‘I’m not fit and won’t be for a while yet,’ Ardonyx said. ‘By then it may be too late.’
‘True,’ Lysarna agreed. Tobazim realised she had known this all along, but she had to approach Ardonyx first, as the higher-ranked. ‘The sooner Imokara lies with an adept and he performs the gift-benediction, the better chance the babe will be one of us and untainted.’
They both looked to Tobazim.
He backed up a step, aware of Ionnyn and Haromyr watching all this, clearly fascinated. ‘I’ve never–’
‘Would you condemn the child she carries?’ Lysarna asked.
He swallowed. ‘I... I’d have to walk a very fine line to imbue the babe with gift-essence while leaving Imokara untouched. If I failed...’ She would be his devotee, and All-father Tamaron would be within his rights to demand Tobazim’s execution for claiming one of his brotherhood’s Malaunje. If this happened, Tobazim was certain Kyredeon would not protect him.
At the same time, he felt his gift clamouring to express itself. He’d been keeping it reined in since they left the city. The small amount of repair work he’d done on the warehouse had roused his gift, rather than satisfied it.
He shook his head. Although his gift needed an outlet and this would be an exquisite use for it, the very urgency of its build up made him wary. ‘To be honest, I don’t know if I have the skill–’
‘I’ll advise you,’ Ardonyx offered.
‘Gift-benediction doesn’t always work.’
‘I didn’t ask for this, but now that the baby’s quickened, I won’t give it up,’ Imokara whispered fiercely. ‘It must work!’
Tobazim knew determination when he saw it. He cast a look of appeal to Ardonyx, and caught a lurking amusement in the captain’s eyes.
‘If you don’t like women, just say so,’ Ardonyx said. ‘There are other T’En who–’
‘I don’t want another,’ Imokara protested. ‘Adept Tobazim has the greatest power and stature.’ She lifted her face to him. ‘Even if you don’t like women, it is your duty–’
‘I like women. It’s just...’
Ardonyx beckoned him and he stepped closer, close enough to feel Ardonyx’s breath on his cheek, close enough for Ardonyx to sense the trouble he had controlling his gift.
The ship’s captain closed one hand over Tobazim’s forearm and siphoned off a little of his power, easing the pressure. Tobazim did not resent this familiarity. Ardonyx’s own reserves were still low.
‘You can do this,’ Ardonyx whispered. ‘When the time comes, open your gift so we can establish a temporary link. Then I’ll share your body and guide your gift, ready to rein it in if it slips your control.’
A rush of desire made Tobazim’s heart race. This was gift-working at a shield-brother level. The intimacy required great trust, and he was honoured by the offer.
Tobazim glanced to the two Malaunje women, one old, one young, both intimidating in their determination. In good conscience he could not refuse.
In truth he did not want to. Not at all.
Tobazim bowed his head to hide the urgency of desire, fed by his gift and his hunger for this intimacy with Ardonyx.
‘Are you up to this?’ Tobazim whispered.
‘I have to be, just as you have to be,’ Ardonyx said, then raised his voice to address the Malaunje. ‘Tobazim agrees. Is tonight too soon?’
‘No,’ Imokara said. ‘Tonight is good.’
‘Then go prepare yourself, while we purify ourselves.’
Tobazim waited until they left, then prowled across the cabin.
‘It will not be so bad,’ Ardonyx told him, his voice rich with dry humour.
‘Is there anything we can do to help?’ Haromyr asked.
Ardonyx shook his head, then gestured to his meal, barely begun. ‘You can finish that off. I’m too nervous to eat.’
‘You’re nervous?’ Tobazim gave a bark of laughter.
Ardonyx grinned, then sobered. ‘We must cleanse our bodies and purify our minds. Run a bath, Toresel.’
The cabin boy ran off.
As Tobazim helped Ardonyx into the bathing chamber, Ardonyx said, ‘This will impress our brothers.’
‘I thought you weren’t eager for stature for its own sake.’
‘No, but I am eager for anything that will protect us from Kyredeon, and that means the respect of our fellow brothers.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
IMOSHEN HAD HARDLY slept. She’d hoped to be ready to leave yesterday morning, but it had taken four full days to pack and load the wagons. Originally, they’d intended to make the journey to port in stages, returning with the empty wagons and carts to reload each time. Now that they were leaving all together, there weren’t enough wagons and carts. People had to leave behind things they’d intended to bring, among them priceless paintings and sculptures.
There’d been tears and drama. Unable to see the irony, Vittoryxe had berated her for placing people ahead of T’Enatuath heritage.
To appease her and others like her, Imoshen had wasted precious time and resources, allocating Malaunje to move objects into the crypts. Some of these entrances had since been sealed over. Others had always been secreted behind hidden catches. Down in those dry, dusty crypts, the heavy books and great artworks should be well-preserved.
For what?
It didn’t seem to matter to people like Vittoryxe, as long as the Mieren didn’t despoil their heritage.
Since before dawn, the T’Enatuath had been trudging out the gate, along the causeway and up the road that eventually led to port. Several of the brotherhoods had gone first, with the intention of forming a barrier around the sisterhoods.
Reoden’s sisterhood, with Prince Cedon hidden amongst the T’En children, was directly ahead of Imoshen’s and now it was their sisterhood’s turn to leave. Egrayne had taken the lead. Frayvia rode in the wagon with the T’En children, to watch over Umaleni.
Meanwhile, Iraayel and Saffazi kept Imoshen company as, one by one, the last few sisterhood carts prepared to leave.
A Malaunje servant waited with their horses.
‘Time to go?’ Saffazi said. She had been up since before dawn, but her eyes sparkled.
Imoshen smiled. ‘Time to go.’
But a Malaunje cart driver jumped down and ran over to her.
‘Gift-tutor Vittoryxe hasn’t come down yet,’ he reported. ‘I have all her treatises and scrolls packed.’
‘I’ll get her,’ Imoshen told him.
With a surge of annoyance, she strode into the palace, through the open doors – no point locking up – and across the grand foyer. Her boots echoed hollowly on the marble. Furniture and fittings stood waiting to be used, but the sisterhood’s palace was empty of people, and the mix of emotions of those departing left a dissonance on the air that her gift picked up.
At a run, Imoshen powered up the central stair, and along corridors that held almost thirteen years of memories for her. When she reached the sisterhood wing, she tapped on Vittoryxe’s door. No answer.
‘Gift-tutor?’
She opened the door. There was no sign of the two women or their travelling kits. Imoshen felt her gift surge as every chance encounter and confrontation with the gift-tutor played through her mind.
Vittoryxe wasn’t leaving. But Imoshen had to be sure, so she headed for the crypts.
As she went down the corridor towards the palace entrance, she heard singing, a male and female voice raised in solemn lament. The song broke off, ending in laughter, then silence. Curious, she crept to the top of the stairs to see Iraayel and Saffazi locked in a kiss of such intensity, the inner circle would have banished him from the sisterhood quarter.
But Imoshen took hope. Exile would force change upon her people. Some, like Vittoryxe, would not be able to face it. Others...
‘Iraayel,’ she called down, her voice echoing.
They broke apart, adjusting their clothing, tamping their gifts.
‘What if the gift-tutor had been with me?�
�� Imoshen admonished.
Iraayel and Saffazi exchanged a look. Somehow, they’d guessed.
Imoshen glided down the grand stair. ‘Light a lamp and come with me.’
Imoshen led them down into the passages below the palace. She passed arch after arch, searching for one in particular.
By light of the lamp, she tripped a hidden catch and the wall slid back to reveal a dark opening. Immediately, Imoshen smelt the faint, but distinctive scent of bitter almond candles, associated with death rituals. She knew what she would find. And, even though Vittoryxe had been a thorn in her side since she came to the sisterhood, Imoshen felt her loss as she descended the stairs.
Iraayel and Saffazi hesitated on the top step.
‘You should see this,’ she told them.
The crypts on the first level were broad and deep, with small ante-chambers, decorative carvings and elaborate stone sarcophagi. Stacked neatly along the walls were the art treasures of her people.
There were several levels of crypts with many connecting tunnels, but Imoshen knew Vittoryxe; she went to the mosaic chamber that depicted the history of their sisterhood. Sure enough, that was where she found the gift-tutor, and her devotee, under a glorified representation of the past.
They lay amidst almond-scented candles that had burned down to puddles of wax. They lay in each other’s arms, the devotees’ head on Vittoryxe’s shoulder, united in death as they had been in life.
Imoshen heard a ragged intake of breath from behind her. ‘Yes, Vittoryxe chose death over exile.’
‘There’s not a mark on their bodies,’ Saffazi whispered.
‘She was a gift-tutor,’ Imoshen said. ‘She chose to die by the gift, taking herself and her devotee to the higher plane. Making the passage like that means they stood a better chance of reaching death’s realm.’
‘Poor thing,’ Iraayel whispered.
‘It was their choice,’ Saffazi said, an edge of contempt to her voice.
Iraayel gestured to the devotee. ‘What choice did she have?’
‘There’s always choice,’ Imoshen insisted. ‘As long as there’s life, there’s hope.’
‘Exactly,’ Saffazi supported her. ‘They were weak.’
Imoshen was inclined to agree, but... ‘They could not bear the thought of exile. I wonder how many times this has been enacted in other crypts, and been quietly sealed over.’
‘We’ll know by the missing faces,’ Iraayel said.
‘And now we’ll have a new gift-tutor.’ Saffazi was pleased. ‘One who doesn’t make learning a chore.’
Imoshen swore, startling them. They looked to her in surprise.
‘Our sisterhood has no other gift-tutor.’ Imoshen gestured to Vittoryxe. ‘At sixty-seven, she was in the prime of life; she hadn’t begun training someone to replace her.’
‘Then it was selfish of her to kill herself,’ Iraayel said in his calm, measured voice.
Imoshen sighed. ‘Come on. The others will be wondering where we are.’
Leaving almond-scented death and defeat behind, Imoshen stepped out into crisp, autumn sunshine.
She told the Malaunje with the cartload of gift treatises to head off. Then she mounted up, turning away from the sisterhood’s palace, and away from minds too rigidly bound by custom to accept a new life. ‘Come on.’
All-mother Ceriane’s sisterhood was headed down the causeway road. Imoshen guided her horse beside the slowly moving carts and wagons, aiming to catch up with the tail end of her sisterhood.
It was hard to tell, but she thought the last of her people would be out of the city by the early afternoon. When they left, the gates would remain standing open. It felt wrong to leave the city vulnerable to the Mieren.
They passed under the causeway gate, moving from the shadow of the tunnel into sunshine. The horses’ hooves clopped on the stone causeway and the wagon wheels rattled.
The first seventeen years of her life had been spent on Lighthouse Isle, a prisoner of All-father Rohaayel’s brotherhood. For nearly thirteen years now, she’d lived in the Celestial City, a prisoner of the sisterhoods’ expectations and the brotherhoods’ resentment.
Imoshen sat a little straighter in the saddle. Ahead of her, at the end of the causeway, the barons and their men watched them pass. The townsfolk watched from windows and balconies.
In a way, Vittoryxe was right. Exile would force change on her people, and Imoshen would be the architect of that change. She was going to oversee the end of the T’Enatuath, at least the T’Enatuath as the old ones knew it.
Imoshen felt as if she’d been set free.
SORNE FELT AS if he’d come home. He’d had no trouble finding his way back to Restoration Retreat, and when he saw the wisp of smoke drifting from the chimney of the main building, he knew he’d guessed correctly. Zabier had re-opened the retreat without telling anyone. Valendia had to be here.
As he rode up the steep switch-back road, leading the second horse, he was prepared to bluff his way past Zabier’s assistant, past the penitents to Valendia herself. After all, he wore Oskane’s ring.
He half expected someone to call out to him when he approached the gate, but no one did. Above the wall, he could see the autumn leaves of the maple tree, and he could imagine the courtyard, filled with dappled sunlight and fallen leaves.
The problem was Utzen. Zabier’s assistant had never liked him, and might not believe anything Sorne said. In that case, Sorne was prepared to incapacitate the old man and spirit Valendia away before the penitents realised what was happening.
He swung down from the saddle and knocked on the gate. The last time he had been here, the gate had stood open, the retreat had been deserted and he had laid the she-Wyrd’s bones to rest. He had not been able to save her, but he would save his sister.
A bird cried overhead.
He waited.
When nothing happened, he rapped on the wood again. ‘Open in the name of the king and the high priest of Chalcedonia.’
The eye-slot slid back. He couldn’t see the person who studied him from the shadows, but after a moment, he heard the bolts being drawn and the gate swung open.
Before he could enter, Valendia threw her arms around him. ‘Sorne, it is you!’
He was a little startled, as he’d expected a penitent to open the gate, but this was even better. He hugged her, pressing his lips to her forehead, whispering, ‘I’m here to set you free. Play along with me.’
She pulled back with a laugh. ‘I am free, silly. There’s just us here. Come in.’
After bolting the gate, she led him out of the shadow into the light of the courtyard, where he tried to assimilate the long-legged, gangly twelve-year-old he remembered with this statuesque young woman, who was only half a head shorter than him.
He dropped the horse’s reins and turned to her. ‘Let me look at you. I’ve been searching for you since autumn. When no one knew where you were, I thought you’d died the night of the riots.’ He finally registered what she’d said. ‘What do you mean, you’re free?’
She looked behind him to the three-storey building that had belonged to the True-men when he lived here.
Sorne turned to see a dead man standing in the doorway.
‘Grae?’ The world spun, and he found himself on his knees in the courtyard.
Next thing he knew, they’d were both helping him to his feet, laughing and chiding each other. Valendia drew him over to the table under the maple tree, while Graelen sat opposite. He’d never seen the T’En adept light-hearted, and he had trouble reconciling this Graelen with the hard-eyed assassin from Kyredeon’s brotherhood.
Valendia sat next to Sorne. She was so happy she seemed to glow. ‘When you told us to open in the name of the king and the high priest, we thought they’d found us. Grae was ready to deal with any threat, but then I saw it was you and... It’s so good to see you!’ She hugged him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ll explain in a moment. First...’ He met Graelen’s eyes acros
s the table. A leaf fluttered down, landing in a patch of sunlight between them. ‘Last time I saw you...’ He didn’t want Valendia learning that Zabier had sacrificed their kind. ‘You segued to the higher plane, taking your physical body. I thought you were dead for certain.’
Valendia laughed. ‘He came and freed me.’
Sorne met Graelen’s eyes. ‘How is that possible?’
The adept reached across the table, but he wasn’t reaching for Sorne. He clasped Valendia’s hand as he spoke to Sorne. ‘When I left you, I believed I was going to die and I thought of Dia, of what a waste it was to have found her only to lose her. My gift took over and our bond took me to her side. She’s my devotee, Sorne.’
‘Devotee?’ Sorne repeated. First Frayvia, now Valendia. Was every person he loved destined to be stolen from him? ‘But... when did this happen?’
‘In the crypts, when I was being held prisoner before the sacrifice,’ Graelen said, and Sorne remembered the powerful gift-working he’d sensed.
‘I found Grae,’ Valendia explained. ‘When Zabier caught us together, he was very angry. He hit me.’ She touched her cheek, saddened by the memory.
Graelen took up the story. ‘Before they dragged us apart, I imprinted my gift on Valendia. She–’
‘She had no defences.’
‘Don’t be angry, Sorne,’ Valendia pleaded.
‘It was pure instinct.’ Graelen lifted his hands. ‘The devotee link is the ultimate expression of the bond between T’En and Malaunje. It makes us both stronger, and it saved my life.’
‘He saved me from Utzen and the penitents,’ Valendia said.
Sorne frowned. ‘You’re bound to him for life. Did he tell you that?’
She laughed. ‘I love him. I’m bound to him for life anyway. I don’t need saving from Grae, Sorne.’ She hugged him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. ‘Be happy for me, brother.’
Graelen’s features hardened. ‘If you can’t be happy for us, then ride away and leave us alone.’
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