Exile (13 page)

Sorne hesitated.

‘Do you want a sacrifice, sire?’ Zabier asked. ‘A vision to confirm your path?’

‘Yes. Sorne will do the sacrifice.’

‘As you say, sire.’ Zabier looked down to hide his triumph. Sorne would risk his life, while he reaped the benefits of Sorne’s vision.

S
ORNE HID HIS
dismay. Another sacrifice? How could he live with himself?

Loud voices heralded the arrival of the barons, and Sorne stepped back to stand behind the king’s chair. As they entered, the food-taster followed. The barons fell silent. They feared Charald. No one mentioned the straw man, the burnt banners or the king’s rage.

The king’s manservant tapped Sorne’s arm then drew him into the private chamber of the tent, where he indicated the chamber pot. Sorne glanced down, not sure what he was looking for. The king’s urine was... ‘Red?’

‘The colour of port wine.’

‘Is it blood?’

‘He hasn’t been wounded.’

‘Have you consulted the saw-bones?’

‘He’s good at sewing up wounds, but...’ The manservant glanced around to make sure no one could overhear. ‘The king’s been talking to the Warrior all afternoon.’

Sorne shrugged.

‘He’s been getting answers.’

‘Oh...’ Sorne glanced towards the other side of the tent, where he could hear Charald holding forth. ‘The king seems fine now.’ He gestured to the chamber pot. ‘Get rid of it. If this happens again, let me know.’

The man nodded and Sorne returned to his place behind the king’s chair. The barons had ranged themselves around the table in their respective factions, southern barons down one end, with the Chalcedonian barons down the other.

The king was failing, but the barons would never follow a crippled prince... Sorne gasped. He was thinking like a True-man. The T’En could fix Prince Cedon. The healer hadn’t been able to replace Sorne’s lost eye because she needed something to work with, but the boy’s foot was just malformed. If Charald brought the child here, they could... But no, Charald would never willingly hand over his heir to Wyrds. Not even if it meant the boy would be returned whole and healthy.

Or would he? Was his desperation for a suitable heir enough to make him overlook his hatred of the Wyrds?

‘I’ve called you here because this insult cannot go unpunished,’ Charald said. ‘Last night proved the Wyrds cannot be trusted.’

The barons agreed. Not one of them questioned the king’s logic. Sorne noticed how Kerminzto and several others lowered their eyes.

Charald named four barons, two southerners and two Chalcedonians. ‘Each of you select a Wyrd estate and raze it. Bring me the trophy braids and several survivors. There will be a magnificent sacrifice. The ones we don’t give to the Warrior, we’ll string up on scaffolds along the causeway. The Wyrds will rue the day they crossed me.’

Sorne looked down to hide his horror. He’d seen Charald use these tactics before to break the spirit of besieged cities in the past. Back then, Sorne had done nothing; what could one man do against the King Charalds of the world? This time they were his people, and he raged against his impotence.

Sorne despised the king. But he despised himself more for encouraging Charald to believe he was the tool of the Warrior. Originally, it had been Sorne’s path to power, but now the king’s delusion had power over them all.

Baron Eskarnor came to his feet. ‘To King Charald, saviour of Chalcedonia!’

Everyone filled their goblets and stood. When the food-taster sipped Charald’s wine, the barons noticed but made no comment.The toast was drunk and the goblets topped up. Sorne had seen far too many of these evenings. The barons would try to outdo each other, heaping fulsome praise on Charald.

‘To ridding Chalcedonia of filthy Wyrds,’ Eskarnor said.

‘No.’ Charald held up his hand. It trembled and he lowered it to raise his goblet. ‘To ridding the
world
of Wyrds.’ The king paused for effect. ‘They’ll never reach port. After I’ve pried them out of their city and they’ve loaded their wagons with riches, we’ll surround their camp. We’ll kill them all, right down to the last babe in arms.’

Stunned silence greeted this.

A buzzing filled Sorne’s ears.

The king laughed. ‘The Wyrds were never going to reach port. Do you think I want them sailing away to fester in one of my subject kingdoms? We’d just have to go through this all over again.’

As if released, the barons laughed and congratulated the king on his foresight.

Sorne’s head spun. Why hadn’t he seen this? He knew how ruthless Charald was. He’d been raised for the express purpose of ridding Chalcedonia of Wyrds. But he had thought that meant exile.

Murdering a whole race of people was... unthinkable.

Apparently not for King Charald.

Z
ABIER’S HEAD SPUN.

Killing all living Wyrds did not remove them from Chalcedonia. More half-bloods would be born. Look at Valendia. Her birth had driven his parents apart and broken up their happy home.

‘What of the half-blood babies born to Mieren parents?’ Zabier asked, before he knew he meant to. ‘They’ll keep coming.’

Charald laughed. ‘Then you’ll be kept busy, sacrificing them!’

In that heartbeat, Zabier’s two worlds collided. Zabier the man who loved his sister confronted what Zabier the Father’s-voice had done to protect her, and the impact rocked his world off its foundations. A lifetime of sacrificing half-bloods stretched before him; the thought revolted him.

Talk and laughter surrounded him. He took nothing in.

A wave of nausea hit him.

Mumbling an apology, Zabier walked blindly out of the tent. Somehow Sorne was with him, supporting him.

He glanced to his choice-brother. Sorne’s face revealed nothing. But then, Sorne had been raised for this. Zabier hadn’t. Zabier pushed Sorne away, staggered several steps, fell to his knees in the snow and threw up.

When he was done, Sorne pulled him to his feet, drew him inside their tent and fetched him watered wine.

Zabier recalled the day Sorne had come to him, horrified by the rumours of Malaunje sacrifices. They’d just been to see Valendia, and when Sorne questioned him about the rumours, he’d denied everything. It had been the first time his private world and his public world had collided, and he’d rebuilt the walls. Now they lay in ruins.

As his choice-brother helped him take off his rich vestments, Zabier wondered: if Sorne had been revolted by the thought of Wyrd sacrifices then, was he hiding how he really felt now?

When Sorne tucked him into bed, Zabier caught his hand. He wanted to ask Sorne to help him escape from the king, but Sorne hadn’t helped last time. He’d gone off with Charald to make his mark on the world and left him, a boy of thirteen, to serve King Matxin.

Besides, Sorne loved King Charald.

‘What is it?’ Sorne whispered.

‘Nothing.’ Zabier let him go. Sorne must despise him. After all, Zabier despised himself.

‘Sleep.’ Sorne smoothed his hair from his forehead. ‘We can talk tomorrow.’

Tears stung Zabier’s eyes and he turned away. Meanwhile, Sorne climbed into bed and the celebrations from the royal tent reached them.

Zabier lay in the darkness, heart racing, as everything he had ever done or failed to do while serving King Matxin came back to him. He could not bear it. He needed the release of pains-ease.

When Sorne’s breathing became deep and regular, Zabier opened the chest and found the glass bottle. Normally he diluted the pains-ease and measured it carefully. Tonight, he took a mouthful, neat. It seared his throat on the way down.

He fought the urge to cough, tears streaming. Furtively, he returned the bottle and lay down.

Soon, he felt the warmth creep into his limbs as the sweet lies of pains-ease swept him away. Once he’d sought pains-ease in the belief it would bring him visions, and now he knew they were hollow dreams, but in his dreams, he was a hero, saving Valendia from King Charald. In his dreams, he saved the children and infants he’d sacrificed, because to do otherwise would kill him.

Funny... he thought it already had.

S
ORNE SAT UP
cautiously. He’d waited as long as he could after Zabier took the pains-ease. Now he rolled to his feet and crept across to the bunk and listened to Zabier’s deep, even breathing.

Imoshen needed to know King Charald’s real plans. How much of the night was left?

He dressed warmly and slipped out of the tent. A light snow was falling from patchy clouds. Good, the snow would cover his tracks. He made his way through the camp, down to the lake’s shore and along it, looking for a small boat to borrow. The cold was fierce. Finding what he was looking for, he slipped into the boat and rowed across the lake.

Getting into the city would not be hard. The brotherhood warriors would be eager to capture him. Convincing them he was Imoshen’s agent was another thing entirely. After what Charald had said about him, the brotherhoods would want to kill him on sight.

But surely the fact that he put himself at their mercy would prove he was Imoshen’s agent?

T
OBAZIM GLANCED TO
his choice-brother. Learon’s brooding worried him. Their stretch of wall-walk backed onto the ruined palace and was bound by a tower at each end. They must have walked it twenty times in silence. Not that Tobazim blamed him. Every time he tried to come up with a topic of conversation, all he could think of was Paravia with Kyredeon in the trysting bower. The bower had been dismantled now, but he still saw it in his mind’s eye.

When a patch of moonlight illuminated a man in a rowboat, it was a relief for Tobazim. He pointed. ‘Look.’

‘Could be another survivor from the estates,’ Learon said. Malaunje had been arriving in small parties; exhausted women with small children, old men leading boys. ‘Could be a Mieren spy.’

Tobazim and Learon watched as the oarsman came closer.

‘He’s using the causeway to hide him from the Mieren camp,’ Learon said.

The oarsman rowed closer to the wall.

Tobazim leant over. ‘Who goes there?’

The oarsman peered up at them. Tobazim couldn’t make out his features, just the smudge that was his face.

‘I have a message for the causare,’ he called softly.

Tobazim glanced to Learon. ‘What do you think?’

‘Could be a Mieren ploy, but he’s only one man.’ Learon shrugged. ‘If he gives us trouble we can handle him.’

‘No. I meant should we take him straight to the causare?’

Learon hesitated, obviously torn. They had been raised to serve the brotherhood with unfaltering loyalty, but if they took him to Kyredeon, their all-father might use what he learnt for his own gain, rather than the protection of their people.

Learon came to a decision, straightened up and leaned over the wall. ‘Go to boat-house gate below. We’ll be right down.’

They knew their way through the ruined palace. Tobazim opened the gates and the oarsman rowed. As he secured the boat, his hood hid his features. He appeared to be unarmed, but there could have been anything under those furs. Tobazim and Learon kept their distance, hands on their knife hilts.

‘Who are you?’ Learon asked. ‘And how do we know you speak the truth?’

Keeping his head down, he climbed up beside them. ‘You aren’t going to like who I am, but you must believe me, I’m Imoshen’s spy and I need to see her.’

He pushed back the hood to reveal pure white hair and a face with one eye. Where the other eye had been was only smooth skin.

‘The Warrior’s-voice.’ Learon reached for his long-knife. ‘You sacrificed our people.’

Tobazim caught his arm. ‘Think, Lear. He’s here risking his life.’

Learon grimaced, but nodded.

‘Take me to Imoshen. I must get back before dawn.’

Chapter Ten

I
MOSHEN AWOKE INSTANTLY,
to find Arodyti by her bed.

‘We have the Warrior’s-voice,’ Arodyti said.

Frayvia gave a little gasp of surprise and sat up to light a candle.

‘He claims he’s your spy, Imoshen.’ Arodyti sounded hurt and annoyed. ‘I’m your hand-of-force. Why wasn’t I told?’

Imoshen swung her feet to the floor. ‘The fewer people who knew, the safer he would be.’

‘I’m afraid quite a few people know now. He came up here with two of Kyredeon’s warriors. I have him in your inner circle chamber.’

‘Are Kyredeon’s warriors here too?’

‘Waiting at the sisterhood gate.’

‘I’ll get dressed.’

Arodyti left them.

‘You asked Sorne to spy for you?’ Frayvia whispered. ‘How could you?’

‘Just to let me know if his vision was likely to come true. Come on.’

They dressed and went through to the chamber. Egrayne was there, along with Sarosune, Arodyti’s shield-sister, but no one else. Imoshen was grateful. She could tell Egrayne was hurt and angry. Imoshen should have consulted the sisterhood’s voice-of-reason before sending Sorne out to spy.

He stood in front of the fire, sipping warm spiced wine. As soon as he saw her, he put the cup aside. She noticed how he glanced once to Frayvia, then away quickly. His emotions were close to the surface; she read him easily. He loved her devotee but never expected to share his life with her.

‘You asked to see me?’ She crossed the chamber.

He nodded. ‘I have bad news, Imoshen. Really bad news.’

‘Go on.’

His gaze flicked to the others.

‘You can speak in front of them.’

‘King Charald doesn’t want to banish your people. He wants to wipe you out. When you ride out of here next spring, he’ll wait until you’ve made camp, then he’ll kill everyone.’

Arodyti swore.

‘But why?’ Egrayne asked.

Imoshen was not surprised. It fitted with her reading of the king. ‘If he means to do this, why did he send his men to attack our estates? That makes him appear untrustworthy.’

‘You have to understand how Charald’s mind works. He thought you arrogant and took insult. He suspected you weren’t seriously considering exile. Destroying those estates was his way of asserting himself. I’ve served him since I was seventeen. He’s used the same tactics before to break the spirits of besieged cities.’