Besieged (37 page)

It was more than she could bear. Gathering her mental resources, she focused and segued back to the earthly plane, taking Vittoryxe with her.

Blinking, she found Vittoryxe had collapsed beside her and curled into a ball. A hoarfrost covered them both.

‘Gift-tutor?’ Imoshen touched her arm. The instant she did, she heard the wailing child again, and felt the little girl’s outrage.

Something was very wrong.

Imoshen ran out into the corridor, where she grabbed a boy in his mid-teens. ‘Fetch Egrayne, quickly.’

He took off at a run.

Returning to Vittoryxe, Imoshen called on her gift and looked into the empyrean world. The gift-tutor’s power pulsed within her, but very faintly. Imoshen guessed Vittoryxe was lost in the mind of the child she had been, the child Imoshen had seen in the construct.

Unsure of what to do, she took Vittoryxe’s hand and tried to reach the gift-tutor.

The grief of the child was terrible.

It swamped Imoshen’s defences, triggering her own grief. The loss of her son hit her all over again, and then the grief went deeper still until she returned to the five-year-old child she had been when she lost her mother.

That child had no defences. Her grief went beyond tears, to a place where there was no hope. Nothing but this.

And it went on forever...

‘Imoshen?’

Someone reached out to her.

‘Imoshen?’

She opened her eyes, found Egrayne and...

‘All-mother Ceriane?’ Imoshen blinked, and the gift-wright squeezed her fingers.

‘She recognises us.’ Egrayne sounded relieved.

‘I’ll work on Vittoryxe,’ the gift-wright said. ‘You see to Imoshen.’

Egrayne pulled Imoshen to her feet and drew her over to a chair by the fire. Others had come in, among them the all-mother and Vittoryxe’s devotee, who seemed dazed.

‘What happened, Imoshen?’ Egrayne asked, kneeling by her side.

‘We... we went to the empyrean plane... No, it was a construct, but it felt so real.’ Her power was drained and her mind felt sluggish. ‘The gift-tutor was going to show me empyrean predators. We saw a harrowraven and some scraelings. Then a T’En male came towards us. At first I thought he was part of the lesson. But Vittoryxe went very still and then she changed form, becoming a little girl. I didn’t like the way the man felt. He smiled, but...’

‘Are you sure it was a construct and not the empyrean plane proper?’ Egrayne radiated intensity.

‘That’s what Vittoryxe said. But it felt real.’

Egrayne squeezed her hand and came to her feet. Gift-wright Ceriane had been working on Vittoryxe, using the devotee to assist her. When the gift-tutor stirred, Devotee Choris came out of her daze and wept with relief.

Meanwhile, Egrayne whispered to All-mother Aayelora.

Imoshen came to her feet. ‘Is Vittoryxe all right?’

Egrayne and Aayelora looked to the gift-wright, who joined them.

‘Imoshen saved the gift-tutor’s life,’ Ceriane said. They all turned to look at Vittoryxe. She appeared shattered.

Imoshen was reminded of the desolate child within the woman, and knew nothing would ever satisfy that child. The thought filled her with a deep sadness.

The devotee helped Vittoryxe into the fireside chair and stayed with her, watching her closely.

Meanwhile, the gift-wright, the all-mother and the empowerer spoke softly. Imoshen caught snatches of their conversation.

‘...a male. Don’t know who he was.’

‘But it was supposed to be a construct.’

‘...Vittoryxe must have decided to test her with the real thing, meaning to pull her out if she got into trouble.’

‘...what if it wasn’t one of our people?’ Ceriane said. ‘What if the T’En man –’

‘Was a predator that could take on any form?’ Egrayne suggested.

‘You mean it plucked the memory of her mother’s murderer from her mind?’ Aayelora asked. ‘That would explain Vittoryxe’s reaction. As a child, she had no defences. She was only eight when her mother was killed in front of her.’

‘The perfect predator,’ Egrayne said. ‘Using our deepest fears to disarm us.’

‘I don’t remember seeing that predator on the study list,’ Imoshen said.

The three women turned to face her. They exchanged looks.

‘You don’t know all the predators of the empyrean plane,’ Imoshen guessed. ‘The list is a work in progress, isn’t it?’

Egrayne nodded and took Imoshen aside. ‘There’s much we don’t know about the plane, and how our gifts manifest there. Many T’En have died to provide the knowledge we currently have, but there is more to learn.’

‘Not according to Vittoryxe.’

A wry smile tugged at the big empowerer’s lips.

Imoshen warmed to her. She wanted Egrayne to think well of her, but... ‘It’s my fault we were attacked. I thought we were in a construct, not the empyrean. I would never have flaunted my power, if I’d known.’

Egrayne brushed this aside. ‘You did well to recognise the danger, bring her back and hold her until the gift-wright could save her.’

Imoshen shrugged. She didn’t feel as if she’d done well.

Devotee Choris whispered to Vittoryxe, who called Imoshen over.

‘I hear I have you to thank for my survival. I am in your debt.’

‘Oh, no. It’s nothing,’ Imoshen insisted, embarrassed. ‘I’m just glad we both made it out.’

The all-mother’s devotee arrived with a tray of glasses. The rich scent of warm spiced wine filled the chamber, and Imoshen felt herself begin to relax.

When everybody had a glass, the all-mother raised her own. ‘To Imoshen’s quick thinking.’

They echoed her toast. Vittoryxe grimaced.

‘No,’ Imoshen said quickly. ‘To a lucky escape, for both of us. All I did was run.’

‘True,’ Egrayne said. ‘But the important thing is that you didn’t panic and leave Vittoryxe behind.’

Imoshen noticed the empowerer and the gift-tutor share a look. Would she ever understand the T’En women? At least one good thing would come of this.

She and Vittoryxe had survived a common threat; now they could be friends.

Chapter Thirty

‘W
EAR THE CLOAK,
pull the hood down, keep your hands hidden and follow me,’ Franto ordered.

Sorne resented the way they made him hide his hair, eyes and fingers, but he knew the war barons didn’t like him. Whenever they discussed strategy with the king, he had to go into the alcove at the back of the royal tent.

He’d been waiting all spring to see the fall of Port Khitan, so he put on the cloak.

When they’d first arrived in port, he had to stay on the ship, and had only been allowed on deck at night. Through the tiny window of his cabin, he’d seen the blockade of the harbour and heard the strange language of the locals. He’d seen the camp fires of the besieging army on the hills outside of the port, and heard the distant roar of battle as Charald assaulted the port walls. It had fascinated him, until he became frustrated with being cooped up.

Then he’d badgered Franto to speak to the king. Finally, he’d been transported to the royal tent on the hillside overlooking the port. From there he could watch as the constant assault wore down the Khitite defences, and listen in to the king discussing strategy with his barons. At night he was allowed out to wander through the camp, cloaked and hooded.

Leaving the tent now, he found the king and his barons in full armour. With their banners unfurled and their war horses saddled, they were ready for the ceremonial entrance into the captured port. As pipers prepared to play a triumph, the bags produced those strange sounds he’d heard in his first vision.

Behind the king, buildings burned and pillars of dark smoke obscured the twilit sky. Sorne gasped as he recognised the scene. ‘Look, Franto. It’s my vision come to life.’

The little man nodded, but he had only ever seen the drawing. He hadn’t seen it like this, in vivid colour, with the banners snapping and the pipers playing.

The king mounted his war horse and everyone cheered. Sorne felt the surge of elation he’d felt during the vision, and he waited for the king to beckon him and acknowledge his part in all this.

‘Word has just come through,’ Franto said. ‘The port has fallen, but the Khitite king must have been smuggled out. The palace is deserted. Charald’s going down to claim the port and the palace, but he’ll have to chase the king and his court across Khitan. This is summer’s cusp and it’ll be hot, dusty and uncomfortable on the plains.’

‘But we’ll be home for winter,’ Sorne said. Tonight was his triumph, the confirmation of his power, and it would be Izteben’s night too. For tonight, his brother made the offering before all the church officials. One day, half-bloods would be valued and respected by True-men.

King Charald rose in the stirrups and signalled; the men-at-arms cheered. Then the pipers played a triumph, as the king entered the port with his barons.

While Sorne remained behind, the unwanted half-blood.

Disappointment and shame burned in him.

And he vowed, one day, he would make the king acknowledge him. One day, Charald and his war barons would dance to his tune.

‘B
RING A CUSHION,
’ Matxin ordered.

Oskane sank onto it with relief. He felt light-headed and his heart hammered in his chest. It was the climb that had done it, but he needed the right place to stage the ceremony and this tainted site –
holy
site, he reminded himself – was perfect, a natural amphitheatre to which seats and a stage had been added.

It had served this purpose for a Wyrd sisterhood’s winery over a hundred years ago. But one season’s cusp, under the light of the double full moon, a salacious play was disrupted when the gods had struck down the Wyrds.

The sisterhood had packed up and left the estate. Since then, the winery’s vines had gone wild, choked with brambles. Over on the next hilltop, the sisterhood’s villa had fallen into disrepair. The tiled roof had collapsed and trees now grew through the mosaic floor.

In the last few days, Baron Matxin had cleared a path up to the amphitheatre. Now Oskane sat in the front row, where he had a good view of the stage. Behind him were the leaders of the Seven’s churches. On his left were two dozen nobles: the prince, Nitzel, his two sons and many supporters who would bear witness to the reclamation of this holy site.

Oskane could hear Prince Cedon boasting, telling everyone what would happen based on what he had witnessed in the mine. Since the king sailed, the prince had been surrounded by sycophants, and his head was swollen with their flattery.

‘Are you alright, Uncle?’ Matxin asked. His help had been invaluable, taking on much of the preparation that his assistant would have seen to himself. Oskane was surprised how much he missed Franto. ‘I can get you some wine, if you need it.’

‘I’m fine.’ He wasn’t. He felt terrible. ‘See that Izteben and Zabier are ready.’

Yesterday, Izteben had selected a suitable sacrifice, a long silver braid. Now the chest was brought down and placed on a stool covered with red velvet.

Izteben wore the simple breeches and thigh-length shirt of a lowly acolyte, in black rather than white. His hair was bound in one long plait and he wore a cap tied under his chin. But nothing could disguise his half-blood eyes and six fingers. By contrast, Zabier stood by him, dressed in white. His hair fell in rippling waves down his back, golden in the torchlight.

‘...and then a flash of light filled the cavern,’ Prince Cedon was saying. He stood in front of the nobles, holding forth. ‘Everyone screamed but me. I wasn’t afraid. I–’

‘You should move further back, my prince,’ Matxin said. ‘If you are lucky, the vision may be about you. The half-blood and the carpenter’s son are nearly ready.’

‘To do what?’ Cedon sneered. ‘Throw a bauble at the gods?’

The nobles laughed obligingly.

‘Cedon,’ Nitzel called. ‘Come here.’

‘I’m a prince, born of kings. The gods should be speaking to me, not some half-blood peasant.’ Cedon brushed his grandfather’s restraining hands aside. ‘Here, let me perform the ceremony.’

Matxin turned to Oskane, lifting his hands helplessly.

‘We seek the Seven,’ Cedon called, as he strode into the amphitheatre. ‘We seek enlightenment, Father. Your wisdom, Scholar. Your guidance, Warrior.’ He picked up the knife and gestured to Izteben to provide the blood.

Izteben glanced over his shoulder to Oskane.

‘Go on.’ He gestured wearily. His arm hurt and he felt cold. He needed to lie down and just wanted the ceremony to be over.

Cedon smiled as he sliced Izteben’s palm deeper than he needed to. The half-blood flinched, but said nothing. Cedon dipped the knife in the blood and flicked it across the stage. Immediately the air grew heavy and oppressive. Zabier gasped, his breath condensing as mist.

Everyone went silent with anticipation.

Nothing happened.

Someone whispered and there was a giggle.

‘Give me the chest, quickly.’ Izteben reached for it.

Cedon snatched it from him and pulled out the braid. ‘Hold out your hand.’

Izteben did as he was told. Oskane was close enough to see Izteben whisper something to Cedon – telling him to hurry, by the look of it.

Cedon dipped the end of the plait in Izteben’s bloody palm and flicked the braid out. It hardly reached the full extent of its length before it was caught by the invisible god. The prince laughed and wound the plait around his hand, tugging on it, taunting the god.

‘Cedon!’ Oskane lurched to his feet. Pain shot through his chest and down his arm.

‘See.’ Cedon turned back to the audience. ‘It’s simple. We don’t need half-bloods. The secret is the T’En ar...’

The god jerked the prince off his feet. He clutched Zabier as he flew backwards. Izteben darted after him, pulled Zabier free and shoved him to safety. Both Izteben and Cedon were lifted into the air.

‘No!’ Nitzel leaped to his feet.

Zabier would have gone to help, but...

A blinding light illuminated the amphitheatre.

Zabier was flung back into Oskane. They tumbled onto the stone steps. Spots of light danced in Oskane’s vision; each breath was agony. Screams filled his ears. His chest felt like a giant hand was pressing down upon it.