Sorne was hopeful he would not have to sacrifice one of his own kind after all, but the very next day, the fourth baron returned with two shivering, skinny captives: an old Malaunje man and a little girl of about five. Her red-gold hair reminded Sorne of Valendia, and he couldn’t bear to look at her. When she saw him standing behind the king’s chair, she threw her arms around the old man.

  ‘Is this all you bring me?’ Charald demanded. ‘No trophies, no silver braids for the new banners?’

  ‘The Wyrds were prepared. The bodies of my men piled high in the snow,’ Baron Ranzto protested. ‘When we did break through, we found the Wyrds had shorn their heads. We captured these two wandering in the woods. They said they’d become separated from the rest.’

  ‘You bring me scraps. Not worth sacrificing.’ Charald was dismissive, but Sorne knew he was pleased. The king was whittling away at both the Wyrds and the barons who supported his rivals. ‘Build me two scaffolds. Place them at the end of the causeway.’

  ‘It will be done,’ Ranzto said.

  Sorne knew, unless Imoshen captured the prince and began negotiation, he would have to stand back and let these two die.

  How could he?

  His only consolation was the lack of wood to build the scaffold. The sap had frozen in the trees and the axes were blunted, but Baron Ranzto was resourceful and he would find the necessary wood.

  ‘Get them out of here.’ Charald gestured disgustedly to the old man and the little girl.

  ‘If they spend another night in the cold, they’ll both die before we can hang them,’ Ranzto said. ‘No True-man would share his tent with them.’

  Anger rolled through Sorne, but he remained impassive.

  Charald gestured to him. ‘You deal with them.’

  ‘Why me?’ Sorne protested. They were prisoners. He was the Warrior’s-voice. If the barons associated him with these two vulnerable captives... ‘I don’t want filthy Wyrds in my tent.’

  The barons laughed, as he knew they would.

  Pretending disgust, Sorne gestured to the captives. ‘This way.’ He swept out of the tent, leaving them to follow as best they could.

 
They struggled through the snow, falling behind him before he was halfway to his tent. Anger and urgency warred with pity inside him. ‘Hurry up.’

  Sorne ushered them inside his tent. A tray containing Sorne’s half-eaten lunch sat on the table; he pushed it in their direction. The old man snatched the food. Tearing the flat bread in half, he gave some to the little girl, who wept with relief as she ate.

  Sorne made a nest from spare blankets and draped two more around their shoulders.

  The old man had been so intent on eating that he hadn’t noticed what was going on. Now he looked up in surprise. Sorne held his finger to his lips. Exhaustion lined the old man’s face. For a heartbeat, he simply stared at Sorne; then he dropped to his knees and threw his arms around him.

  Those arms felt like chains. When Sorne freed himself, the man went to speak. Sorne signalled for silence, gesturing to the tent entrance. The man nodded and concentrated on sharing the remainder of Sorne’s meal with the girl. Every now and then, he looked up at Sorne and bobbed his head in thanks. Tears slid down his grimy cheeks and he kept hugging the little girl. He thought they were safe now.

  But Sorne was as much a captive as them. He could not reveal his true allegiance. At the same time, he could not stand back and let the True-men hang them.

  Legs suddenly weak, Sorne went to his desk and sat down. Sick desperation welled up in him and he sank his head into his hands. He should send them both to the scaffold. To do otherwise could destroy him, but it went against everything he believed in.

  How had Zabier borne this?

  He hadn’t. His mind had split in two. It was the only way he could carry out the sacrifices and protect his family. Sorne’s heartfelt sympathy went out to his little brother.

  A noise made him look up. The old man indicated they had to pee. Sorne felt an irrational urge to laugh.

  IT WAS SPRING cusp and their last chance to snatch the prince. Imoshen sat cross-legged in the sisterhood’s sanctum, under the dome, waiting for Arodyti to activate their gift link. A scented lamp hung above her. As the day progressed, different members of her inner circle came and sat with her, keeping the vigil. They knew Arodyti had gone to lead a special mission, but not why.

  Some chatted, some sat in silence.

  It happened that Imoshen was alone when she heard talk from the hallway.

  ‘...they’re building two scaffolds, one each side at the end of the causeway.’

  ‘Quiet,’ Egrayne told them. ‘The all-mother is in the sanctum.’

  Egrayne came in and knelt beside her. ‘You heard?’

  ‘Yes. Charald must have some captives.’ If Arodyti failed, could she sit back and watch him hang her people?

  ‘Has Arodyti...’

  Imoshen shook her head. ‘How’s Safi? I’ve hardly seen her.’

  ‘Looking better. She’s begun her gift training.’ Egrayne’s lips twitched. ‘She says Vittoryxe...’

  ‘Vittoryxe what?’ the gift-tutor asked as she entered.

  ‘Is an excellent teacher,’ Egrayne said. Imoshen was certain Saffazi had said nothing of the sort.

  Vittoryxe nodded, as if this was what she’d expected. ‘I’ve been reading the myths...’

  Imoshen felt her gift stir and concentrated as her link to Arodyti opened.

  ‘...do you see any two-hundred-year-old T’En nowadays? Of course you don’t.’ Vittoryxe answered her own question. ‘The myths are full of exaggeration. We–’

  ‘What is it?’ Egrayne whispered.

  Imoshen licked her lips and had to remember how to speak. ‘Arodyti is in the palace.’

  ‘Quick, fetch the others.’ Egrayne sent her devotee off.

  ‘It’s really happening. I don’t believe it,’ Vittoryxe whispered excitedly, then frowned. ‘You ask too much of her, Imoshen. Transposition of herself, perhaps, but with the boy she’ll shed too much power. She’ll burn bright as a beacon. The predators won’t be able to resist her–’

  ‘She’ll only burn bright for a heartbeat,’ Imoshen said.

  The rest of her inner circle must have been close; they arrived quickly and took their places on the cushions around the circular mosaic. By the light of the scented lamp, their wine-dark eyes looked huge, and all those eyes focused on Imoshen.

  No one spoke.

  Did they all agree with Vittoryxe? Was she sacrificing Arodyti in a hopeless gamble?

  ARODYTI HATED HAVING to leave her shield-sister to fight six of the king’s palace guards, but they’d reached the nursery.

  As the men gave a shout and charged down the long gallery towards them, time seemed to slow. The warriors’ boots thundered on the mosaics, and the many metal panels of their armour glittered like fish scales in the sun.

  Silvery, late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the arched windows on her left. They looked out over the royal plaza, which was surrounded by the churches of the Mieren gods. Minarets, towers and domes as far as the eye could see – all inhabited by their enemy.

  It was time to fulfil her promise to Imoshen. Time to say goodbye to Sarosune.

  A rushing filled Arodyti’s ears.

  ‘Aro!’ Her shield-sister caught her arm, swinging her around so that their eyes met. ‘We knew it would come to this.’

  Their companions were already dead. Doubtless raped, their sixth fingers souvenired and their distinctive, garnet eyes gouged out. Mieren were brutal with T’En captives, particularly women.

  Arodyti couldn’t bear to think of the Mieren desecrating her beautiful shield-sister. Sliding her hand around the back of Sarosune’s neck, she felt the blunt ends of the shield-sister’s shorn silver hair. The Mieren would not get the chance to make trophies of their braids.

  Pressing her forehead to her shield-sister’s, Arodyti opened her gift. Through their link, she reinforced her love. ‘Saro, I–’

  Sarosune silenced her with a fierce kiss, then shoved her away, rebuilding her defences. ‘We cannot fail Imoshen. Go.’

  She was right. With the heat of her lover’s kiss still on her lips, Arodyti strode into the nursery chamber, swung the doors shut and slid home the bolt. Then she turned and looked for the boy prince.

  The shouts of the king’s guard had alerted the boy’s wet-nurse. Small for one of her race, the Mieren woman stood trembling but defiant. Her eyes widened at the sight of a T’En warrior armed with a bloodied blade.

  The harsh clatter of metal on metal came from the hall; the guards had reached Sarosune. Arodyti had only moments.

  ‘Cedon,’ the wet-nurse called the prince, sinking to her knees and opening her arms to him.

  King Charald’s heir ran towards her, his awkward gait evidence of the club foot that marked him as unfit to inherit the throne.

  Prince Cedon reached for his wet-nurse’s breast, pushing down the drawstring to bury his face in her pale skin. At almost three years of age, he would be considered too old to breastfeed by Arodyti’s people, but she understood his instinctive need for comfort when confronted by a bloodstained T’En warrior.

  A man screamed. The harsh clatter of metal on metal resumed, then stopped abruptly. The doors to the nursery shuddered as the king’s guard tried to break them down. Sarosune was dead. She must not think of her shield-sister.

  Arodyti strode across the chamber, intent on taking the prince. Desperate, the wet-nurse swept the boy up in her arms, and fled through to the balcony.

  Arodyti broke into a run.

  She found the wet-nurse had clambered onto the balustrade with the king’s heir. Illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun, they stood etched against blue-black storm clouds. Seagulls circled the port’s spires, their harsh cries carrying on the wind. Below the balcony, the palace wall dropped four storeys into a twilight-shrouded courtyard.

  Glancing down once, the wet-nurse closed her eyes and stepped back, taking the boy with her.

  Arodyti threw herself forward, just catching the boy’s robe. Her knives clattered on the stones near her feet. She didn’t remember dro
pping them. She grabbed the boy’s arm and there she hung, half over the balcony, the boy and his nurse swinging in an arc. With a despairing cry, the wet-nurse lost her grip and fell away, her terrified face swallowed by shadows.

  Arodyti hauled the prince up, barely registering his weight, and lifted him over the balustrade into her arms.

  He clung to her, trembling.

  So small and fragile.

  Shouts and the thud of booted feet told Arodyti the guards had forced the doors.

  The boy shuddered. She tucked his head into the hollow of her neck, making reassuring sounds. His white-blond curls reminded her of T’En children, but he had the ice-blue eyes of the Mieren. When he pulled back to look up at her, those eyes held confusion.

  Boots thundered across the tiles.

  Arodyti wanted to tell him everything would be all right, but she could not lie. If she failed, they would both die. The predators of the higher plane were swift and ruthless.

  ‘There they are.’ The first king’s guard, a grizzled veteran, slowed and signalled the others to fan out as they stepped onto the balcony. They cast anxious looks to the balustrade, as if fearing she would throw the boy to his death.

  ‘Put Prince Cedon down and we will let you live,’ the veteran lied.

  The boy reached out for the palace guard.

  No more delays.

  Arodyti opened her link to Imoshen and segued to the higher plane, taking not just their essences, but their bodies as well. It went against everything she had been taught, but it was the only way to achieve transposition and deliver Prince Cedon to Imoshen.

  THE VETERAN KING’S guardblinked in disbelief. The bloodied T’En warrior had simply vanished with the king’s heir in her arms. He glanced to the others.

  Stunned, they stared at the warrior’s clothes and wicked long-knives. Steam rose from the discarded belongings on the cool balcony tiles.

  The veteran cursed his bad luck.

  The youngest of the guards started forward.