Besieged (14 page)

Franto cursed. ‘How? Edorne is... was a young man. Did they poison his food?’

‘Apparently he cut himself shaving. The wound festered and he died of bad blood.’

‘His razor was painted with poison,’ Franto stated. ‘It’s the only explanation. Just as well the baron doesn’t know where we are.’

Oskane nodded, drawing in a deep breath of thin, cold air. Now he had two deaths to avenge. Baron Nitzel had been instrumental in crushing his family. One day, he would see Nitzel’s family brought low.

‘We hide for now. But Nitzel will live to regret turning on me and mine.’

All depended on his wits, and the infant currently suckling at Hiruna’s breast.

‘King Charald led an army at the age of fifteen. Let’s hope his son is forged from the same steel.’

Chapter Eleven

Year 303

O
SKANE FINISHED WRITING
his observations of the half-bloods in his journal, then looked up. ‘Yes, Franto?’

‘The wood-worker is here to see you.’

Oskane closed the journal. ‘Show him in.’

In the thirteen years since coming to Restoration Retreat, Kolst’s waist had thickened and his fair hair had thinned, revealing the scar he’d received the night Oskane first met him.

‘Scholar Oskane,’ he said, dipping his head. ‘I have a request.’

Oskane gestured for him to proceed.

‘Hiruna is with child, and I’d like you to release me and my family. I know we signed on for seventeen years, but I want to go home a few years early. I want Zabier and the new baby to grow up amongst their own kind. I want to see my brother before I die, and make peace with him. I swear on my honour I will not speak of this place.’

‘It’s not that.’ Oskane tilted his head. ‘How do you know this new baby will be...’

‘A True-man? The gods would not be so cruel. They cursed me with my first child. I was the best woodcarver in the village. I boasted and mocked my older brother. When the gods saw this, they cursed me. I’ve served my penance. Hiruna’s pregnancy was an accident. I’m thirty-five, too old to be bringing a baby into this world. I need to be near my family in case I don’t live long enough to raise the new child.’ He held out his rough, scarred hands. ‘In winter, it’s become hard to hold the chisel.’

‘What of...’ Oskane gestured to the window overlooking the courtyard. Boyish shouts and laughter floated up to them.

‘My half-blood son will be fourteen in the spring. Almost a man. You’ve taught him to read and write alongside Sorne. And they’ve taught Zabier to read, filling his head with things I know nothing about. I want to take Zabe home to live amongst True-men.’

‘Fair enough. But what will you tell your brother? He’ll want to know where you’ve been all these years.’

‘I’ll... I’ll tell them we left Izteben with the Wyrds and I’ve been working in Navarone, to the south-east.’

‘What do you know of Navarone?’

‘More than anyone back home.’ Kolst grinned. ‘Joaken lived there for many years. I’ve listened to so many of his stories I could describe all the king’s mistresses.’

Oskane nodded. Joaken was the penitent who’d been a mercenary. Only three of the penitents still lived – Joaken, the cripple, and the boy, who was now a man of twenty. ‘When were you thinking of leaving?’

Kolst brightened. ‘Far as we can tell, the baby will come late spring. We’ll leave then.’

‘Very well. You and your family may go. But...’ – Oskane came to his feet – ‘if you so much as breathe a word of this place and the two half-bloods, the gods will curse you, your family and your brother’s family. All manner of terrible afflictions will rain down upon you!’

Kolst paled. ‘I never... I wouldn’t.’

‘See that you don’t.’ And Oskane dismissed him before taking his journal through to his bedchamber and placing it with the others in the chest. A journal for each year of Sorne’s life. He’d recorded his observations of the boys’ development, along with an analysis of the Wyrd scrolls. Oskane had been comparing their theories on the half-bloods with Sorne and Izteben’s actual development.

Laughter came through the window, boyish and high, followed by a challenge. Running footsteps. A shriek. The
thwack
of wooden swords.

He went over to the window. Below him on the wall-walk, three boys, one blond and two copper-haired, battled imaginary foes. Sorne led them; his choice-brother, Izteben, was the second in command, and young Zabier acted as their entire army. Sticks were their swords, the exuberance of youth their shields.

From the words Oskane could make out, they were reliving a historical battle, unworried by the fact that they would have been on different sides. Kolst was right, he needed to take Zabier away.

‘Regroup!’ Sorne yelled. ‘There’s too many of them.’

He tossed his sword, spear-like, at an imaginary foe and ran for the end of the wall-walk, leaping off it into the courtyard tree. The maple’s branches shook with the impact, shedding yellow autumn leaves like drops of pure sunshine.

Lithe and quick, Sorne swung from the upper branches, dropping to land on a lower branch. Izteben followed Sorne, just as agile.

Zabier remained on the wall. He would be nine next spring, so he was more than three years younger than Sorne, but he was also a True-man and would probably never be as big.

‘Jump, I’ll catch you,’ Izteben called.

‘You’ll do no such thing!’ Hiruna came out of the shadows of the stable entrance.

Was Kolst right? Would their next child be a True-man? It took three seasons, the length of six small moons, to produce a True-man, and seven small moons for a half-blood. The problem was it was hard to tell exactly when the child had been conceived. Kolst did not seem to know.

‘Tell Zabier to jump and you’ll catch him? Of all the foolish things,’ Hiruna said. ‘You’ll get your little brother killed. Come down here this instant.’

The two bigger lads clambered through the tree and dropped to the ground, landing lightly. Zabier had to run along the wall-walk and come down the steps. Oskane envied them their vitality. His bones ached all the time now. And he’d thought he was old at forty-seven.

But he held on, determined to see Nitzel’s family suffer and his restored, no matter how long it took.

One thing delighted him. Baron Nitzel’s daughter, that producer of True-man sons, had spent several years barren, then managed to birth only one healthy boy. All the infants since had died. His spy reported they’d been born blue.

All this aside, King Charald was happy with his heir and, as grandfather of the future king, Nitzel’s influence was secure. So Oskane had work to do if he was going to undermine him.

‘Sorne, Izteben?’ He leant out the window. ‘It’s time.’

Everyone turned to look at him.

Hiruna’s face tightened; she did not approve.

He’d tried to explain that the half-bloods needed self-discipline and the flagellation was for their own good, but she had a woman’s soft heart. She had never known a man like Baron Nitzel, who could order the death of his daughter’s husband because the man stood in the way of his ambition for his family.

Hiruna called Zabier, then retreated to the stable, where she lived segregated with the half-bloods. There were no other women, and Oskane liked it that way. Celibacy was good for the soul.

Oskane went through to his study. It was almost winter’s cusp but, by his decree, no flames warmed the room. Everyone lived without luxuries. No fires, except on the coldest of winter days, and plain, simple food. Strength came from denial.

Opening the top drawer of his desk, Oskane removed the scourge. It was not his. He would not use something that drew Malaunje blood on his own skin. He took the handle and ran the fine leather strands through his left hand. Each strand ended in a knot to abrade the flagellant’s back.

The half-bloods came in, paid him obeisance and removed their shirts without being asked. They stood there, pale-skinned, long copper plaits hanging down their backs. Although they were nearly as tall as him, they did not have the build of men. There was only the promise of muscle on their chests and shoulders.

They looked to him expectantly. A few days short of thirteen years, Sorne had his mother’s sweet face, not yet grown into the hard lines of manhood. Izteben’s features were more angular, but he had the same vivid colouring. No wonder the first True-men and -women who had birthed half-bloods had protected and nurtured them, unaware of the danger.

But Oskane knew what he was harbouring.

‘What are you?’ he asked them, just as he had every day since they were five years old.

‘Holy warriors,’ they answered in unison.

‘Whose holy warriors?’

‘Your holy warriors, Scholar Oskane.’

‘Why do I do this?’

‘To make us strong. So we can conquer pain and temptation.’

So they could resist the lure of the T’En gifts.

‘Very good.’ He gestured. ‘Sorne first.’

In a couple of years, Oskane would tell the lad who he really was and what he had been born to achieve. But until then, he would temper him, like a blacksmith tempered metal, pushing it to its limits.

The boy stepped up onto the frame, tucked his plait out of the way, and took hold of the two pegs, presenting his back to Oskane. Multiple fine silver scars ran across his pale shoulders. Izteben went around the other side so he could meet Sorne’s eyes. When it was Izteben’s turn, Sorne would do the same for him.

‘What are you?’ Oskane asked.

‘I am weak. I am Malaunje. But I will be strong.’

‘Where were we up to yesterday?’ Oskane asked.

‘Charald the Peace-maker had just granted the T’En the island to call their own,’ Sorne said.

‘Proceed from there.’ Oskane lifted the scourge bringing it down across the half-blood’s back, across the fine silver lines.

Sorne began to recite Chalcedonian history, his voice jumping a little with each strike.

‘Remember you must be strong in mind as well as body,’ Oskane told them, speaking over Sorne. ‘Remember I do this for you, to armour you.’

When his arm grew tired, he ordered Sorne to step down and Izteben took his place, picking up the recitation where Sorne had finished. Oskane had to change arms. He was getting too old for this.

He tried to ensure their beating was even, but he was tired. That was why he tended to pick Sorne first. The boy must be strong.

When he could do no more, Oskane left the scourge for Franto to clean and leant on the desk. ‘Enough for today. Come here.’

He held out his hand, with the ring the king had given him all those years ago. ‘Kiss the king’s ring and thank me.’

They said the words and kissed the ruby ring. Tears glittered in Izteben eyes, but Sorne was hard-eyed. He had not wept for years. He could solve mathematical riddles under the scourge. He was smart and strove to please. Oskane could not ask for more. Had he been born a True-man, he would have made a wonderful king.

But there was no point bemoaning what could not be changed. The boys began to get out the inks and papers. They were transcribing the history they’d memorised.

‘Let me see yesterday’s work.’

‘Yes, Scholar Oskane,’ they answered dutifully.

He inspected the pages. The lettering was meticulous, just as he’d taught them. But it was the illustration around the edge of the page that stood out. ‘Your work, Sorne?’

The boy nodded.

‘Very good.’ In truth it was beautiful. Oskane didn’t know where he got his talent from, for neither Sorna nor Charald had been able to draw. ‘Get to work.’

They both settled down at the desk.

It cost him nothing extra to school the carpenter’s son, and he figured Sorne would need Izteben’s support when Oskane sent him into the Wyrd city. He hadn’t considered the gulf this would create between the carpenter and his firstborn. Kolst was right to take his True-man family away.

And considering his hard work, a small payment would be appropriate, something he could use to establish himself back home. He would have to ask Franto to organise it.

If Hiruna’s baby was a True-man child.

S
ORNE RAKED THE
old straw. He, Izteben and Zabier slept in a stall in the stable. He didn’t mind, not even when the cart came from the abbey and the two cart horses stayed in the far stall.

‘Your back’s bleeding again,’ Izteben said. ‘Why is he so hard on you?’

‘I’m fine.’ Sorne found if he concentrated on other things, he didn’t feel the pain. ‘The scholar has to make us strong.’

‘Take off your shirt.’

Sorne spread fresh straw for their bed. Once this was done to his satisfaction, he pulled the thigh-length shirt over his shoulders and inspected the material. Spots of blood.

‘Ma’s out in the courtyard doing the washing right now,’ Izteben said. ‘She’ll be upset if she finds out you’ve been bleeding again, after she treated your back.’

‘I’ll rinse it at the well,’ Sorne said.

As they stepped into the larger courtyard, Sorne looked up and his heart lifted. It was midday, and late autumn sun filtered down through the maple’s yellow leaves. Up the high end, near the storerooms, their father was crafting a cabinet for Franto to sell. The awl created sweet smelling wood shavings, which Zabier collected for tinder.

It was a mild day, and the penitents had brought a bench out of the dining hall, setting it against the limestone wall of the main building. They sat, legs stretched out, enjoying the sun as they took their lunch break.

Not far from them was the well, with its pump and white stone basin. Sorne headed over to it; cold water was the best way to get rid of blood. Hopefully, his back would have stopped bleeding by the time their mother saw them.

Sorne bent over to hold his shirt under the tap, and Izteben went around the far side to work the pump. Icy cold water splashed over his hands, soaking the shirt. He began to rub as water flowed over the stone lip and away in the shallow channel, carrying leaves and dirt with it. When they were little, they used to make leaf boats and race them down to the wall where the channel flowed away through a grate.