Exile (23 page)

‘Only when he’s tired or stressed.’

‘And that’s when the trembling gets worse?’

The manservant nodded. ‘And the pains in his stomach and back. But his urine hasn’t gone that deep purple again.’

‘Has he consulted the saw-bones?’

‘No. The king doesn’t trust him.’ The manservant glanced over his shoulder; Charald was snoring. ‘He’s been getting worse this last year. The pains in his stomach and back are so bad, some nights he can’t sleep and then he raves–’

‘Madness?’

‘No. He’s afraid everyone is out to steal his throne. And he’s right.’

Sorne winced. ‘Has anyone else heard him ask for Oskane?’

‘I think the high priest suspected.’

‘When we reach the port, keep the other servants away from the king’s private chambers. As long as you and I shield him, we can cover for him. He might be ailing, but if they knew his mind was slipping...’ Sorne shuddered.

It was just one more thing for him to worry about. Instead of returning to his tent, he made his way to Nitzane’s tent, where he found the baron drinking wine with his captain.

Nitzane greeted Sorne. ‘You can settle this. Ballendin says Charald wants me with him, to keep an eye on me. I say it is because he doesn’t see me and my son as a threat, now that his son will sit on the throne.’

‘That’s what I came to see you about.’ Sorne kept his voice low. ‘I’ve convinced the king his recent stomach upset was caused by a bad reaction to pains-ease. This puts you in the clear. He’s always had a soft spot for you and your brother, because you’re Nitzel’s grandsons. You must seize the opportunity to prove your loyalty.

‘This evening the king will dine with the barons. Charald is afraid he won’t live long enough for his son to grow up and retain the throne. The last thing this kingdom needs is a civil war, with Queen Jaraile on one side and you on the other, in competition to set your sons on the throne. After you two have battled each other to a standstill, Eskarnor will step in and wipe out the winner. This is why you need to swear an oath to the king, promising loyalty to protect his son until the boy is old enough to defend himself. Speak to Baron Kerminzto, he’s the queen’s kin and he seems like a sensible man. Get the old nobility of Chalcedonia to make this oath. It needs to be done tonight, in front of the southern barons.’

‘The Warrior’s-voice speaks sense,’ Ballendin said. ‘Eskarnor can’t seize the throne if you and Charald are united.’

‘I’ll do it. Then I can bring my boy home. I miss him,’ Nitzane said. ‘Send for the Chalcedonian barons, Ballendin.’

Sorne walked out of the tent with the captain. ‘Nitzane shouldn’t send for his son until after the Wyrds have sailed and the prince is returned.’

‘Don’t worry. I can curb his enthusiasm.’

‘Good. You’ll be in court?’

‘I can be.’

‘You should be. Nitzane...’ Sorne hesitated.

‘He’s a good lad,’ Ballendin said. ‘But he’s not his brother or his grandfather.’

‘Yes.’ Sorne was relieved.

He was even more relieved that evening when the Chalcedonian barons entered the royal tent with Nitzane in the lead. Someone, probably Ballendin, must have coached Nitzane, because he made a fine speech about loyalty and the benefits of continuity of leadership. He sank to his knees and swore, in the event of the king’s death, to ensure the smooth running of the kingdom until the young prince came of age. Baron Kerminzto went next and the rest of the Chalcedonian barons took their turn.

With tears in his eyes, the king accepted their oaths.

Sorne glanced to Eskarnor. From the look the southern baron sent him, it was clear Eskarnor knew who was behind this cementing of alliances. Sorne had made a dangerous enemy.

Not to be outdone, Eskarnor sprang to his feet and gave the same oath. The southern lords followed suit, but no one was fooled.

Meanwhile, Sorne bided his time. As soon as he returned to port, he was going to visit the Father’s church and ask for Zabier’s assistant. Utzen would surely know where Zabier had sent Valendia.

I
MOSHEN SAT IN
front of the aviary with her infant daughter. Frayvia knelt beside them and threw a handful of grain through the bars. A flurry of birds swooped down, fighting over the food. Birds bred for their beauty, birds bred for their song – the aviary was a fluttering, fluting mass, each creature a work of art.

Umaleni squealed, her plump little legs kicking in delight. With her hands around Umaleni’s chest, Imoshen could feel the excited racing of her daughter’s heart. She opened her senses to the mid-morning sunlight sparkling on the tiles, the crisp air of early spring with just a hint of warmth to come and the feel of her daughter in her arms – perfect. She should really capture it for memory-sharing with Umaleni’s father.

If he still lived.

Her arms tightened on their daughter. Ardonyx had to live.

‘I can’t believe we’re sailing away, come winter cusp,’Frayvia marvelled. ‘Where will we go? You spoke of finding sanctuary.’

Imoshen laughed. ‘Don’t rush me. I’ve only just got the brotherhoods to agree to exile.’ In truth, she’d been thinking about it since the city was first beseiged. ‘Of the five mainland kingdoms King Charald conquered, three are still ruled by his subject kings. Two have revolted, but he sent war barons to subdue them. We don’t want to sail into a war. That only leaves the island of Ivernia.’

‘The Sagoras?’

Imoshen nodded. ‘They came from beyond the Endless Ocean three hundred years ago. For all we know, they were fleeing persecution like us. They’ve built their reputation as scholars. Hopefully, a people who value knowledge will be less likely to be afraid of us because we’re different. I’ll send a message.’

Umaleni gave a shrill of excitement, almost indistinguishable from the birds’ cries. Imoshen laughed.

‘Imoshen?’ Vittoryxe’s voice was rich with disapproval.

Imoshen bit her bottom lip and glanced to Frayvia, who sent her a look of sympathy. Schooling her face, Imoshen came to her feet and passed Umaleni to her devotee. She kissed her daughter’s downy head.

With just the right touch of deference, Frayvia acknowledged the gift-tutor, then went inside.

Imoshen summoned a smile. Surely someone who bred such beautiful birds had some joy in her heart? ‘We were just admiring your birds, Vittoryxe. They are a work of art.’

‘A work of art?’ The gift-tutor’s gaze turned hard and glittering. ‘Will there be a place for art when we are exiled? Or will we be reduced to grubbing in the dirt to feed ourselves?’ Vittoryxe shook her head. ‘We need to call the inner circle together. One of the initiates has gotten herself pregnant without permission.’

‘Who?’

‘Deyzi.’

‘She’s my age, almost an adept. Surely–’

‘There’s a right way to go about these things. She’s taken a Malaunje lover, which means the baby could be a half-blood. We won’t know until the pregnancy goes past the seven small moons and, even if she does carry the baby for the full year, it could be stillborn.’ Vittoryxe’s mouth grew thin with disapproval. ‘We don’t want her gift corrupting because she’s broken-hearted. That’s why all pregnancies have to be approved by the inner circle. I know you’ve ignored our practices and gotten away with it, but our customs are there for a reason. To keep us safe.’

Vittoryxe paused as if waiting for Imoshen to argue, but she’d had an idea. Later, she sought out Reoden.

‘Why can’t you ensure all our T’En babies are healthy?’

‘I wish I could.’ The healer poured spiced wine for them both. ‘But it’s not a simple healing, like urging flesh to knit. The baby will either grow right, or it will have malformed organs that eventually kill it. This wrongness is embedded deep in every fibre of the growing infant. I don’t have that level of skill.’

PART TWO

Chapter Eighteen

R
ONNYN NUDGED HIS
sister. ‘Race you to the top of the next dune.’

He took off, imagining himself the leader of a great brotherhood and his sister, a warrior from a rival sisterhood. His mother’s stories filled his head with visions of honour and courage, empowering his pounding heart. His feet speared through the fine dune grass, sinking into soft, white sand. He made it through the valley between the dunes, leapt a patch of snow and started up the other side. His thigh muscles protested as he put everything he had into beating Aravelle.

And this time he did.

He made it to the top of the dune ahead of her, hardly able to believe it. They both bent double to suck in deep breaths, and then straightened up. That was when he realised he was taller than her. At thirteen, she was a year and a half older. Today’s victory was sweet indeed.

Ronnyn couldn’t help smiling.

Aravelle’s eyes narrowed and she shoved him so hard he lost his balance and fell backwards, sprawling on the soft, powder-fine sand. His protest died on his lips as she frowned past him.

‘Is that a body?’

He scrambled around on his knees and shaded his eyes. It had stormed the night before, but today the wind had blown the clouds away. Now the setting sun gilded the dunes and the shallows of the secluded beach.

Ronnyn peered west into the glare, trying to make out the object that lay on the sand, exposed by the tide. The stranded dark shape could be one of the rocks that protruded from the beach, but he didn’t think so. They’d crossed the island, aiming for this particular inlet because this was where debris from the storms washed in. They’d been hoping for something useful, never thinking to find a body.

‘Come on.’ Aravelle ran down the far side of the dune with him at her heels. Breaking free of its plait, her long copper hair streamed behind her and her bare feet flashed, kicking up spurts of sand.

They slowed to a walk as they reached the hard-packed sand where the sea had retreated. Between them and the body, the beach seethed as a multitude of tiny azure crabs scurried for safety. If six-year-old Vittor had been with them, he would have chased the crabs, chortling with glee.

But Ronnyn was glad their little brother was not with them today.

The dead man had been a fisherman, by his clothes.

He wore a wet-weather sealskin vest just like their father’s. His hair was the colour of damp beach sand. The wind had dried long tendrils that stirred as though they had a life of their own.

‘One of the Mieren?’ Ronnyn had never seen their people’s ancestral enemy.

‘Must be,’ Aravelle whispered. ‘Probably washed overboard during the storm.’

‘It’s possible. We haven’t found any wreckage.’ Ronnyn stepped closer and dropped into a crouch. His weight collapsed crab tunnels beneath him, and bubbles rose from the saturated sand. The wind blew wisps of his white hair into his eyes and he tucked the strands behind his ears.

Aravelle perched beside him then reached out tentatively, rolling the dead man onto his back.

A moan escaped him.

They both jumped with fright. Ronnyn lost his balance and he fell on his backside. Cold seawater seeped through his breeches. The tide was creeping in.

Aravelle’s alarmed mulberry eyes met his. Her vivid red lips parted in surprise. She sprang to her feet. ‘We must get help.’

‘Wait.’ Ronnyn scrambled to his feet, gesturing to the sea. ‘Tide’s on the turn. We don’t want him to drown before we get back.’

His sister took the fisherman’s arms, while Ronnyn took his legs. The man was full grown, but not much bigger than them. Together, they carried him beyond the seaweed that marked the high water line.

They were out of breath by the time they lowered him onto the soft, dry sand. Blood had dried on his forehead. A three-day growth shadowed his jaw, but under the chill of the evening air there was still warmth in his skin.

‘He should be safe here,’ Aravelle said. ‘Come on.’

They ran up over the dunes, then through the spindly pines where twilight had already claimed the path. At last, they came to the crest of the final dune, and looked down on their secluded inlet. A single column of smoke told them dinner was cooking. This was their world. They’d come in from the north and the curve of the small beach stretched out on their left. The sea lay flat and glassy, reflecting their father’s fishing boat as it rested at anchor.

On their right, the lagoon lay behind the dunes, surrounded by a flat area of arable soil. There was the vegetable patch, the smoke house and chicken coop. The billy-goat lifted his head and gave voice.

Nestled in the middle was their cottage. Made mostly from wreckage and driftwood, their home was silvered by the weather, but its shingle roof had protected them from many a winter storm.

Their mother stood at the front door, laughing as their father chased the three little ones across the beach. He advanced on them, his copper plait flying. First he caught plump little Itania who was only just walking. She squealed with delight as he lifted her high in the air, swinging her around. Laughing, he kissed her red-gold curls.

Then he tucked her under his arm and chased down Tamaron. The three-year-old ran across the beach, white hair streaming, determined to get away. Tripping in the soft sand, their little brother surrendered with a squeal of mock terror. Tamaron’s peals of laughter carried up the dune to Ronnyn and Aravelle.

‘Da!’ Six-year-old Vittor sang, dancing just out of reach. ‘Can’t catch me, Da.’

Laden with two little ones, their father could not catch him, no matter how hard he tried. Ronnyn felt a smile tug at his lips and glanced at Aravelle. Like him, laughter illuminated her face.

Their mother shaded her eyes and waved to them on the dune. It was just like any other evening, but today they had news.

‘There’s a fisherman,’ Aravelle called.

‘Washed up on the beach,’ Ronnyn shouted, wanting to share the excitement. ‘He’s alive.’

‘What?’ Their father put Tamaron and Itania down, then strode towards the dune. Their mother also ran to meet them.

Aravelle and Ronnyn plunged down the dune, legs sinking calf-deep in the cold, soft white sand. When they reached their father at the base, he steadied them.