‘What are you doing?’ Ardonyx asked from behind.
He didn’t answer.
‘What are you doing, Tobazim?’
He shoved the plans into the flames. He wished he could consume his gift as easily, so that it did not drive him to produce visions that demanded to be built.
Ardonyx plucked the plans from the flames before they could do more than singe.
Tobazim registered Ardonyx’s scent and the tang of power that came off his skin: it was rich and exotic, and it called to him.
Ardonyx held up the plans between them. ‘What’s wrong with you tonight?’
‘Nothing.’ Tobazim reached for the plans.
Ardonyx stepped back, taking the plans out of reach. ‘I’m not letting you–’
Infuriated, Tobazim swung at the new brother. His fist collided with Ardonyx’s jaw with a satisfying crunch. Ardonyx staggered. The plans went flying, scattering across the parquetry.
Ardonyx shook his head as blood seeped from his lips.
Tobazim shoved past Ardonyx, heading for the plans. They were his to destroy if he chose.
Ardonyx jumped him and they careened across the chamber, through the doorway into the bathing chamber. The tiles were hot and damp, slippery with scented oils and soaps. Water steamed in the huge sunken tub. His brothers had been too focused on preparing themselves for trysting to empty it. Ardonyx’s weight unbalanced Tobazim and he lost his footing. The new brother released him as he fell to the tiles. He registered the impact but felt no pain.
He turned on one knee.
Ardonyx offered his hand. Behind him was the sunken bath, big enough for a dozen.
Tobazim sprang forward, tackling him. They fell, and scented water closed over them.
Tobazim grappled, didn’t care if he drowned; if they both drowned.
They came up for air. Tobazim’s eyes stung. He was glad the bathwater hid his tears. Furious with himself, he tried to shove past Ardonyx to get to the far steps.
Ardonyx caught him by the shoulders, pinned him against the edge of the bath and kissed him.
The fury that had been empowering Tobazim instantly turned to desire. Ardonyx tasted of blood, of violence and a gift essence that was exotic; its heady lure called to him.
The heat, the scented oils and the pounding of his heart all overwhelmed Tobazim. He felt desire rise and knew it was driven by his craving for Ardonyx’s gift, but did not care. He let his gift free while his body went along for the ride and his mind switched off.
MUCH LATER, ARDONYX studied his plans. ‘I’ve overseen the building of ships. I know plans. These are really very good.’
‘But useless, since we’re not staying.’ Bitterness made Tobazim’s voice tight. ‘How can I use my gift? I need to be doing something useful.’
Ardonyx returned his plans. ‘The causare is forming an exile-council. I’ve been asked to represent the brotherhood, and I’ll need an assistant.’
Tobazim looked up startled. ‘You’re asking me?’
‘Only if you want to.’
Of course he wanted to. But should he? By serving on the exile-council, Ardonyx would earn stature for the brotherhood, which should protect him from Kyredeon’s ire. But the higher he rose, the more of a threat he presented to Kyredeon.
Tobazim stood up and returned his plans to their niche. He’d keep his distance because he wasn’t just risking himself – he was risking Athlyn, Haromyr and all the others, who had aligned themselves with him. ‘I’ll serve on the committee with you, but this... what happened tonight. It was a mistake.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
RONNYN WENT OUT to the wood heap. Now that his mother had removed the bandages, he wanted to inspect his left arm in the bright light of day. What he saw dismayed him.
Fresh scar tissue. Lumpy, misshapen muscles.
Feeling slightly sick, he turned his bad arm this way and that. Truly, it was an ugly thing.
No point in feeling sorry for himself. The wood wouldn’t chop itself. Come to think of it, the wood heap was getting low. Seventeen days had passed since he’d killed the stink-badgers. He reached for the axe with his left hand, his bad hand, but the moment he tried to close his fingers around the wooden handle, lightning bolts of pain shot up his arm. He gasped and clasped his arm to his chest.
‘Ronnyn, are you alright?’
Before turning to face Aravelle, he blinked to clear the tears from his eyes. ‘We need more wood.’
‘Don’t bother with the axe.’ Aravelle gestured to the large reed baskets. ‘We can collect driftwood instead.’
That meant going to Driftwood Beach. Neither of them had been back there since spring when they had found the fisherman.
Now they didn’t mention him and avoided the hollow where he was buried. The bay looked much the same. Driftwood had piled up in the usual spots. They placed the baskets on the sand and began loading them up. There were some big pieces; he should have brought the axe. He tried cracking them over rocks, using his right arm. It had grown strong with constant use.
When his basket was full, he forgot and went to pick it up with his left hand. Bolts of fire shot up his arm and he ended up gasping as his arm spasmed.
‘Still bad?’
He didn’t bother to answer.
‘Now that the bandage is off, I want to try something.’ She led him over to a patch of shade where the trees met the sand, and they knelt. ‘Show me your arm.’
He didn’t want to. Before the bandages came off, he’d had some hope. Now he knew the worst. ‘It’s–’
‘It’s not going to get better if you don’t use it. Show me your arm.’
She took his hand, turning it over to inspect the way the scars ran up his arm. Satisfied, she placed his palm on her thigh and pulled a jar from her pocket. When she opened it, he smelled their mother’s rosemary ointment.
‘You came prepared.’
‘I told you I’d help you get better. Did you think I’d forgotten?’
He shook his head, grateful that she had looked on his arm without flinching; he could barely do that himself. The smell of the rosemary ointment was strong, but it was a good smell, pure with the promise of healing, or so he hoped.
Aravelle rubbed the ointment on her hands then began to gently massage his arm, starting from his elbow down. Despite the care she took, the muscles twitched and clenched painfully.
Ronnyn bit his bottom lip and concentrated, breathing through the pain. And that’s when the smell of the rosemary became much more intense and sounds became sharper as he felt his gift rise. It was the same sensation that had come over him when the stink-badger went for Vittor – everything became more intense. The power thrummed through his body, making his heart race, helping him cope with the pain. He almost asked Aravelle if she felt it too. But he didn’t want her to know; she’d made it clear she resented his gift and he didn’t want it coming between them.
Aravelle was bent over his arm, concentrating as she worked on the knotted tendons of his hand. Her tongue peeped from between her lips as she gave each finger the same careful attention.
If he was a mind-manipulator, he should be able to catch a glimpse of her thoughts. Ronnyn opened his mind and tried to listen in to hers, but sensed nothing.
Eyes closed, he tried harder. Still nothing. Yet he could feel his gift and the need to use it.
‘Try using your hand now.’
To amazement, his fingers had a little more movement than before, although the pain still shot up his arm.
‘See?’ She sounded pleased. ‘I’ll do this every day. And every day you’ll get a little better.’ She rocked back on her heels and sprang to her feet, aglow with delight.
He couldn’t tell Aravelle that his gift was moving. His mother thought he had another year before his power began to trouble him. He feared if his parents learned it had manifested early and he couldn’t focus it, he’d have to go back to the city to train. With father unable to work, his family needed him more than ever.
&nbs
p; No one must know.
IMOSHEN STOOD ON the balcony, overlooking the palace’s grand staircase. This was where Iraayel had held off the Mieren attackers. He’d been barely sixteen that night and so brave, yet none of the all-fathers would have him. She’d do anything to protect him, but...
Frustration drove Imoshen’s gift and her vision shifted. She saw Iraayel at the top of the stairs, the night of the attack, saw him save Bedutz’s life as one of the Mieren tried to gut him.
She hadn’t seen that happen. How could...
Unnerved, Imoshen went in search of the gift-tutor. Even though it was day three of the midsummer festival, she found Vittoryxe in the gift-training chamber hard at work. Light streamed in through the tall windows, illuminating the mahogany tables and cluttered shelves.
‘This is impossible...’ Vittoryxe indicated a large pile of gift treatises down one end of the table. ‘How can I choose what to take and what to leave behind? All of them are important.’
‘Then you should take them all.’
Vittoryxe gestured to the rows of shelves that went up to the ceiling. ‘All of them?’
‘Oh...’ Imoshen sat down.
Vittoryxe kept sorting, muttering to herself, growing steadily more upset.
Imoshen watched for a moment then asked, ‘What is remembrancing?’
‘Remembrancing is the calling up of a powerful event associated with an object or place,’ Vittoryxe said. ‘The gift is innate, unlike memory-sharing or dream-sharing, which both spring from the intellect.’
‘Then remembrancing is not something I could do,’ Imoshen asked, certain she had.
‘You’re a raedan, isn’t that enough for you?’
Imoshen said nothing. At empowerment, a T’En child’s gift was revealed, and then he or she was trained to be proficient in it. Like an unused limb, other nascent gifts withered. Perhaps T’En training traditions were too restrictive; she suspected culling the gift treatises would be a good thing.
Laughter and running footsteps reached them. The gift-tutor sprang to her feet and charged out the door. Imoshen followed. She was in time to see Vittoryxe catch the oldest of four T’En boys. Imoshen recognised Dragazim, the gift-tutor’s own choice-son.
The other boys apologised and left.
‘What have I told you, Dragazim?’ Vitttoryxe asked.
‘Forgiveness, choice-mother. We were just–’
‘I don’t care what you were doing. If you’ve got nothing to do, you can review your lessons.’
His face dropped. ‘But it’s a feast day.’
‘I don’t care. Go inside.’
‘Yes, choice-mother.’ Face flushed, Dragazim gave obeisance and entered the gift-training chamber.
Imoshen’s heart went out to boy. ‘Must you be so hard on him?’
Vittoryxe turned on her. ‘What would you know? You’ve only ever raised one choice-son, and you were too soft on him. Dragazim is a male about to come into his gift. He’s going to be a danger to himself and others. Once the power starts manifesting...’ She shuddered. ‘The gift surges in the first few years. It drives even sensible boys to do stupid things. Some of them never get it under control. I’m only thinking of him. The harder I am on him, the harder he will be on himself when the gift rides him!’
‘But Iraayel–’
‘Iraayel? You should never have been made his choice-mother.’ The gift-tutor’s thin lips pulled back from her teeth in a grimace of frustration. ‘I don’t know why I bother.’
Vittoryxe went into her chamber and slammed the door.
WHEN SORNE RECEIVED Imoshen’s latest message, informing him of the reward for live Wyrds delivered either to the port or to the city, he went straight to High Priest Faryx, who agreed to spread word through the churches. It was the fastest way to reach the people of Chalcedonia, and the bounty should help to ensure the safety of Wyrds travelling to port.
Then he went to see the harbour-master to let him know about the reward and to the Wyrd wharf, where he informed the strongarms. If any Wyrds were delivered to the port, he was to be contacted and he would pay the bounty. Lastly, he rowed out to the largest of the sisterhood ships to see a certain cabin boy.
He found Toresal at lessons. The boy was glad to escape, and bounded across the deck to join him.
‘So how are you settling in with the sisterhood Malaunje?’ Sorne asked.
‘They’re not so bad.’ His face brightened. ‘The ship’s cat has had kittens. Do you want to see them?’
‘Not right now.’ Sorne smiled. ‘I have good news. Captain Ardonyx made it to the Celestial City.’
‘He’s safe? What about...’ He rattled off half a dozen other names.
‘Sorry, all I know is that the captain and some of his crew made it to the city.’ Sorne noticed this ship’s captain heading this way.
‘Good,’ the cabin boy muttered. ‘I’m glad the Dacians didn’t get him.’
‘Off to your lessons,’ Sorne said, moving to meet the captain, who was Malaunje like him.
‘Good news,’ Sorne said, by way of greeting. ‘Captain Ardonyx reached the city safely.’
‘He might be safe, but there’s no still sign of his two ships. If we’re not careful, someone will sail off with them. Then we’ll never track them down.’
‘I’ll follow it up with the harbour-master,’ Sorne said.
The Malaunje captain gestured to the shore. ‘This is our home port, but we might as well be in a foreign kingdom. My people have to get permission from the harbour-master’s guards to go into port, and even then they’re escorted.’
‘It’s for their own good,’ Sorne said. ‘I was here during the riots. The Wyrd warehouses were burned, and–’
‘That’s another thing. We’re only allowed to buy our stores from certain merchants. And the prices they’re charging...’
Sorne wasn’t surprised. ‘I suspect the harbour-master is channelling Wyrd gold into his supporters’ pockets. Anything else?’
‘Where are the rest of our people’s ships? I know of two captains who should have returned by now.’
‘Messages have been sent to the harbour-masters of all the major ports along the Secluded Sea. As soon as a Wyrd ship docks, they are supposed to tell them to make all haste back to this port.’
‘And what if they don’t give them the message? What if cut-throats slip aboard at night, murder the crew, steal the cargo and sail off with the ship? How would we know? It’s not like our people can go into a tavern and hear news of our exile. They’re confined to their vessels.’
Sorne’s head spun. He’d been concentrating on getting the Wyrds across Chalcedonia to the port. ‘What do you suggest? Would a reward for the return of Wyrd vessels help?’
The dour ship’s captain grimaced. ‘Why should they accept a reward, when they can take a ship and make a living from it?’
‘I’ll write to the causare.’ Truth be told, he didn’t see what any of them could do.
Chapter Twenty-Six
AS ARAVELLE LIT the scented lamp, she savoured the exotic perfume. It reminded her of other season cusps, going right back to when she was small and there had only been her brother and her parents.
Tonight, as she prepared for the spiced wine ceremony, she concentrated on doing everything just right. She selected the spices: cinnamon, vanilla bean and cloves. Then, because it was the autumn ceremony, she added lemon rind and a diced apple. She stirred it all into the wine as it simmered over the heat.
In the centre of the table was a sea-boar tusk, which Father had carved to illustrate how she and Ronnyn had saved his life. The story was told in a spiral, in bas relief, rising to the tip. Instead of the usual poem painting, they used the carved tusk as a focal point for their meditation, while she prepared the spiced wine to give thanks.
On the right-hand side of the table, Vittor, Tamaron and little Itania watched. Their wide mulberry eyes sparkled with excitement. Her parents sat on the left side of the table, with Ronnyn closest to he
r. His skin was flushed from hard work and the scrubbing he’d given himself in the lagoon. His long white hair was bound in a damp plait. Their father’s shirt was tight across his shoulders and short in the sleeve.
He looked distracted, as if he was hearing music no one else could hear, and it worried her. She kicked him under the table. His eyes flew to hers.
She didn’t let them connect. Instead, she poured a little water into a bowl and sprinkled lemon-scented leaves into it. First she presented the bowl to her mother, who dabbed a little on her eyes and lips, then her palms, in the ritual cleansing; then her father did the same, moving slowly, with painful care. The injury had turned him into an old man before his time.
Ronnyn watched closely. Today would be the first time he took part in the spiced wine ceremony.
A surge of resentment stung Aravelle. She’d had to wait until she was thirteen for this honour. But their parents had decided to acknowledge Ronnyn’s hard work and bravery by elevating him early.
And now his gift was manifesting. He thought she didn’t know, but she wasn’t stupid. When she massaged his arm, it felt like the sensation of an impending summer storm. Wonderful, and yet frightening. Just thinking about it made her heart race and her skin tingle.
One day, the storm would break. Then what would their parents do? If they went back to the city, it would tear their family apart, but it also would mean her father and brother could be healed. And Ronnyn needed to study under a gift-tutor.
She knew he worked at controlling the gift as assiduously as he’d worked at regaining the use of his left hand. She wasn’t about to betray him, but...
His gaze met hers across the steaming wine.
She looked down to where the wine swirled as she stirred it over the heat, lamplight gleaming on its silky surface.
If she was absolutely honest, she wasn’t about to reveal his experiments with the gift because the sensation made everything more intense, colours brighter, scents stronger and life richer. She didn’t want to give it up.
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