Besieged (9 page)

‘He’s in with the newborn and the wet-nurse,’ Vittoryxe added. ‘Hardly ideal.’ And this conversation was hardly ideal if she planned seduction. ‘Come on.’

She led Egrayne down to their tent and stepped inside.

Egrayne went to light the lamp.

‘No.’ She caught the gift-warrior’s hand, bringing it to her lips, so she could kiss those scarred knuckles. ‘You saved my life today.’

Egrayne inhaled sharply.

‘You stepped between me and a man in danger of losing control of his gift.’

Egrayne said nothing. The tent was too dark to see her expression.

‘I wanted to say how much I admire you.’ In Vittoryxe’s experience, people loved compliments.

‘What are you offering?’

Why did Egrayne have to be so cynical? ‘A night’s trysting? In each other’s arms we could share our gifts, reinforce them. It’s a long ride back. We may have need–’

‘So you do this to strengthen us both?’

I do it to win your cooperation, but now I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth the trouble.
‘That, and...’

Vittoryxe ran her hand up Egrayne’s arm, felt goose bumps rise on her skin and the surge of her gift. For all that Egrayne was keeping a cool head, she wanted this.

‘The others will know.’

‘So what if they sense it when we gift-tryst? Let down your defences.’ She reached for Egrayne’s long plait and began to unravel it. ‘I want to roll naked in your hair. I want to feel your power race over my skin.’

Sensation swamped her as Egrayne let down her gift walls. The depth of the warrior’s need surprised Vittoryxe. Triumph and desire made her heart race.

Egrayne pushed the vest over Vittoryxe’s shoulders, trapping her arms against her body and baring her breasts. She felt a soft cheek and hot breath on her skin, and knew she could have Egrayne for more than one night, if it suited her.

A scream sounded sharp and clear in the night.

For a heartbeat, Vittoryxe did not understand.

‘We’re under attack,’ Egrayne said. She darted out of the tent, leaving Vittoryxe to straighten her clothing and rein in her gift.

O
SKANE DOZED IN
the seat. He hadn’t had much rest last night, and he’d been on edge all day. Now the rocking of the cart and the gentle plod of the two horses lulled him to sleep. He blinked and took a deep breath.

‘You’re awake.’ Franto spoke softly, so as not to disturb the sleeping penitents. ‘The horses are getting tired. We should stop for the night.’

‘If I remember correctly, there’s a small village over that way.’ Now that he was awake, Oskane’s mind raced. ‘Hopefully, we can collect more penitents at Enlightenment Abbey. It would be good if we could find a former farmer. Restoration Retreat used to be almost self sufficient. We’ll need a cow, some chickens and goats. The retreat will no doubt need repairing. A carpenter –’

Angry voices from up ahead made him freeze. Several dogs barked.

Franto halted the horses. ‘Could be brigands.’

‘The roads are thick with them, but a poor village would not have much worth stealing.’ Oskane glanced over his shoulder. There was no room to turn around, and he doubted Franto could make the horses back up in their traces.

More shouts, getting closer. The words were unintelligible, but the anger was clear. They could see nothing beyond a bend in the road.

‘Do you have a sword?’ one of the penitents asked. ‘I used to be a mercenary.’

Oskane jumped with fright. ‘We’re priests, not men of violence.’

‘A staff, then.’

‘They will not harm members of the clergy,’ Oskane said, hopefully.

His stomach lurched as an angry mob of about a dozen people rounded the bend. The leaping flames of their torches banished the cool silvery light of the two moons. They brandished pitchforks and shovels. Not brigands, then.

His first thought was that they knew about the half-blood infant asleep under his seat, and were going to demand he hand it over to the Wyrds. Then he saw that they drove a young woman before them. The dogs nipped at her bare feet and her calves were revealed by a torn nightgown. She stumbled, almost dropping a weeping infant. There was blood on her nightgown. She lifted despairing eyes and saw the cart.

Recognising the priestly robes, she held out one hand in supplication. Her mouth moved, but between the shouts of the villagers, the barking of the dogs and the whinnying of the frightened horses, he didn’t catch what she said.

Seeing the priests, the mob stopped.

‘What is this?’ Oskane demanded, coming to his feet. ‘What have you done to this poor woman?’

One of the villagers gestured with his torch. ‘She’s a Wyrd-lover.’

‘I never–’

‘Then where’d the half-blood come from?’ another demanded.

She had no answer for that.

‘And why’d you keep the copperhead?’ The first man bustled forward. He had the shiny patches of many small burns on his brawny forearms; the village blacksmith, Oskane guessed. ‘The brat’s nearly a year old. She kept it hidden all this time.’ He shoved his torch near the crying infant and caught one little hand. ‘See, six fingers. Filthy half-blood.’

Franto nudged Oskane, who knew what he meant. This was fortuitous.

‘If she loves Wyrds so much, she can go live with them,’ a middle-aged woman announced. From her tone it was clear she was relishing the young woman’s disgrace. ‘We don’t want her kind.’

‘She can come with us,’ Oskane said. ‘We’re headed south. There’s a brotherhood winery down that way. We’ll drop her there.’

‘They won’t take me,’ she protested. ‘What’ll I do?’

The blacksmith stepped away from her. ‘You shoulda thought of that before you kept the brat!’

Oskane thought he heard a whimper from the baby under his seat. ‘Get on the cart.’

She went to go around the back, but the penitents protested.

‘We won’t ride with a filthy Wyrd-lover,’ one of them said.

Oskane was tempted to tell them they could walk, but he was certain, now, the newborn had woken, and he just wanted to get away. ‘Help her up with us, Franto. Our piety will protect us from her taint.’

The cart seat was built for two, but could hold three at a squeeze. Franto put the young mother between them, then took up the reins again. The villagers parted as Franto urged the horses on and the cart rounded the bend.

Oskane could feel the young woman, sitting stiff and reserved beside him. She held her child close to her and hushed the infant with soft words. He heard the penitents muttering amongst themselves. If they refused to share a cart with a half-blood, they certainly wouldn’t want to live alongside one. The retreat would have to be segregated. He’d been so intent on getting away that he hadn’t given much thought to how he would establish their living arrangements.

Soon they passed through the village, which consisted of six or seven cottages clustered around a mill pond. Chickens fussed as they settled down for the night.

A little way beyond the village, the young woman shifted on the seat. ‘Thank you, but you can let us off here.’

‘Why?’ Oskane asked.

‘I’ll go, I promise I will. I just need–’

‘Your home’s near here?’

She nodded and pointed.

Franto turned the cart up the track, and they entered a clearing where a faint light spilled from a simple cottage. The door stood open, half off its hinges.

‘Kolst?’ the young woman called.

No answer.

‘Your husband?’ Oskane asked.

She nodded, distracted, as Franto stopped the cart and helped her down. Without another word, she ran into the cottage.

Oskane met Franto’s eyes. They both followed her into the cottage, where a single tallow candle burned. The floor was packed earth, but someone had taken the trouble to carve a decorative frieze of the Farmer and the Mother over the mantel, along with the symbol of the Seven. Amidst evidence of a struggle, a young man lay sprawled on a rug made of knotted rags. There was blood in his pale blond hair.

The woman tucked the sleeping infant in a cradle and knelt next to him. ‘Kolst, speak to me.’

Oskane nodded to Franto, who knelt and checked the young man’s injuries. She looked on anxiously.

Meanwhile, Oskane inspected the cottage. It seemed the villagers had knocked him out and dragged her off. The locals were more forgiving of him. He was a useful member of their community and could take another wife. All he had to do was repudiate this one.

‘He’ll have a headache when he wakes, but he’ll be all right,’ Franto said.

‘I’ll stay with him,’ the young woman said. ‘We’ll leave first thing tomorrow. I promise. We won’t give trouble.’

‘Where will you go?’ Oskane asked, knowing the answer. There was nowhere they could go. All doors would be closed to them, for no True-man would welcome a half-blood, and the Wyrds would not have True-men and -women inside their villa walls.

The young woman’s mouth opened, then closed.

‘What is your name?’ Oskane asked.

‘Hiruna.’

‘What if I said I know somewhere safe, where you will be able to live and raise your Malaunje child?’

‘I’d go there tomorrow.’

‘Even if it meant not leaving for seventeen years?’

‘Why would I leave my child?’

Oskane nodded. ‘We’ll take you there. But there is something you must do for me.’ And he righted a chair to sit and explain the bargain. ‘Are you still feeding your child?’

She nodded, flushing, as if she expected ridicule.

‘Franto, bring the baby in.’

While they waited for his servant to return, Hiruna studied him. ‘Who are you? You don’t speak like the priest who comes to our village.’

‘I’m Scholar Oskane. I resigned my position as high priest to the Father, leader of the Seven, to take part in a special mission for the church.’ He thought it best not to mention the king yet.

Franto returned with the newborn in the basket. The babe had woken, uttering weak kitten-like cries.

Hiruna plucked him from the basket. ‘You poor little thing.’ She unwrapped him, spotting his six fingers and toes. ‘He’s Malaunje and newborn. Less than a day old.’ She looked up at Oskane, who said nothing.

Wasting no time, she undid her bodice and freed a breast. The baby turned his face towards her, latching on greedily.

‘There, now, isn’t that better?’ she crooned, then looked up. ‘What’s his name?’

Oskane had no idea. He saw Franto turn away to hide a smile.

‘Sorne. His name is Sorne.’

‘Sorne,’ she repeated. ‘Our son’s name is Izteben.’

He nodded and wondered if she realised what she was doing, rearing half-bloods who would one day turn on her.

Because they always did.

‘The penitents want to know what’s going on,’ Franto said.

‘We’ll stay here tonight. Strip the cottage of anything useful...’ – Hiruna looked up as Oskane continued – ‘No point leaving your things for the villagers to steal. We leave before dawn.’

Chapter Eight

V
ITTORYXE FOUND THE
camp in uproar. Malaunje ran about shouting, the newborn wailed, and there was no sign of Egrayne.

Over by the fire, Gift-tutor Lealeni was in the midst of a dozen Malaunje warriors lighting torches.

Vittoryxe strode across. ‘What is it? What’s going on?’

‘Graelen’s missing,’ Lealeni said. ‘Last time I looked he was fast asleep.’

‘I heard a scream.’

The gift-tutor glanced in the direction of Arodyti’s position. ‘Egrayne went...’

Vittoryxe was already running. Several of the Malaunje ran with her, bringing torches. At their approach, the trees came alive with leaping shadows.

‘Over there.’ Seventeen-year-old Frane pointed to a tangle of limbs and a long silver braid amongst the leaves. He bounded off to investigate.

‘Wait,’ Vittoryxe shouted. Following him up the slope, she scanned the area for threat, but her gaze was drawn back to the body. For an instant, she thought it was Egrayne, then she recognised Arodyti. The initiate had left her post again. It looked like she’d been running back to camp.

What had frightened her?

Frane went to turn Arodyti over, but Vittoryxe stopped the inexperienced warrior with a sharp gesture. She tasted power in the air, like the promise of rain. If Arodyti’s gift essence had passed onto the empyrean plane, he would be dragged through with her.

Vittoryxe opened her gift awareness to check. A gentle pulse of power emanated from Arodyti’s body; if she had been dragged onto the higher plane, there would be nothing.

‘It’s all right. Arodyti hasn’t passed through,’ Vittoryxe managed to whisper. Speaking while she was in this state was incredibly difficult. It was the thing that made her a gift-warrior. Most T’En could not even sustain an awareness of both worlds, let alone communicate.

At her signal Frane turned Arodyti over. Blood, bright with power, seeped from a cut behind her ear. Vittoryxe guessed the young initiate had slipped in the leaf litter and hit her head.

‘A simple head wound. Carry her back to the gift-tutor.’

What had the foolish initiate been running from, and where were Egrayne and the lad?

Vittoryxe studied the Malaunje warriors, who appeared as softly glowing forms. ‘You.’ She pointed to the brightest one, but couldn’t tell who it was.

‘Roskara,’ the warrior said.

‘Come with me.’ They had to find Egrayne and the lad. ‘I can sense wild-power nearby. If I segue to the empyrean plane, watch over my body.’

It was every T’En’s greatest fear, leaving their body vulnerable while they worked their gift on the higher plane.

Vittoryxe stumbled up the rise and saw it.

Arodyti’s tree.

Wild-power must have surged through here and blighted the tree when it was still a seedling. It glowed, deformed and twisted almost beyond recognition, power pulsing through every branch and twig. What was it doing here? This was not a known weak point between the planes.

It was nearly season’s cusp when the walls between the planes were thinnest, but even so, that shouldn’t have been enough.

As Vittoryxe plunged down the slope, her boot caught on something soft – a body – and she flew forwards, sprawling in the leaf litter. She tasted dirt, felt grit in her mouth.