Exile

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘I can’t.’ Sorne wondered where to start. ‘Have you heard anything of the war on the Wyrds?’

  ‘We’ve seen no one since winter cusp last year.’ Graelen tensed and sat forward. ‘Are you saying you didn’t–’

  ‘...warn the city in time. No, Zabier drugged me. But it wouldn’t have made a difference in the long run. The T’Enatuath have been exiled. The king gave them until winter cusp. After that, anyone who remains behind will be hunted down and executed. I’m here to take you back to your people.’

  But Graelen was already shaking his head. ‘I can’t go back. I broke my vow. I swore to serve my brotherhood until the day I die, but I was weak. I chose to stay here with Dia, even though I knew the Mieren king had declared war on my people. I am without honour.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Valendia told him. ‘What difference could one T’En warrior make?’

  Graelen caught Sorne’s eye. ‘I bet Sorne is hungry. Do you have any of that pie left over?’

  ‘Not the pie our mother used to make?’ Sorne asked.

  Valendia beamed. ‘You wait here. I’ll bring lunch.’

  As she left them, crossing to the main building, Sorne noticed his horses were feeding on some weeds.

  Graelen leant close, dropping his voice. Now he looked like his old self: intense, worried and determined. ‘If I go back, All-father Kyredeon will execute me.’

  ‘The city was under siege from winter cusp to spring cusp. After that, there was limited access, but you weren’t to know that. Any reasonable–’

  ‘Kyredeon is not reasonable.’

  ‘You can’t stay here. You’ll run out of supplies, and when you go looking to trade, the Mieren will string you up.’

  ‘If I go back, Kyredeon will do the same.’

  ‘Then change brotherhoods.’

  ‘Your brotherhood is for life, Sorne. Occasionally one brotherhood is taken over by another, but...’ He shrugged. ‘No other all-father would want me. I have a reputation.’

  ‘I’ll speak to the causare.’

  ‘We have a causare? Let me guess, to negotiate with King Charald?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Who is the causare?’

  ‘Imoshen.’

  ‘Ah...’ He nodded. ‘She’s a woman, Sorne. She has no say in brotherhood business.’

  ‘Swear loyalty to her.’

  ‘A man can’t serve an all-mother.’

  ‘A man can serve the causare. I do.’

  ‘You’re Malaunje.’

  ‘So I don’t matter?’ Anger sharpened Sorne’s voice.

  Graelen lifted a hand in apology. ‘To someone like Kyredeon, no.’

  ‘Here it is.’ Valendia came out of the building with a laden tray and a jug. They took the tray and jug from her, and she went back inside for more.

  ‘You can’t stay here, Grae,’ Sorne said softly.

  ‘I know, but... these have been the best days of my life.’

  Valendia returned with a zither. ‘You eat. I’ll play.’

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’

  She laughed, not bothering to answer. While they ate, she plucked a tune that started out sad and grew happier.

  ‘Another of your songs that tell stories?’ Sorne asked, when she came to the end.

  ‘Yes. It tells our story.’ Instead of putting the zither down, she ran her fingers over the strings, absently plucking lilting phrases from them.

  Sorne caught the look she sent Grae, and the way she made him smile. He was happy for them, but they were safest with the brotherhood. ‘As far as Kyredeon knows, you could have been kept prisoner in the crypts, Grae. By the time we get back to port, he’ll be there. Tell him you’ve just escaped with Valendia. How is he to know otherwise?’

  Graelen put his wine down. ‘That could work.’

  Valendia covered the strings with her palm and the sound died. ‘We have to go back, don’t we?’

  Graelen met Sorne’s eyes.

  ‘Yes, back to the T’Enatuath,’ Sorne said. ‘But not back to life as it was, Grae. Exile will change things.’

  ‘At least we have until winter cusp,’ Valendia said.

  ‘No. We have to leave tomorrow. The truce is with King Charald, and he’s failing. We have to reach port before the rest of your people sail.’

  At that moment, the sun went behind clouds and rain drops fell. Valendia and Graelen grabbed the food and ran inside. Sorne led the horses into the stable, where he found a covered cart and two ponies. He was happy for Valendia. And to think he used to be worried about her future. Zabier had kept her locked up from the age of four until...

  He turned to find Graelen behind him, grabbed him and shoved him up against the wall. ‘She was only fifteen.’

  ‘I didn’t know. It was life and death. I didn’t think to ask her age and she looks like a woman. By the time I knew...’ He lifted his hands, palm up. ‘I’d die for her, Sorne.’

  There was no doubting his sincerity. Sorne let him go.

  That night, they repaired the covered cart and packed up. There wasn’t much to pack: Valendia’s musical instruments, some supplies and the chickens. They left the next morning. Sorne and Graelen rode, while Valendia drove the cart. It rained all day.

  THREE DAYS LATER, it was still raining and Sorne found the ford he had crossed on the way to the retreat was impassable. The stream had turned into a river, running deep and fast. Impatience ate at him. He had no idea how long it would take Imoshen to pack up her people and reach port, but he knew time was running out.

  ‘There’s a bridge, one day’s travel to the east,’ he told Valendia and Graelen. They wore cloaks and hoods, but the rain had worked its way through after the first day. He was cold and wet, but at least he wasn’t hungry.

  As they went east along the river bank, they came across other travellers going west. There were three of them on horseback. Sorne couldn’t tell what business they had travelling the foothills, and they carried themselves like men-at-arms, which made him wary.

  ‘If you’re heading for the bridge, it’s been washed away,’ the first Mieren called through the driving rain. ‘We’re making for the ford.’

  ‘The ford’s impassable, at least for our cart,’ Sorne said. The hood covered most of his face, but he noted them looking over his whole party with calculating eyes.

  ‘We’ll try the ford,’ the first one said, and the two groups parted.

  Sorne edged his horse closer to Graelen. ‘I don’t like the look of them.’

  ‘I don’t like the way they were looking at Dia,’ Graelen said.

  Sorne agreed. ‘We need to put some distance between us.’

  ‘How will we cross the river? They said the bridge is out.’

  ‘There’s the new Wyrd bridge, two days ride to the east. It’s sturdy, built of stone.’ Sorne remembered Nitzane mentioning it.

  The road that followed the river was thick with mud, slowing the cart. They pushed on. By evening, two days later they, still hadn’t reached the Wyrd bridge, but it looked like Sorne’s concerns had been unjustified; there’d been no sign of the other travellers.

  They pulled off the road and made camp, a miserable affair of cold food and wet blankets. By now rain had worked its way under the cart’s cover and everything was damp, if not sopping wet. They hadn’t posted a watch while in the mountains, but since they met the other travellers near the washed-out bridge they had. Sorne took first watch.

  The evening was swiftly turning dark. With the cloud cover there was no moonlight and the constant rain meant Sorne could hear nothing but its drumming. He felt like he was both blind and deaf.

  He didn’t like it.

  He kept making larger and larger circles around their camp. When he reached the road, he discovered that even though they had pulled off the road and the lantern was turned down low, the covered cart glowed through the trees.

  On instinct, he went back the way they’d come, keeping to the road verge.

  He’d only gone around two corners when he spotted a dull g
low. Edging closer, he found a camp fire, under an overhang. At first he thought it was another group of Mieren altogether because there were five of them. Then he recognised the one who’d spoken to him.

  Sorne turned and ran. It was almost completely dark. He spotted the cart from the road, darted through the trunks and pulled back the flap. ‘We need to get out of here.’

  ‘The travellers?’ Graelen came to a crouch, reaching for his knives.

  Sorne nodded. ‘There’s five of them, and they’ve camped within an easy walk.’

  ‘I’ll hitch up the pony,’ Valendia said.

  ‘No.’ Graelen and Sorne both spoke at the same time.

  Their eyes met. They’d have to leave the cart.

  ‘I’ll get the horses,’ Sorne said, leaving Graelen to convince Valendia to part with her instruments. The horses were not happy. They were cold and tired and were developing saddle sores under the wet blankets.

  Working in the dark, Sorne found the bridles and fastened them. The feisty gelding showed its displeasure by trying to nip him. He sympathised with the beast. The last thing Sorne wanted to do was head off into the cold rain. But he persisted and prepared the two horses, then put a halter on one of the cart ponies.

  He was debating whether he had time to saddle the horses, when he heard a shout and saw figures silhouetted against the glow of the covered cart. Graelen struggled with someone who was trying to drag Valendia away. She jerked and twisted, her cloak tearing from her shoulders. She fell. An attacker jumped on Graelen’s back. The big adept threw the man to the ground.

  Sorne ran towards the cart, dragging the horses with him. By the time he reached the cart, Graelen was helping Valendia to her feet. More Mieren arrived.

  Graelen caught Valendia around the waist and threw her onto one of the horses, and they took off through the dark, brushing up against tree trunks and barrelling through bushes. Sorne glanced back and saw Mieren swarming over their covered cart, then his shoulder collided with a trunk and he kept his eyes forward.

  When they reached the road, which appeared only as a slightly paler strip in the consuming dark, Graelen switched Valendia over to the pony and leapt astride his horse. Sorne had never ridden bare-back. He pressed his knees into the horse’s flanks. Frightened by the altercation, the horses took off at a gallop, but they were sensible animals and soon slowed to a trot, then a walk. The night was just too dark and the rain too heavy to risk anything more.

  Sorne had to hope their abandoned cart kept the Mieren occupied. He knew the bridge was coming up soon, and was worried they might miss it.

  He only realised they were on the bridge when the horses’ hooves echoed on the stone and he heard the rush of the river under the arches.

  On the far side of the bridge, Graelen asked Valendia if she was all right.

  ‘Of course I am,’ she told him. Her voice sounded firm, and it was impossible to see her face.

  ‘We need to get off the road,’ Sorne said. He looked for the white stone marker that indicated the turn off to Nitzane’s estate and Riverbend Stronghold.

  A little later he found it and led them off the main road. At least now the Mieren wouldn’t find them.

  His next goal was to find the stronghold. They needed dry clothes and warm food. Going on a memory almost five years old, and his horse’s instincts to find a warm dry barn, Sorne led them through the night.

  Luckily, the rain eased off and the moons broke through the clouds. It seemed they’d been riding the better part of the night when he spotted the towers and battlements of Nitzane’s stronghold, silhouetted against a cloudy sky.

  ‘Not far now, Dia,’ he said.

  She didn’t answer. He glanced back to see that Graelen rode at her side, his horse towering over the pony.

  The last time Sorne had been here, the village had been dilapidated; now a sturdy gate sealed the village wall. Sorne hammered on the gate. ‘Open in the name of the king.’

  It took a while, but the gate-keeper arrived with a lantern. He opened up, then looked Sorne over and appeared to be having second thoughts.

  ‘I’m on a mission for the king, with a message from Baron Nitzane for Captain Ballendin.’

  The familiar names convinced the man, who stepped aside and let them through. He bolted the gate and led them up the rise. A light rain began to fall, forming a halo of drops in the circle of the lamplight.

  Captain Ballendin was already at the stronghold gate, alerted by his night-watch. Sorne slid off his horse, staggering on legs numb with cold.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Ballendin asked. He was one of the few Mieren Sorne counted as a friend. ‘Is Nitzane all right?’

  ‘He was when I left the port,’ Sorne said. ‘We need shelter.’

  ‘Come in.’ Ballendin said

  As Sorne turned to the others, Valendia pitched sideways off the horse. Graelen caught her and his wet hood fell back, revealing he was T’En.

  Ballendin’s eyes widened. ‘What have you brought us, Sorne?’

  ‘Friends in trouble,’ he said. ‘My sister’s been riding all day and night.’

  ‘And she’s with child,’ Graelen said.

  Sorne watched, stunned, as Graelen carried her inside.

  Ballendin sent the night-watch out of the guard house, providing blankets and a warm bed, then left Graelen to see to Valendia and drew Sorne over to the doorway. ‘Why have you brought a silverhead into the stronghold?’

  Sorne filled him in on the situation in the palace and the port. ‘...and Nitzane’s fallen in love with the queen,’ he finished.

  Ballendin cursed. ‘He can’t resist a woman in trouble.’

  Sorne nodded. ‘He needs the advice of a cool head. I’ve been trying to think of a reason to send for you, to bring fifty good men. Now I have it.’ He gestured to Graelen and his sister. ‘We need an escort to port.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  AT FIRST, ARAVELLE had watched their Mieren captors for a chance to escape. But they never let all of her family out of the cage at the same time. If she even so much as looked sideways at ferret-face, he cuffed her. For seven days now they’d followed the coast road north, delayed by rising flood waters and roads that were axle-deep in mud. Despite the sail covering the cart, the wind blew the rain in. They were wet, cold and miserable.

  Each morning, they were given the near-empty porridge pot and each morning, in their hunger, they burned their fingers as they scooped up the remains.

  Itania whimpered, waving reddened finger tips. Their mother blew on the little pink tips to cool them.

  ‘Come here, girlie.’ Ferret-face opened the cage door and beckoned Aravelle. ‘Time to earn your keep.’

  His nephew, crooked-tooth, guided her down to the icy cold creek. There were only two bowls and the pot, but having to clean for the Mieren at all infuriated her.

  Crooked-tooth smirked as she worked. ‘Does my heart good to see you scrubbin’. You need takin’ down a peg or two, you do.’

  She bit her tongue and gave him a wide berth as she gathered the clean pot and bowls and hurried back to the camp. The pot was heavy and she was sure if she brought it down hard enough on the back of his head, she could knock him out, but she had to choose the right moment.

  Crooked-tooth stalked along behind her. By the time she reached the clearing, her teeth were chattering. She dumped the pots on top of the Mieren’s travelling kit and tucked her hands under her arm pits, running over to the cage. Her mother looked relieved.

  The youth unlocked the gate and Aravelle climbed in. ‘That stream was freezing.’

  ‘Here.’ Their mother took her hands, enclosing them in hers and breathing on them to warm her chilled fingers.

  Ronnyn rubbed her back, putting his body between her and the wind. There was a flat patch in the middle of his nose, where the bone had been crushed. It changed his appearance, so that he did not look like the brother she had grown up with.

  The cart gave a lurch as crooked-tooth climbed up n
ext to his uncle. Ferret-face flicked the reins and they started off again, rattling over the ruts. As they came out of the trees, the wind picked up, driving the rain in on them. The little ones whimpered.

  Their mother tried to spread the thin blanket to cover them all, but by the time the little ones were snuggled in, there was no room for her and Ronnyn.

  Aravelle didn’t understand how their mother could be so calm. Whenever she thought of what the Mieren had done to Father, tears of rage threatened to blind her. She forced them down, afraid if she gave in now she would not be able to stop crying, and she refused to reveal weakness in front of their captors. She shut the rage and grief deep inside of her.

  Crooked-tooth said something Aravelle didn’t catch. Ferret-face laughed, his gaze flicking to her. Aravelle didn’t like the tone of their laughter. Her mother sent her a worried look.

  JARAILE MADE SURE she was never alone. Eskarnor let her know he was awaiting his next opportunity. When no one was looking, he would cup himself suggestively. She took to carrying a sharp paring knife, tucked in her waist band. Although she suspected she would not get a chance to use it, it gave her some comfort.

  Every afternoon, Charald, Nitzane and Eskarnor rode around the plaza. Since the king’s first ride, Eskarnor had been at pains to charm, playing the bluff war baron and complimenting the king on his improvement.

  Because Charald, curse him, was getting better, and Jaraile had the bruises to prove it. She put it down to Sorne’s insistence the manservant stop treating him with arsenic. The king still had the tremor, but only when he was over tired. At first she thought he’d recovered completely – he appeared quite rational – then she realised he remained forgetful. He remembered every battle he’d ever fought, but not what he’d had for lunch.

  Since he wasn’t aware of what he’d forgotten, he thought he was back to normal. He refused to discuss appointing advisors to watch over Prince Cedon in the event of his death or illness, and he’d taken to treating her with casual contempt while seeking out the company of the two barons.

  They walked Charald up to his bedchamber. Today the king had ridden further than ever and, for all his talk, Jaraile thought he looked tired. She suspected he would sleep now until the evening meal.