Exile

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  She sat tall in her saddle, trying to contain her impatience. Meanwhile, her gift buzzed under the surface of her skin like a hive of bees, waiting to be released. She’d done the exercises to take the edge off her gift readiness, but nothing could prevent her instinctive reaction to being surrounded by ten thousand Mieren.

  It wasn’t just the innate threat their kind presented to hers. It was also the weight of their presence. For every Mieren who had natural defences, there were two who didn’t. The port contained a miasma of emotion, layered deep by time. She couldn’t prevent her gift from reading that one there, hanging over the flour merchant’s balcony. The woman positively glowed with satisfaction as she fed on the T’Enatuath’s shameful exile. Below her, a merchant burned with greed as he counted heads and calculated how much gold he could make out of supplying her people. Meanwhile, that boy with the eyes full of wonder felt a sense of loss and confusion keen as a knife, and would remember this day for the rest of his life.

  Imoshen reined in her gift and focused on organising their departure. With a ship for each brotherhood and sisterhood, but only two berths it would be a challenge to load all the stores and people. She didn’t know how long it would take to load each individual ship, but suspected they didn’t have that much time.

  If Sorne was correct and Eskarnor sought to disrupt the handover of the prince, he would do it here, in port in the next few days. Where was Sorne?

  As she rode through the barricade gate, her heart sank. The Wyrd wharf was no larger than a city block. Already it was packed with people, carts, horses and belongings. She could see two ships at the berths. People clambered all over them, carrying supplies aboard, but it wasn’t happening fast enough.

  ‘Causare?’ Ardonyx’s voice reached her through the din. He was walking with the aid of a cane. Her heart rose to see him.

  She swung her leg over the horse and dropped to the ground. Someone took the horse’s reins. What were they going to do with all these horses and wagons?

  The crush of people entering the wharf drove her forward, into Ardonyx, who steadied her. She wanted to throw her arms around him, and her gift tried to rise. For his sake, she forced it down and kept her distance.

  ‘Up here,’ a voice called from behind them and she turned to see Tobazim on the barricade by the gate.

  Ardonyx forged through the crowd, drawing her with him. She climbed up next to Tobazim, who offered Ardonyx his hand, hauling him up. Up here, people’s heads were about level with her knees, and she could see the extent of the crowding on the wharf.

  Imoshen shaded her eyes. At least it wasn’t raining. ‘We’ll never fit everyone in.’

  ‘I’ve tried to divide the wharf into sisterhood and brotherhood,’ Tobazim reported. ‘But you’re right, we’re not going to fit. I’ve already started ferrying people and stores out to the ships.’

  ‘Can we use the land beyond the barricade?’ Imoshen indicated the open space between them and the slums. Ardonyx and Tobazim looked doubtful. ‘Just for tonight? Make a barricade of the wagons?’

  ‘We could. But I don’t trust the Mieren,’ Ardonyx said. ‘I’d rather get everyone onto the ships, stack all our belongings and supplies inside the barricade and keep loading through the night.’

  ‘How long will it take to load all the ships?’

  Ardonyx and Tobazim exchanged looks.

  Imoshen’s heart sank. ‘You haven’t been able to get more ships?’

  ‘We’ve signed the bill of sale and paid a deposit on five ships, but only two have been delivered,’ Ardonyx said.

  ‘Gold–’

  ‘Won’t help us this time. Sorne suspects the harbour-master is working with Baron Eskarnor, and he has all the ship owners in his pocket.’

  ‘How many ships do we have?’ Imoshen asked.

  ‘Seven.’

  ‘Is that enough?’

  ‘It will have to be. We can’t wait for the other three ships. While we’re sitting here on the wharf, we’re vulnerable. Brotherhoods and sisterhoods will have to share vessels.’

  ‘Any sign of Parazime and Tamaron?’ The all-mother and all-father were missing.

  ‘Not yet.’

  They were running out of time and she hadn’t heard back from the Sagoras. Where would her people go?

  First, they had to escape the port. The seemingly endless parade of wagons, carts and people dismayed Imoshen.

  ‘A little less than a year ago, the port Mieren turned on us, burned our warehouses and strung up anyone who tried to escape,’ Imoshen said. ‘There are king’s guards directing our people, but there are ten thousand Mieren and fewer than two thousand of us. While we’re spread out through the port from here to the gate, we’re vulnerable. There’s no time to call an all-council and decide which brotherhoods will share ships. The all-fathers won’t like it, but you’ll have to allocate ships and start loading up, Ardonyx.’

  ‘And blame the causare, if anyone complains?’

  She laughed. ‘Exactly.’ How she loved his wry smile. ‘Which is my ship? I’ll share with Reoden.’

  JARAILE COULDN’T SEE the Wyrd wharf from the palace balcony, but she could see one of the main thoroughfares down to the port. It had been choked with carts, wagons and Wyrds since midday. Somewhere in amongst those thousands was her son. She wanted to stride in there, find him and reclaim him. Impatience tore at her control.

  ‘There’s been no reports of Eskarnor leaving via the port gates,’ Nitzane said. ‘He could have taken passage on a ship already.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Unite the southern barons behind him.’

  ‘He’s better off disrupting the handover of my son and fabricating evidence to blame it on you. Then, after you and the king battle, he can march in and mop up what’s left.’

  Nitzane laughed. ‘You sound like Sorne.’

  ‘Where is Sorne? He should be back by now.’

  Nitzane covered her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Commander Halargon will ensure the Wyrds reach the wharf safely. All they have to do is load up and set sail. We’ll meet them at the headlands and they’ll hand over the prince. My ship is ready to sail at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘I wish they’d just hand him over now. I hate to think of him down there, so close, but out of reach.’

  ‘You’re a good mother.’

  But she wasn’t. She’d stepped out of the nursery for a moment, and in that time he’d been stolen. Until she held him in her arms again, she would not be whole.

  And when she did, she would stop at nothing to protect him.

  ‘VELLA, IT’S TIME.’

  Aravelle helped her mother sit up. Ronnyn supported her back.

  It seemed like days ago that her mother had warned about all the things that could go wrong during a birth. Sometimes babies came with their feet first, and sometimes with the cord around their necks. More often than not, T’En babies were stillborn, or they were born deformed and died within days. What would she do if...

  There was no time to think. This part of the birth was as quick and violent as the beginning had been long and exhausting. Three pushes and she saw the baby’s head. She eased the shoulders out, just as she’d been told. The baby was shockingly hot and slippery.

  As the rest of the infant boy slithered onto the bare boards, a rush of blood followed him. Too much blood.

  Aravelle’s mouth went dry with fear.

  The baby mewled, as if too exhausted to cry. But he was breathing and, as far as she could tell, there was nothing wrong with him.

  Her mother managed a tired smile. ‘Keep him warm.’

  With tears of joy on her cheeks, Aravelle gathered him in her arms. The cord still pulsed with life. She had to wrap him or the cold would kill him, but all she had was that dirty blanket.

  Ronnyn eased their mother down until she lay on her side. Then he hauled off his nightshirt, tearing a small strip to make himself a loin cloth. The rest he handed to Aravelle, who wrapped it around the baby.

 
Then she placed the baby next to their mother. ‘He’s perfect, Ma.’

  Her mother tried to focus on him, but she seemed too tired.

  Aravelle could remember Tamaron and Itania as babies. Tamaron had been completely hairless, while Itania had been born with a crown of red hair. This baby was bald and so pale that, when she’d wiped the birthing blood off his skin, she could see the fine veins mottling his flesh like marble.

  He was pure T’En. She felt an unworthy stab of jealousy. By a twist of fate, this baby would belong to the elite, while she and Itania would be servants.

  At that moment, if Aravelle could have cast aside her gender along with her Malaunje nature, she would have. Both were failings, both made her a victim.

  It was only worthwhile being female if you were T’En.

  The babe gave another mewling cry.

  ‘Baby’s born,’ crooked-tooth announced.

  Ferret-face came over to peer into the cage. ‘Just in time. We’ll reach port before they close the gates.’

  When Aravelle looked into his shallow blue eyes, she read only calculation, no pity or compassion. Bitterness sat in her chest like an undigested meal. She closed her eyes, channelling her anger.

  Ferret-face climbed onto the cart seat and turned the pony towards port.

  The jolting woke their mother. She pulled herself up on one elbow and smiled down on the baby. ‘We’ll name him after your father.’

  Aravelle could hear the unshed tears, thick in her mother’s throat. Now the same tears stung her eyes and filled her chest, until she felt it would burst. But she pushed them down, refusing to give in to emotion.

  ‘Baby, Asher,’ Ronnyn whispered, stroking the tiny curled fingers.

  ‘No, Ashmyr,’ their mother corrected. ‘That’s the T’En form of the name.’

  The baby gave a stronger cry, which woke the little ones.

  ‘Baby’s here?’ Vittor was excited.

  ‘Wanna hold him.’ Tamaron clambered over. ‘Lemme see.’

  Little Itania was also fascinated. They did not understand the significance of their mother’s grey skin, and Aravelle and Ronnyn shielded them from the blood.

  ‘You can hold him soon.’ Sasoria pressed the baby against her body as she caught Aravelle’s arm, pulling her closer. ‘You’ll need to cut the cord and tie it off. The afterbirth will come soon...’ A groan cut her off.

  Their mother seemed too tired to put any effort into expelling the afterbirth.

  They needed a knife to cut the cord. Only the Mieren had knives.

  ‘Ronnyn.’ She nudged him. ‘We need to cut the cord.’

  He came to his knees and called to the Mieren as they drove the cart. ‘Can I borrow a knife to cut the cord?’

  ‘Chew through it,’ ferret-face muttered. ‘That’s what dogs do.’

  Shock robbed Aravelle of coherent thought.

  ‘But–’ Ronnyn began.

  She shoved him aside, snatched up the cord and tore through it with her teeth, backhanding her mouth with a shudder. ‘There. Now tie it off.’

  He stared at her.

  She tore a scrap from her tattered nightgown to seal the baby’s cord, then passed the baby across to Vittor. ‘Take him down to the far end and show the little ones. Keep him warm.’

  The next contraction drove out the afterbirth, followed by another great rush of blood. Aravelle tried to stop it with their one thin blanket, but it was soon drenched.

  Ronnyn’s terrified eyes met hers. ‘Ma needs a T’En healer.’

  ‘We’ll be there soon. Hopefully...’

  ‘You hear that, Ma?’ He lifted their mother’s head in his arms. Her eyelids flickered, but did not open. She was so pale her lips were blue. ‘We’re going to a T’En healer.’ He smoothed matted hair from her forehead as brooding grey clouds gathered overhead. ‘Just hold on.’

  But there was too much blood and they had no way of knowing if there would be a T’En healer in port.

  Chapter Forty-One

  SORNE RODE INTO port with Captain Ballendin and fifty of his men. They’d only gone a short way beyond the gate when the wagons in front of them stopped moving. In the gathering twilight, it was hard to tell what the holdup was.

  ‘What is it?’ Captain Ballendin directed his question to a woman standing in the doorway of her shop.

  ‘The Wyrds. Must be thousands of them. Started arriving around midday today. It’s been so bad decent folks haven’t been able to get around.’

  Sorne stood in his stirrups. The wagons were moving, but too slowly. ‘Come this way.’

  He led the others through the back streets. It was amazing how people got out of the way for fifty armed, mounted men. They reached the royal plaza without trouble.

  Sorne turned his mount to face Ballendin. One part of him wanted to go to the palace to ensure that Nitzane and Jaraile were coping, but he belonged with his people. ‘Find Nitzane. Tell him the king has to make sure the Wyrds get onto their ships, or he won’t get his son. I’ll be down at the Wyrd wharf.’

  As Captain Ballendin rode off with his men-at-arms, the prayer bells rang out and Sorne was reminded of Scholar Igotzon. He turned his horse towards...

  ‘The Father’s church?’ Valendia protested. ‘I spent eleven years locked up in there.’

  ‘There’s one more thing I have to do.’

  ‘What?’ Graelen baulked. ‘Tell me why I should take Valendia into that place again.’

  ‘We have to find and destroy the reports that led King Charald to realise he could conquer the Wyrds.’

  ‘Why?’ Graelen countered. ‘The Mieren have called our bluff.’

  ‘Very few people know the true limitations of Wyrd gifts,’ Sorne said. ‘I’ve seen what one little old Wyrd woman can do to a room full of war barons. King Charald has banished the Wyrds, but more half-bloods will be born and they’ll eventually produce T’En. In the future, our kind will need the mystery of the gifts to protect them. If I destroy these notes, they’ll stand a chance.’

  He took them down one of the narrow streets that ran alongside the church, found the old gate and handed his reins to Graelen. Standing on the saddle, he climbed over the wall, dropped to the courtyard beyond and let them in.

  ‘Only a few dedicated scholars come to these old halls,’ he told them. At this time of the evening, Igotzon should really be at prayer, but Sorne suspected the scholar would work through the evening prayers. ‘Leave the horses and come with me.’

  This was the old section. It was dim and near-silent. From far away, he could hear the chanting of prayers. Sorne recognised the door and opened it to find the desk empty, but a lamp still burned.

  ‘Scholar Igotzon could be back any moment.’ Sorne pointed to the chest. ‘Open that, Grae. Oskane’s journals should be in there. Valendia, come with me.’

  He went down the length of the wall until he found the right row of niches. ‘Hold out your arms.’

  He piled up Wyrd scrolls, but what he really needed was Igotzon’s reports and he didn’t know where they were.

  Back at the desk, he found Graelen kneeling by the open chest. The adept showed him a journal. ‘These?’

  ‘Yes. Tip the scrolls into the chest, Dia.’

  Footsteps came from the hall. He gestured for them to step to one side of the door and stood near the desk, just as the scholar entered.

  ‘Sorne.’ Igotzon was genuinely pleased to see him. The scholar walked in, unaware of Graelen and Valendia in the shadows. ‘Where have you been? I have that list of questions for you. I put them...’ He searched his desk.

  ‘Igotzon, how many copies of the Wyrd reports did you make?’ Sorne asked.

  ‘Just the two. One for me and one for the high priest. No one else cared.’

  ‘And where are these copies?’

  ‘You said the high priest’s set was destroyed. My copies are... Here’s the questions.’ He offered Sorne a sheet of cramped writing. ‘If you answer these, I can start on the history of King Charald’s re
ign. They’re saying his mind is going, and he won’t last much longer.’

  Sorne went cold. ‘Who’s saying?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  ‘Where are your Wyrd reports?’ Sorne pressed.

  ‘Why? Do you want to check their accuracy? I must admit, I would like to get someone who knows to look them over. You... What’s wrong?’

  ‘Is it true?’ Sorne had just recalled something the scholar said the first time they’d met. ‘You once said you remember everything you’ve ever written.’

  ‘I do. I’ve trained my mind to hold an image of this church. Every corridor contains doors, and behind every door is related information. I just have to find the right door,’ Igotzon said, then frowned. ‘Why?’

  Graelen stepped up behind him, waiting for Sorne’s signal – a knife through the ribs, a twist of his neck, or, failing that, the adept could wipe the scholar’s mind and leave him a gibbering wreck.

  Igotzon glanced over his shoulder, spotted Graelen and Valendia and gave a jump of fright. ‘Sorne?’

  Graelen caught the scholar’s arms before he could run.

  ‘What’s going on, Sorne?’ Igotzon asked.

  ‘The information you collated in your reports led King Charald to believe he could attack the Wyrds and defeat them.’

  ‘All I did was seek the truth.’ Igotzon swallowed audibly. ‘Knowledge–’

  ‘...is power,’ Graelen said. ‘We can’t let him live. Step outside, Valendia.’

  Sorne had killed in self-defence. He had stood back and watched others die because he could not prevent it. He had watched Graelen die, or thought he had, and it had killed something in him.

  ‘Grae?’ Valendia whispered.

  ‘Sometimes it’s necessary to kill. I don’t want you to see me do this, Dia.’

  ‘I thought you valued knowledge, Sorne,’ Igotzon whispered, stricken. ‘I thought I’d found a friend.’

  Graelen put his hands on the scholar’s head.

  ‘Please, no.’ Igotzon closed his eyes. ‘There’s so much I don’t know.’