Exile

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘Why are you always grumpy with me, Vella?’

  She looked up at him and shoved him. Hard.

  Ronnyn wasn’t expecting it and he went down, falling on one hip in the wet sand.

  With a laugh, Aravelle took off up the creek bank. He watched her feet flashing, the curve of her calf muscles tensing with the effort, the length of her long legs disappearing under her smock.

  Challenge fired him. Scrambling to his feet, he ran after her, all his concentration focused on catching her and making her pay. Before he’d gone a stone’s throw, he realised he could catch her without trouble.

  To make it more fun, he almost grabbed her twice, letting her get away. She was fast and slippery, but she was no match for him. Her hair came undone, flying behind her. He drove her, letting her keep one step ahead of him, all the way up the hill, until they reached the hide.

  She tried to slam the hidden door on him, but he thrust it open, charging in after her, driving her up against the far wall, pressing her to the stone.

  And there in the semi-dark everything changed.

  Maybe it was the wild excitement of the run, maybe it was just the right time, but he felt his gift slam into him, felt it ride him then roll over her, washing around her like waves on the rocks.

  It was enough for him to sense her excitement, her restlessness and that part of her which was eager for his gift. It would be so easy to...

  She slipped out from under his arm, darting towards the door that stood ajar. Before she’d gone two steps, he caught her arm.

  She resisted, shutting his gift out completely.

  He felt the moment it happened and it infuriated him. Wordlessly, he pressed against her defences.

  She held firm. More than that, she pushed back.

  When she tried to pull free of his hand, he anticipated and shifted his grip. This caused the muscles in his bad arm to bite and jerk, pain shot down into his hand but he held on. He held on because he wanted her to acknowledge...

  ‘Ronnyn?’ Her voice held fear.

  Fear?

  It shocked him. He’d never hurt her. Never.

  Taking advantage of his surprise, she slipped free. Silently, she backed up, rubbing her wrist as if to erase his touch.

  He watched, fighting the urge to go after her.

  His stillness seemed to reassure her; after a moment, she became all businesslike. She wedged the door open. With the sunlight streaming in, she knelt and took off her bag, then went through the food chest, restocking the hide.

  A crockery container of pickles had cracked open, probably when he slammed her up against the wall. Shame made his face burn.

  It was a while before he trusted himself to join her, and she didn’t ask him why he wasn’t helping. When he did kneel beside her, they were both careful not to touch and neither spoke.

  So, they weren’t going to talk about it. That suited him.

  He put his share of the preserves in place and removed the old ones. Some would still be good to eat. Some would be fed to the goats.

  Once that was done, he was suddenly very tired.

  She closed the chest and barred it, so that even if dogs or stink-badgers broke into the hide, they wouldn’t get into the food. Then she stood, hands on her hips. ‘There’s still the water barrel.’

  She was right. They had to bring up fresh water from the creek, but he was utterly exhausted. ‘We’ll take turns with the bucket. You go first.’

  ‘Fine. But you’ll have to help me empty the stale water.’

  He struggled to his feet. Together they rolled the water barrel until it was positioned near the crevice at the back of the hide, and then she opened the spigot. He could hear the water trickling away. The sound echoed oddly in his head.

  When he turned around, she was heading out the door with the bucket.

  He went over to the bedding and undid one of the bedrolls. It was almost too much effort to unroll it. A mist of exhaustion settled on his mind. He’d be all right if he could just close his eyes for a moment. As he lay down, the air went out of him in a long sigh and he let his awareness go with it.

  Something nudged his back.

  ‘Wake up. It’s time to go.’

  He sat up. Where...

  It all came back to him. By the angle of the sun, it was late.

  Aravelle slung her pack over her shoulders. She must have filled the water barrel on her own.

  ‘You should have woken me.’

  ‘Oh, believe me, I tried.’

  He came to his knees and rolled up the bedding, tying it closed. ‘You should have tried harder.’

  ‘You think I wanted to bring all those buckets of water up here on my own?’

  ‘I’m sorry–’

  ‘Let’s go. I’m tired and hungry, and Ma will be wondering what took us so long.’

  When he straightened up, he discovered his muscles were strangely achy. After collecting his pack, he turned around, only to find she’d already left.

  He closed the door to the hide and slid the bolt home, then let the bushes settle into place. When he stepped back to check, it was impossible to see the entrance.

  No sign of Aravelle.

  ‘Hey, wait up,’ he called. Going a few steps along the path, he glimpsed her between the pines. She was already halfway down the hillside. ‘Wait for me.’

  She didn’t answer or, if she did, he didn’t hear. He hurried after her.

  ‘Slow down, Vella. Don’t be mad. I’m sorry I fell asleep.’

  She stopped and turned back to him. Her hair was restrained in a no-nonsense plait. ‘I’m not mad at you because you fell asleep.’

  He swallowed.

  She turned and walked off.

  He should apologise, but what if she asked him to promise never to use his gift on her again? What if she threatened to tell their parents?

  He ran after her. ‘You can’t tell Ma and Da.’

  She spun around to face him so suddenly he nearly ran into her. ‘You must tell them, or I will.’

  The thought of tearing their family apart shattered him. ‘I’ll leave.’

  Her chin trembled but, after a moment, she nodded.

  He was devastated. Her quiet agreement was worse than if she’d berated him. ‘I’ll go in the spring, when the winter storms are over and it’s easier to travel. We can have this one last winter together.’

  She nodded quickly again, tears in her eyes.

  TOBAZIM WALKED IONNYN and Haromyr to the barricade. They each carried a copy of the same message, signed by himself and Ardonyx, then sealed with the print of their sixth fingers.

  As he wished them both a fast and safe journey, the rain eased off and the sun came out, reflecting in the puddles. If he was superstitious he would have seen it as a good omen. Above him a seagull cawed.

  The adepts passed a wagon coming towards the wharf as they rode off.

  ‘More of our people?’ Athlyn asked. ‘Wait, isn’t that the uniform of the king’s guard?’

  The wagon stopped outside the barricade and six men climbed down. They wore the uniform and they were armed, but they could hardly walk.

  Their leader, a grizzled veteran, limped up to Tobazim and introduced himself as Captain Vetus of the king’s palace guard.

  Tobazim looked him up and down. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘We failed to prevent the kidnapping of Prince Cedon. We’ve been in the king’s dungeon since spring.’

  ‘And now you’ve been sent to protect us?’

  He nodded. ‘As punishment.’

  Tobazim shook his head. He beckoned a Malaunje. ‘See that these Mieren are given a decent meal.’

  ‘We can’t eat filthy Wyrd food,’ one of them muttered.

  ‘Shut up, Yano,’ Captain Vetus snapped. ‘If we don’t eat, we’ll be too weak to fight. All of you, go wait over there.’

  The others shuffled off, sinking to sit with their backs against the warehouse as if that was all that was keeping them upright. The disgraced
captain of the king’s guard hesitated, then he inclined his head in a shallow bow. It was the closest thing Tobazim had seen to civility from one of the Mieren.

  Eryx called him away, and when Tobazim next checked on the king’s guard they were busy cleaning up plates of beans and lamb with flat bread.

  Vetus seemed to have some sense of honour. Tobazim was hopeful that the king’s guard would do their job. He had thought it would be enough for the port Mieren to see the king’s colours on the barricade.

  But if what Sorne said was true, the king’s colours would not protect them from Charald’s enemies.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘WHAT’S NEXT?’ SAFFAZI asked.

  To keep her choice-daughter out of mischief, Egrayne had suggested she become Imoshen’s assistant as they prepared for exile. Imoshen didn’t mind; Saffazi was quick to learn, if a little impatient.

  ‘Vittoryxe is setting her birds free. And here comes Frayvia with Uma.’ Imoshen waved. ‘It’ll be a pretty sight, seeing the birds fly off.’

  As they met at the door to the scriptorium, Umaleni reached out for Imoshen.

  ‘Come to your mama, dearheart.’ Imoshen swept her daughter into her embrace, delighting in the warmth of her soft skin.

  ‘Do we have to do this?’ Frayvia whispered.

  ‘It would have been rude to refuse. They are Vittoryxe’s prize birds. I spent years helping her breed them, so she wants me there when she releases them.’

  ‘They were reared in captivity,’ Saffazi said. ‘They’ll die out in the wild.’

  Imoshen nodded. ‘But they’ll experience freedom before they die. It’s symbolic.’

  With Umaleni in her arms, Imoshen led the others through the empty chamber. It had been hard to choose only the most useful texts to take. The rest would be hidden in the crypts.

  As Imoshen passed the alcove where Saffazi had nearly gotten herself and Iraayel killed, her step slowed.

  ‘It wasn’t their fault,’ Saffazi said. ‘I talked them into it.’

  ‘I don’t need to be a raedan to know that,’ Imoshen told her.

  Saffazi laughed, not at all abashed, and little Umaleni laughed because she liked it when people were happy. They stepped out into the aviary, carried on a crest of joy.

  The gift-tutor sniffed disapprovingly. Her devotee mirrored her expression.

  ‘Vittoryxe, I see you are ready.’ Imoshen assumed a suitably solemn expression. The balcony overlooked the city, facing west into the setting sun.

  Behind the gift-tutor, the birds called and flew about their perches, each a work of art. They had been bred for their glorious crests, brilliant colours and lilting songs, and they were Vittoryxe’s passion, so it was only right that she make a ceremony of releasing them.

  Two Malaunje musicians consulted with the gift-tutor, then began to play the tune she’d chosen. It was a dirge, hardly appropriate for giving the birds their freedom. Still, Imoshen had to acknowledge the depth of the gift-tutor’s emotion, as tears coursed down her cheeks. Vittoryxe had been breeding birds since she was a child.

  ‘Which ones have you chosen to take with you?’ Imoshen asked to divert her thoughts.

  ‘None.’ She walked around the aviary.

  ‘You can take your favourite pair,’ Imoshen reminded her. ‘I’ve made provision for their feed and housing.’

  As if she didn’t have enough to organise.

  ‘Better for them to die free.’

  It was on the tip of Imoshen’s tongue to say the birds might feel otherwise, but she restrained herself.

  Vittoryxe reached the end of the aviary where Malaunje servants had loosened the west wall of the cage. With a vicious push, the gift-tutor sent it crashing onto the courtyard tiles.

  Umaleni jumped in Imoshen’s arms, her little hands clutching in fright. Imoshen hugged her tight.

  The birds chirruped, flapped and circled but did not leave. Weeping, Vittoryxe ran into the aviary to thrust them off their perches. The birds fluttered and wheeled. Squawking and shrilling, some made their way out into the world, but many did not. Vittoryxe redoubled her efforts to drive them off, weeping and cursing.

  Imoshen knew that later, when the gift-tutor calmed down, she would regret her loss of control.

  Right now, Vittoryxe was beyond thought. Between her cries and the birds’ cries it was a cacophony.

  Imoshen felt her daughter stiffen and tremble. She tried to reassure Umaleni, but it was all too much. The infant’s bottom lip turned down and she wailed in sympathy. The Malaunje musicians struggled valiantly on, but their subtle pipes and strings were drowned out.

  Imoshen could not console her daughter. Tears streamed down the infant’s face.

  What was meant to be a solemn, grand send-off became a shambles. Desperate to distract Umaleni, Imoshen went to the edge of the balcony, pointing west to where the first of the birds headed off, silhouetted against the setting sun.

  ‘Look, there they go. Pretty birds, Uma.’

  Umaleni gulped and her cries eased.

  ‘You!’ Vittoryxe’s angry whisper made Imoshen turn. ‘You should never have been taken into this sisterhood. Look what you have brought us to!’ She gestured to the empty cage. ‘Our heritage has been squandered. Our ancestors must be moaning in their crypts!’

  Frightened by Vittoryxe’s anger, Umaleni wailed anew. Imoshen turned her shoulder to the enraged gift-tutor and caught her devotee’s eye. Frayvia took Umaleni and left the balcony.

  With her distraught infant safe, Imoshen turned back to deal with Vittoryxe, but the gift-tutor had gone.

  Imoshen fought to control the surging of her gift. It wasn’t her fault the Mieren king wanted them gone. They were lucky to have turned genocide into exile.

  One part of her was angry, the other sympathised with the gift-tutor. Since spring cusp, Vittoryxe had lost her choice-son and her prized birds, and soon she would lose her home.

  The musicians came to the end of their piece, bowed and left. Doubtless, they’d talk of the gift-tutor’s outburst in the Malaunje dining hall.

  Silence fell, save for the call of wild birds heading home to roost. How long would Vittoryxe’s birds survive in the wild?

  Were their people a product of the Celestial City’s hot-house? Imoshen frowned. Would they suffer the same fate? She shivered as the last of the sun’s rays left the marble columns and glass doors along the balcony and, except for the highest dome and tower, the Celestial City was swallowed by twilight.

  Imoshen’s heart ached for their ancestors, who had striven to create beauty and harmony, never dreaming their descendants would be forced to leave the city. Her heart ached for her generation, who set off into the unknown, and for their children, who would only ever know of the Celestial City through stories and memory-sharing.

  ‘Well, that was a disaster,’ Saffazi remarked, coming over to join her. The young initiate wrinkled her nose. ‘I almost felt sorry for Gift-tutor Vittoryxe.’

  ‘You should,’ Imoshen told her. ‘Vittoryxe will find it hard to adjust to exile.’

  ‘That’s silly,’ Saffazi said. ‘It’s exciting!’

  Imoshen laughed. ‘You’re right.’ She linked arms with Saffazi. ‘That is how we must see exile, as a great adventure.’

  RONNYN CHECKED THE hen-house was secure, then made sure the goats were safe in their pen. Finally, he walked around to the front of the cottage and stood on the beach for a moment, watching the wisp of smoke drift from the chimney.

  The cries of the birds as they went to their roosts faded. The first of the night hunters took to the evening sky. Meanwhile, their cottage rested safe and secure. The wood heap was stacked high against one wall, and the pantry was stocked with preserved food.

  Satisfaction welled up in him. In the spring before he left, he would do everything he could to set up his family before leaving. Tears stung his eyes.

  He could not imagine life without them, but he had to go, for their sakes. Even as he thought this, his gif
t rose, demanding that he use it. He forced it down.

  Aravelle opened the front door. Silhouetted against the light, she beckoned him. ‘Come in, the water’s hot.’

  Tonight was their bath. Crossing the sand, he entered the cottage and closed the door after him. Itania and Tamaron sat with their father by the hearth, where Asher combed the tangles from their hair.

  Vittor knelt in the knee-deep tub, head down, as Aravelle rinsed his hair. His pale skin gleamed like the moon on a clear night. He came to his feet, innocently naked, while Aravelle wrapped a cloth around his hair, squeezing it dry. Vittor had the curls, like Itania and Tamaron, but his hair fell in long rippling waves to his thighs.

  Privately, Ronnyn thought hair this length was a nuisance, but it was a matter of pride for their mother. The T’Enatuath wore their long hair in elaborate styles, so she made special scented soap, and ensured her family’s hair was properly dressed, even if only in plaits.

  ‘There’s fresh hot water,’ Aravelle told Ronnyn.

  ‘You go first.’ He knew she liked to freshen the bath water before using it.

  ‘I’ll be quick.’ She smiled and pegged the blanket across the corner of the cottage, stepping behind it while he sat on the far side near the fire.

  Ronnyn tried to build a cottage in his head, planning the frame, the timber he would need, how he would make the joints, brace the walls...

  The scent of verbena-scented soap was so sharp it almost stung his nostrils. Around him, the little ones laughed and sang, but he felt isolated by the impatience that rode his body. At the same time, he felt focused by the concentration it took to rein his gift in. He could have been sitting there forever, waiting for her.

  He couldn’t stand it a moment longer. His heart beat like a great drum, pounding through his body. He felt his gift rise. This time he could not keep it shut away. He had to get out.

  He sprang from his seat. ‘I’m going to check on the animals.’

  Without waiting for an answer, he went out into the cold moonlit night.

  As he paced the familiar paths, his mind raced. He couldn’t go on like this. He didn’t want to restrain his gift. He felt she owed him the chance to test his limits. He knew she wanted it as much as he did, and didn’t see why she refused.