Besieged (71 page)

‘I’ll ask him.’ Imoshen returned to the bedroll and knelt. She placed a hand on his chest and let her power seep into him. His one good eye opened. ‘We can try to heal you on the higher plane, but it’s risky. If we fail, you’ll die. If we do nothing, you’ll linger like this as long as your will lasts.’

He swallowed. ‘Water...’

She held his head and let him sip some water.

He lay back, and looked up at Imoshen. ‘Will I become addicted to your gifts?’

Imoshen looked to Ceriane.

‘He’s already imprinted with his T’En’s gift. It will protect him from ours.’

That’s if he
was
someone’s devotee, which he wasn’t.

He closed his eye. ‘Do it.’

Reoden knelt on the other side of the bedroll and Ceriane knelt at the head. They rubbed their hands together to help focus their gift in their palms, and placed their hands on the bare skin of his chest and his forehead.

‘His defences are too strong,’ Ceriane said.

‘You’ll have to lower your shields...’ Imoshen said, and then realised she didn’t know his name. She wasn’t going to call him the Warrior’s-voice in front of the others. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Sorne.’

‘I’m Imoshen. For us to get a grip on your essence, you’ll have to lower your defences.’

‘I don’t know how.’

‘Of course you do,’ Ceriane snapped. ‘We’re trying to help you.’

‘Think of someone you trust,’ Imoshen said. ‘This will lower your shields enough for us to get a grip on your essence.’ But with the strength of his will, he should not be imprinted by their gifts. ‘Imagine that person is here with us, now.’

‘Does she have to still be alive?’

Imoshen winced for him. ‘She only has to be alive to you. She would want us to help you.’

He nodded and closed his eyes. As he did this, Imoshen heard a woman singing.

And just like that, they were through.

Imoshen took on the task of making the empyrean plane conform to her will. They stood on a cliff top, on the island where she’d grown up. To her left, far below, waves crashed on the rocks. To her right, the land fell away steeply, to dunes and then more sea. A silvery winter sun warmed the earth, giving crisp colour to the grass and sea.

Imoshen circled the others, watching for predators.

Ceriane and Reoden knelt in the same positions as they had on the earthly plane. She could feel their intensity as they focused on healing him. As if attracted to their power, a shaft of sunlight pierced the clouds and illuminated the cliff top.

Imoshen could defeat a single beast, even a pack of scraelings, but she could not defeat the plane itself, and it was always hungry for T’En power. Now she felt it take an interest in them as a breeze swept in from the sea and the waves thundered below, clawing ever higher.

She scanned their surroundings, then returned her attention to the healer and the gift-wright.

On this plane, she could see Reoden’s essence: her kindness, and the wound where her sacrare daughter had been torn from her. Here, Ceriane was beautiful in her determination and compassion.

Here, Sorne suffered from the blight of acts committed and regretted. He’d done something in his past that he carried like an open wound. This was why the empyrean plane had been able to get its claws into him.

Reoden and Ceriane battled, but Imoshen’s raedan gift told her that until he could forgive himself, he would not fully heal.

She knelt opposite Reoden and reached out to Sorne.

Now she walked with him through a city ravaged by war. Packs of men ran wild in the streets like beasts. The innocent lay dead all around them. The city, the country... all lay in ruins.

They left the streets and entered a square. King Charald stood on the plinth of a toppled statue, while the men who were beasts worshiped him.

Sorne felt responsible for unleashing the king and his army.

Imoshen took Sorne’s hand and pointed to Charald, exercising her raedan gift. The king’s features dissolved to reveal he was as much a beast as the men he commanded.

Sorne could not be responsible for Charald’s nature; the king would always seek the path of war.

Imoshen felt it the moment Sorne accepted this. Relief swept through him. She felt the power of the gift-wright and the healer as they repaired and restored.

Then something stung her forehead.

She opened her eyes. They were still on the cliff, but stormy clouds hung low overhead and the sea had risen. Waves crashed, showering them with spray that stung exposed skin.

Time to go back.

In another heartbeat, they knelt in the sisterhood’s solarium once more.

Ceriane toppled sideways. Imoshen just caught her, but she couldn’t save Reoden, who slumped beside her patient, head near his feet.

Imoshen laid the gift-wright down gently, and came back to kneel next to Sorne. He seemed to be sleeping. His face... the burn scars had healed, but the eye socket contained no eye, only smooth skin. As for the wound on his belly, it was now a single silver line.

She pulled up the cover and stood.

For a moment, the room swung around her. When her head cleared, she went out to the corridor, calling for warmed wine and food to restore them after gift-working.

And she sent for Frayvia, because she knew her devotee would want to meet the Warrior’s-voice. Imoshen left Sorne in Frayvia’s care, with instructions to call her the moment he recovered.

Z
ABIER HAD TO
admit there was something to be said for victory. It made a man feel... As his gaze was drawn to Queen Jaraile he was grateful for his voluminous priestly robes. Tonight, he sat at the king’s private table, sharing a meal with the barons. They spoke of the ease of the attack.

‘...no one left alive,’ Baron Eskarnor said.

‘What, not even the children?’ Jaraile went white.

‘Little Wyrds grow into big Wyrds,’ the king told her; he rolled his eyes as he turned back to the barons. ‘How many of the full-blood T’En did you kill?’

The two barons exchanged looks. Zabier waited to hear the number. It had been growing during the ride back, and the fire had made it difficult to ascertain how many had been killed. Most convenient.

‘At least twenty,’ Eskarnor said. ‘It was a small estate.’

‘But they were fierce. Terrible fierce,’ Hanix assured him. ‘Pickings were poor.’

‘Hardly any prizes for the men,’ Eskarnor agreed. ‘I thought these Wyrds were rich as kings.’

‘You’re thinking of Cesspit City.’ Charald lifted his glass, eyes blazing. The king was heading for one of his manic states, and would sweep everyone along with him. ‘To ridding Chalcedonia of Wyrds.’

‘To victory.’

As they began to discuss the best time to attack, and the logistics of getting men and supplies near to the city without alerting the Wyrds, Jaraile came to her feet. ‘If you will excuse me, sire.’

Zabier was too busy to watch her go.

‘It won’t take much to turn the people against the Wyrds,’ Charald said. ‘They’ve always hated them. Why, only recently, my palace guards caught a Wyrd spy in a whorehouse, sniffing around True-men. They strung him up as an example to his kind and not a peep did I hear from the port Wyrds. But we’ll need more than one spy to justify an attack on their city.’

‘A massacre?’ Eskarnor suggested.

‘But the Wyrds haven’t...’ Zabier fell silent as the king and his two barons turned to him, with the eyes of cold-blooded killers. He wanted to sink under the table, but if he didn’t protest, he would look weak. ‘I’m a man of the church. I–’

‘The drought has meant another poor harvest,’ Hanix complained. ‘Our people need something to distract them. A war with spoils will–’

‘The drought.’ Zabier sat forward in his eagerness. ‘We can blame the drought on the Wyrds.’

‘What do they have to do with the fact that we haven’t had decent rain in almost five years?’ Charald asked.

‘They don’t worship the Seven.’ Zabier looked from face to face, and saw them make the connection. ‘The gods are angry. They’re punishing–’

‘Well done.’ Charald clapped him on the back. ‘We’ll make a strategist of you yet. Send the Seven’s priests out to spread the word. They can use their sermons to rouse the populace. Which reminds me, we’ll need a vision from the Warrior’s-voice to make the holy war official.’

This was the only thorn in Zabier’s side. The king was firmly devoted to the Warrior god. Zabier was torn. On the one hand, this meant he didn’t have to risk his life making the offering but, on the other hand, it meant his counterpart from the Warrior’s church had the king’s ear. ‘Yes, sire.’

‘For an undertaking of this scale, we need a suitable offering.’ The king looked thoughtful.

‘Even after our victory, the Chalcedonian barons may be wary of attacking the Wyrds,’ Eskarnor said. ‘They piss themselves whenever Wyrds are mentioned. Especially the full-bloods.’

‘That’s it!’ The king slammed his fist on the table. ‘We’ll sacrifice a silverhead, one of those two T’En who came sniffing around here demanding an audience with me.’ He gestured to Zabier. ‘You’ll capture them and keep one in reserve.’

‘You want the Warrior’s-voice to sacrifice a silverhead?’ Zabier asked, greatly relieved he wasn’t doing it.

‘Of course. Why not?’

Zabier came to his feet. ‘I’ll make the arrangements now.’

He left while the king talked logistics with the barons.

How was he going to incapacitate the two T’En delegates? The old fat one would be easy, but the big one with the hard face...

He’d need pure pains-ease.

S
ORNE WOKE FROM
a nightmare vision. He woke babbling of half-bloods and True-men and danger. Every time he closed his eyes, he caught glimpses of the frightened Malaunje and T’En children being loaded onto the cart.

‘Bad dream?’ a sweet-faced Malaunje woman asked.

He looked around. And it all came back to him. ‘Where’s the T’En woman?’

‘There were three of them. Imoshen, Re–’

‘Imoshen.’

She spoke to someone outside, then came back to him. ‘She’ll be here soon. You have time to bathe. I’ll help you.’

She helped him up, and he winced in anticipation of the pain in his stomach, but it wasn’t there. Looking down, he saw smooth, healthy flesh and a single silver scar.

It was such a relief, he felt like laughing.

The bathing chamber was as fine as any in King Charald’s palace. He remembered Imoshen guiding him to the revelation that the king would have chosen the path to war without his influence. He had not been responsible for the massacre that had followed.

Hot tears fell from his remaining eye.

The Malaunje woman said nothing as she ran the bath, and helped him in. He was so weak, his arms shook. To think he had once been proud of his strength. Proud and arrogant...

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

‘Frayvia.’

‘I’m–’

‘Sorne. I know.’

And she sang under her breath as she ran soft but firm hands over his body. He felt his muscles relax. The dull ache in his collarbone was gone. Everywhere her hands moved, he discovered smooth skin where there had been scars.

‘Are...’ He almost didn’t want to ask. ‘Are there scars on my back?’

‘Not a one.’ She ran her hands down his back from shoulder blades to ribs, and the touch of her hands seemed to strip all those years of scourgings from him, taking away the anger buried deep inside to reveal the boy.

More tears fell, but they were happy tears, and they were washed away by the warm water she poured over his head and shoulders. When she reached for the soap again, he took it from her. ‘I can manage.’

‘I’ll fetch some clothes,’ she told him.

Rising from the bath, he looked into the mirror to see what had become of his face. He discovered the hair over his left temple was still missing, as was that eye, but where the burn scars had been was now just smooth skin.

The person in the mirror was familiar. He’d seen him somewhere before...

‘Imoshen’s here,’ Frayvia said, as she returned and helped him dress. ‘Do you want me to comb your hair?’

Two voices reached him. ‘Who’s–’

‘Healer Reoden. She and Imoshen lead the two largest sisterhoods. The other one who worked on you was the gift-wright, All-mother Ceriane.’

He was deep inside the sisterhoods, surrounded by the full-bloods he had been raised to fear and destroy.

If they knew who he truly was, they would despise him.

‘Come.’ Frayvia led him out into the solarium.

When he approached Imoshen and the healer he could sense their gifts like the drumming of rain on a roof, but without the pain in his core, he did not feel a desperate need for their power. He was drawn to them, like the fire on a winter’s night.

‘You’re doing well, considering it’s only been a day,’ Imoshen told him. ‘How do you feel?

Raw – emotionally and physically. He didn’t know what to say.

‘You surprised us all,’ Reoden said. She looked him over with interest. ‘Any pain?’

‘None, not even...’ His hand fell to his stomach. ‘I don’t remember much, but I do know I’m in your debt. All-mothers Reoden, Ceriane and Imoshen – you saved my life.’ He gave the obeisance of gratitude, hoping he’d remembered it correctly. As far as they knew, he was one of their sisterhood half-bloods.

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t rebuild your eye,’ the healer said. ‘There has to be something to work with, and–’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Sorne woke with a vision,’ Frayvia said.

He turned to her, shocked.

She gestured. ‘Go on. You asked me to get Imoshen so you could tell her.’

Did they all know who he was? And they had still healed him? ‘I’ve had another vision–’

‘Malaunje don’t get visions,’ Reoden said. ‘The only half-blood who ever claimed to have visions was the Warrior’s-voice, and he...’ She took a step back and looked to him, and then to Imoshen. ‘You knew?’

Imoshen nodded. ‘I guessed. And I suspect he does get visions. After all, he suffered an empyrean wound, and Malaunje don’t usually–’

‘He’s supposed to be dead. He’s the Mieren king’s spy.’ Reoden said. ‘What’s he doing here?’