Exile (22 page)

Imoshen’s pale hair seemed to attract the sun. Her gaze flicked to the old man and child, who Charald had positioned just behind him. Sorne wanted to whisk them both away. He feared the king would strike out in rage. He feared the king’s rage would be the one thing that prevented this plan from succeeding.

When they were still a body-length from the Wyrds, Charald gestured to the old man and child. ‘As you see, I have two of your copperheads, and...’ He jerked his head, indicating the scaffolds behind him. ‘I’ve prepared a little welcoming party. They’re going to dance for me.’

The two men behind Imoshen stiffened, but did not speak.

Imoshen closed her eyes. When she opened them, they seemed to glow with the reflected light from the causeway and the lake. Sorne could feel her gift from where he stood. Now he feared her rage would impact on the negotiations.

But when she spoke her voice was calm. ‘You have a son, who is nearly three. He has a club foot.’

‘Yes.’ Charald’s response was wary.

Imoshen gestured behind her. ‘Look atop the wall, above the gate.’

As she spoke, a boy was lifted up so that he sat on the stonework, legs dangling over the drop. His white-blond hair shone in the sun. One of the T’En held him around the waist. They said something to him and he waved.

‘That could be any child.’ Charald’s voice held scorn. ‘Why, from this distance it could be one of your own brats.’

‘He has a club foot.’

‘Not an uncommon ailment.’

‘He calls himself Printh Thedon.’

Sorne saw the king flinch.

‘Your king’s guard are on their way here to report that the prince was taken yesterday afternoon, from his nursery.’ Imoshen paused to let this sink in. ‘He disappeared in the arms of a T’En warrior.’

‘Why should I care? I have another heir.’

‘King Matxin’s grandchild? You would give your kingdom to the grandson of the man who stole your throne?’

Sorne could see the fury building in the king. His neck grew taut and his shoulders tight. Sorne glanced to the old man and child, trying to catch the old man’s eye. They needed to edge away so the king’s anger didn’t find an outlet in them.

But to Sorne’s amazement, Charald maintained his composure.

‘The brat’s a cripple. He’ll never sit on the throne.’ The king dismissed his son. ‘The Warrior sent a vision. I’ll have a healthy son who will rule after me.’

‘We know. We’ve had the same vision. But you will have no more children. This is the son the Warrior intends to rule Chalcedonia. Prince Cedon will be whole. Once our healer straightens his club foot, he will be fit to take the throne.’

Sorne saw the king go very still.

The silence stretched. Bird cries carried on the breeze.

‘The Warrior sent you a vision?’ Charald was cautious, but hopeful. ‘You can heal him?’

Relief made Sorne light-headed.

‘We can. However, we are not gods, only the servants of the gods,’ Imoshen said. ‘The bones will have to be taught to grow the right way. We’ll need until next spring to be sure.’

‘Next spring?’ Eskarnor muttered. ‘I’m not spending another bloody winter in the snow.’

Sorne felt Imoshen’s gift surge.

‘Winter cusp,’ Charald said.

‘We cannot put to sea in winter,’ she protested. ‘The storms–’

‘Winter cusp. That’s my final offer.’

Sorne willed her to accept. The king could not afford to appear weak. Eskarnor was only looking for an excuse.

‘Winter’s cusp then. We want safe passage to the port, for all our people, including those on the estates. And’ – she gestured to the captives – ‘we want the old man and child, as a sign of your good faith. You have not kept your word before.’

‘Have them. They’re worthless.’ King Charald caught the old man by the shoulder and shoved him forward. He stumbled. The child tried to help him. He recovered and drew her behind Imoshen, past the two men and behind the warriors.

‘We’ll make the exchange at the headlands on the first day of winter,’ Imoshen said.

‘Very well. But any Wyrds who remain in Chalcedonia after winter’s cusp will be hunted down and executed.’

‘So be it.’

Chapter Seventeen

T
OBAZIM CLEANED HIS
nib and studied his plans. He’d been awake since he’d heard the news about the prince last night. Even though he wasn’t sure they were staying, he’d been driven by a rush of gift-inspired excitement. Since dawn, he’d been working on his plans to incorporate the ruined palace with Kyredeon’s original palace and make the living spaces more efficient.

Buoyed by his gift, he felt nothing, not the cushion under his legs, not the hours spent at his kneeling-desk. Visions of a three-storey atrium swam in his feverish mind. He’d designed it to impress, and it needed a sculpture as the focal point: something innovative, something remarkable that would echo the daring of his design. He was only vaguely aware of Haromyr and Athlyn entering the chamber.

‘How can you sit there scribbling when the causare is meeting with King Charald right at this moment?’ Haromyr asked.

Tobazim shrugged, as Athlyn picked up a jade sculpture depicting two lovers in coitus on a galloping horse. After tilting it this way and that, he held it up. ‘Is this even possible?’

Tobazim glanced to Haromyr and they both laughed.

Athlyn blushed.

One of the Malaunje who had escaped the winery with them opened the door. ‘The causare returned with the two Malaunje King Charald was going to hang. The all-father wants everyone to the main courtyard. He has an announcement to make–’

‘Exile?’ a voice demanded in the hall outside. ‘We face exile? You jest?’

‘Exile or death,’ someone replied.

‘Exile?’ Tobazim repeated, disappointed but not surprised.

‘We won’t know what’s going on if we don’t go to the main courtyard,’ Haromyr said, practical as always. They headed out.

Tobazim pushed the kneeling-desk aside and followed them.

They joined the crowd, jostling for places on the many balconies and verandahs overlooking the main courtyard. The buildings were three and four storeys high, and every vantage point was packed. The courtyard contained a fountain down one end and several famous works by the High Golden Age sculptor Iraayel. These were the envy of the other brotherhoods.

The
Fallen All-father
took pride of place, its delicately veined marble gleaming in the sun. It depicted an injured all-father. His voice-of-reason and hand-of-force stood over him, ready to defend him to the death, and it never failed to move Tobazim. This was the essence of what the brotherhoods meant to him: to shelter and protect. Since Learon’s death, he could not look on it without feeling angry.

Kyredeon stood with his two seconds and several of his inner circle.

‘What’s this talk of exile?’ someone yelled from the verandah opposite Tobazim.

‘Yes, what’s happening?’

‘What of the boy prince? Can’t the causare renegotiate the accord?’

‘I heard the Mieren king planned to kill us all.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘No, I heard it, too.’

‘We’ll be lucky to reach the ships.’

‘We can fight. Why give up what’s ours?’

There was a chorus of warriors ready and willing to fight.

Kyredeon held up his hands and the courtyard fell silent. ‘It’s true. The Mieren king meant to break his word and massacre us on the road to port. The causare has struck a bargain. In exchange for safe passage to the sea, we heal the king’s heir and hand him over once we’re on our ships. We leave the city, leave Chalcedonia by winter cusp. Anyone left behind will be hunted down and executed.’

This was greeted with disbelief and objections. Voices bombarded Tobazim from all directions. Even though he’d suspected the worst, now that it was real and they had a time limit, he could not imagine abandoning the city to the Mieren.

‘Where will we go?’ someone called out. ‘There are Mieren everywhere.’

‘King Charald conquered all the mainland kingdoms of the Secluded Sea and those that revolted are at war with him. We’ll never be safe from him.’

‘We’d be better off staying and fighting,’ another person yelled.

‘I can’t imagine the all-fathers walking out of the city and handing it over to the Mieren,’ Haromyr muttered.

‘No. It’s the all-mothers,’ Ceyne admitted, joining them. ‘They don’t care about dishonour if it means saving the children.’

‘It’s not dishonourable to save the children,’ Tobazim said, thinking of his choice-mother. ‘Without them, we have no future.’

T
O
S
ORNE, THE
king seemed to be back to his old self: alert and energetic. It made him realise how much Charald had faded in the years he’d been away.

Right now, the king stood in front of his tent, ordering the barons about. Nitzane and Eskarnor were to return to port with him. It was an old ploy – Charald would keep those he trusted the least close by him. The rest of the barons were to maintain the siege. This separated the two barons from their supporters.

Besides, Charald had to maintain the pressure on the Wyrds. The barons and their men were a visible reminder that the Wyrds would be handing over their city come winter cusp. Messengers were to be allowed out of the city, and Wyrds were allowed in.

‘This has given him hope,’ Nitzane whispered to Sorne. ‘Perhaps now he’ll leave my boy alone.’

‘You don’t want the throne for your son?’

‘I used to think so. But seeing King Charald run himself ragged trying to keep ahead of Eskarnor convinced me it’s not worth the trouble.’ He grinned. ‘When you’re a king, there’s always some greedy bastard trying to steal your throne.’

Sorne smiled. But the problem was, as long as Charald believed Nitzane was a threat, the baron was in danger. And, as long as Charald was distrustful of his barons, he was vulnerable. A king was only as strong as the barons who supported him. Today the king appeared well, but his mind and body were fading. Only Sorne and the king’s manservant were aware of Charald’s mental lapses, but his physical deterioration was evident to everyone.

Nitzane left to pack, and Sorne did likewise.

While returning the documents to Zabier’s chest, he came across the bottle of pains-ease and realised he could absolve Nitzane of trying to poison the king by revealing Zabier’s actions. Acting on impulse, Sorne grabbed the bottle and went to the king’s tent. The public section, with its long table, brazier and rich fittings, was deserted. Going through to the back, he found Charald sitting on his bunk, hands across his knees.

He looked tired rather than triumphant, and his trembling had returned. So much for the illusion of good health.

‘I’ve done it.’ The king looked up. ‘I’ve freed my kingdom of Wyrds and I’ll have a healthy heir. I’ve finally given the Warrior what He wanted and He’s rewarded me.’

‘Sire, you were right to suspect poison.’ Sorne showed him the bottle of pains-ease.

The manservant hurried over looking worried.

‘Pains-ease?’ The king read the label.

‘Pure.’

‘Never use the stuff. And it’s not a poison.’

‘I know. I found this in the high priest’s chest. In its pure form, like this, it brings visionary slumber.’ Sorne watched Charald closely. ‘I think High Priest Zabier may have put some in your wine the night you thought you’d been poisoned.’

‘But...’

‘It can make people ill. We could test it if you like. If you took a few drops and it made you feel nauseous, we’d know it was the pains-ease that made you sick and Baron Nitzane was not trying to poison you.’

‘Wait.’ Charald frowned. ‘The high priest drank the same wine and he didn’t slumber like a baby.’

Sorne looked down, feigning shame. ‘My king, the high priest was addicted to pains-ease in this form. He took a little every day. Did you ever wonder why his eyes appeared glassy?’

Charald swore. ‘I never liked that fellow. Now I know why.’ He thought for a moment, then beckoned his manservant. ‘Bring me a glass of wine.’

The man provided one and the king opened the bottle.

‘How much?’

‘I don’t know. I never use the stuff.’

‘Don’t want to make myself violently ill, but I need to take enough to test your theory.’

‘If I may?’ The manservant poured a small amount into the wine. ‘My father was an apothecary and my brother learnt the trade.’

They waited. It wasn’t long before the king went pale and began sweating. He cursed softly under his breath and rubbed a trembling hand across his chin. ‘So now we know.’

Sorne took one more risk. ‘Sire, I don’t doubt for a moment that Eskarnor desires your throne, but I think you may have misinterpreted Nitzane’s actions.’

‘How so? He’s been shoring up alliances with the Chalcedonian barons.’

‘To defend you from Eskarnor and the southern barons.’

Charald’s eyes widened. He looked ill and old, but he also looked hopeful.

‘Nitzane’s grandfather served you loyally all his life. His brother owes the kingship of Navarone to you and Nitzane owes his wealth and standing in Chalcedonia to you. If Eskarnor stole the throne, the first thing he would do is strip Nitzane of his estates and distribute them to his loyal men. It’s in Nitzane’s best interests to keep you on the throne.’

‘You’re right. I’m glad. I always like Nitzel’s grandsons.’ He rubbed his face and swayed.

‘Lie back, sire. You look tired.’

‘I am tired. Tired of warring.’ Charald lay back on his bunk. ‘Even in the years that I wasn’t actually at war, I was watching the other kingdoms to make sure they weren’t plotting against me. They’ve forced war on me. All I’ve ever done is defend myself and the throne. Oskane never told me it would be like this.’ He lifted his head and looked around. ‘Where is Oskane?’

Startled, Sorne met the manservant’s eyes. The man wasn’t surprised, and that worried Sorne.

‘Oskane’s dead, sire,’ Sorne said gently.

‘That’s right. He’s dead. Comes a time when all of a man’s friends are dead and he even starts to miss his old enemies.’

Sorne sat by the king until he fell asleep. Then he beckoned the manservant and they moved away from the bunk. ‘How often does he ask for Oskane?’