Exile (35 page)

‘Imoshen... we won’t be here for that to happen.’

‘Of course, I wasn’t thinking. It’s just... I don’t know how to keep him safe.’

‘None of us are safe.’

She loved his wry smile.

‘I should go now.’

She nodded.

He lingered.

She brushed her fingers across his lips, sensed his defences drop, felt her body clench and his respond.

With a groan, he took a hasty step back. ‘Don’t–’

‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’

‘This time I really am going.’ His voice held raw regret.

‘Yes, go. Go quickly.’

He did, heading out the door at a run. It was a wrench to see him go.

She turned and pressed her forehead against the cool wooden door, felt the grit and the dust, felt her heart beat an uneven tattoo against her ribs.

Finally, she turned around and faced the world. Before she went anywhere, she had to rein in the joyous tolling of her gift. It rang through her body like the pealing of festival bells. Such a pity not to experience this every day.

When she thought she could pass within touching distance of another T’En without them feeling the overflow of her power, she pulled her hood up, and went to leave.

Then she remembered the mask. Where was it? She finally found it amidst a pile of scrolls. Luckily it wasn’t crushed.

Replacing her mask, she headed back to the sisterhood’s palace.

T
OBAZIM PULLED THE
covers over his head as someone entered their sleeping chamber. An eager, cajoling male voice was answered with a delighted laugh. By the scent of gift power on the air, Tobazim guessed it was one of the young adepts, eager to tryst with a Malaunje woman.

His own gift tried to surface. Annoyed, he rolled off his bed, startling them both. Wordlessly, he apologised and stepped into corridor, closing the door after him.

He’d left Haromyr and the others wandering the boulevards, masked and hopeful, painted and bare-chested. And that annoyed him. Tonight, everything annoyed him.

Why had King Charald made it his life’s work to rid Chalcedonia of the T’Enatuath? Why did he, Tobazim, have to be promised to this particular brotherhood? If this one, then why had Kyredeon won the leadership and not some other, more reasonable man, one Tobazim could have served with honour?

Why did Learon have to die? What was the point of going on?

Striding along the corridor, he came to the end and back again. He looked into the communal chamber. Empty. Everyone else was out drinking, dancing, flirting. Trysting.

In frustration, he pulled his plans from the cabinet and unrolled them. Sheets of intricate lines and calculations. Visions of beauty swam in his mind’s eye, buildings that would never be built.

What a waste!

Furious, he stoked up the brazier, watching the sparks rise as the flames built. His gift flared to life, ready to protect him. He did not bother to suppress it.

‘What are you doing?’ Ardonyx asked from behind.

He didn’t answer.

‘What are you doing, Tobazim?’

He shoved the plans into the flames. He wished he could consume his gift as easily, so that it did not drive him to produce visions that demanded to be built.

Ardonyx plucked the plans from the flames before they could do more than singe.

Tobazim registered Ardonyx’s scent and the tang of power that came off his skin: it was rich and exotic, and it called to him.

Ardonyx held up the plans between them. ‘What’s wrong with you tonight?’

‘Nothing.’ Tobazim reached for the plans.

Ardonyx stepped back, taking the plans out of reach. ‘I’m not letting you–’

Infuriated, Tobazim swung at the new brother. His fist collided with Ardonyx’s jaw with a satisfying crunch. Ardonyx staggered. The plans went flying, scattering across the parquetry.

Ardonyx shook his head as blood seeped from his lips.

Tobazim shoved past Ardonyx, heading for the plans. They were his to destroy if he chose.

Ardonyx jumped him and they careened across the chamber, through the doorway into the bathing chamber. The tiles were hot and damp, slippery with scented oils and soaps. Water steamed in the huge sunken tub. His brothers had been too focused on preparing themselves for trysting to empty it. Ardonyx’s weight unbalanced Tobazim and he lost his footing. The new brother released him as he fell to the tiles. He registered the impact but felt no pain.

He turned on one knee.

Ardonyx offered his hand. Behind him was the sunken bath, big enough for a dozen.

Tobazim sprang forward, tackling him. They fell, and scented water closed over them.

Tobazim grappled, didn’t care if he drowned; if they both drowned.

They came up for air. Tobazim’s eyes stung. He was glad the bathwater hid his tears. Furious with himself, he tried to shove past Ardonyx to get to the far steps.

Ardonyx caught him by the shoulders, pinned him against the edge of the bath and kissed him.

The fury that had been empowering Tobazim instantly turned to desire. Ardonyx tasted of blood, of violence and a gift essence that was exotic; its heady lure called to him.

The heat, the scented oils and the pounding of his heart all overwhelmed Tobazim. He felt desire rise and knew it was driven by his craving for Ardonyx’s gift, but did not care. He let his gift free while his body went along for the ride and his mind switched off.

M
UCH LATER,
A
RDONYX
studied his plans. ‘I’ve overseen the building of ships. I know plans. These are really very good.’

‘But useless, since we’re not staying.’ Bitterness made Tobazim’s voice tight. ‘How can I use my gift? I need to be doing something useful.’

Ardonyx returned his plans. ‘The causare is forming an exile-council. I’ve been asked to represent the brotherhood, and I’ll need an assistant.’

Tobazim looked up startled. ‘You’re asking me?’

‘Only if you want to.’

Of course he wanted to. But should he? By serving on the exile-council, Ardonyx would earn stature for the brotherhood, which should protect him from Kyredeon’s ire. But the higher he rose, the more of a threat he presented to Kyredeon.

Tobazim stood up and returned his plans to their niche. He’d keep his distance because he wasn’t just risking himself – he was risking Athlyn, Haromyr and all the others, who had aligned themselves with him. ‘I’ll serve on the committee with you, but this... what happened tonight. It was a mistake.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

R
ONNYN WENT OUT
to the wood heap. Now that his mother had removed the bandages, he wanted to inspect his left arm in the bright light of day. What he saw dismayed him.

Fresh scar tissue. Lumpy, misshapen muscles.

Feeling slightly sick, he turned his bad arm this way and that. Truly, it was an ugly thing.

No point in feeling sorry for himself. The wood wouldn’t chop itself. Come to think of it, the wood heap was getting low. Seventeen days had passed since he’d killed the stink-badgers. He reached for the axe with his left hand, his bad hand, but the moment he tried to close his fingers around the wooden handle, lightning bolts of pain shot up his arm. He gasped and clasped his arm to his chest.

‘Ronnyn, are you alright?’

Before turning to face Aravelle, he blinked to clear the tears from his eyes. ‘We need more wood.’

‘Don’t bother with the axe.’ Aravelle gestured to the large reed baskets. ‘We can collect driftwood instead.’

That meant going to Driftwood Beach. Neither of them had been back there since spring when they had found the fisherman.

Now they didn’t mention him and avoided the hollow where he was buried. The bay looked much the same. Driftwood had piled up in the usual spots. They placed the baskets on the sand and began loading them up. There were some big pieces; he should have brought the axe. He tried cracking them over rocks, using his right arm. It had grown strong with constant use.

When his basket was full, he forgot and went to pick it up with his left hand. Bolts of fire shot up his arm and he ended up gasping as his arm spasmed.

‘Still bad?’

He didn’t bother to answer.

‘Now that the bandage is off, I want to try something.’ She led him over to a patch of shade where the trees met the sand, and they knelt. ‘Show me your arm.’

He didn’t want to. Before the bandages came off, he’d had some hope. Now he knew the worst. ‘It’s–’

‘It’s not going to get better if you don’t use it. Show me your arm.’

She took his hand, turning it over to inspect the way the scars ran up his arm. Satisfied, she placed his palm on her thigh and pulled a jar from her pocket. When she opened it, he smelled their mother’s rosemary ointment.

‘You came prepared.’

‘I told you I’d help you get better. Did you think I’d forgotten?’

He shook his head, grateful that she had looked on his arm without flinching; he could barely do that himself. The smell of the rosemary ointment was strong, but it was a good smell, pure with the promise of healing, or so he hoped.

Aravelle rubbed the ointment on her hands then began to gently massage his arm, starting from his elbow down. Despite the care she took, the muscles twitched and clenched painfully.

Ronnyn bit his bottom lip and concentrated, breathing through the pain. And that’s when the smell of the rosemary became much more intense and sounds became sharper as he felt his gift rise. It was the same sensation that had come over him when the stink-badger went for Vittor – everything became more intense. The power thrummed through his body, making his heart race, helping him cope with the pain. He almost asked Aravelle if she felt it too. But he didn’t want her to know; she’d made it clear she resented his gift and he didn’t want it coming between them.

Aravelle was bent over his arm, concentrating as she worked on the knotted tendons of his hand. Her tongue peeped from between her lips as she gave each finger the same careful attention.

If he was a mind-manipulator, he should be able to catch a glimpse of her thoughts. Ronnyn opened his mind and tried to listen in to hers, but sensed nothing.

Eyes closed, he tried harder. Still nothing. Yet he could feel his gift and the need to use it.

‘Try using your hand now.’

To amazement, his fingers had a little more movement than before, although the pain still shot up his arm.

‘See?’ She sounded pleased. ‘I’ll do this every day. And every day you’ll get a little better.’ She rocked back on her heels and sprang to her feet, aglow with delight.

He couldn’t tell Aravelle that his gift was moving. His mother thought he had another year before his power began to trouble him. He feared if his parents learned it had manifested early and he couldn’t focus it, he’d have to go back to the city to train. With father unable to work, his family needed him more than ever.

No one must know.

I
MOSHEN STOOD ON
the balcony, overlooking the palace’s grand staircase. This was where Iraayel had held off the Mieren attackers. He’d been barely sixteen that night and so brave, yet none of the all-fathers would have him. She’d do anything to protect him, but...

Frustration drove Imoshen’s gift and her vision shifted. She saw Iraayel at the top of the stairs, the night of the attack, saw him save Bedutz’s life as one of the Mieren tried to gut him.

She hadn’t seen that happen. How could...

Unnerved, Imoshen went in search of the gift-tutor. Even though it was day three of the midsummer festival, she found Vittoryxe in the gift-training chamber hard at work. Light streamed in through the tall windows, illuminating the mahogany tables and cluttered shelves.

‘This is impossible...’ Vittoryxe indicated a large pile of gift treatises down one end of the table. ‘How can I choose what to take and what to leave behind? All of them are important.’

‘Then you should take them all.’

Vittoryxe gestured to the rows of shelves that went up to the ceiling. ‘All of them?’

‘Oh...’ Imoshen sat down.

Vittoryxe kept sorting, muttering to herself, growing steadily more upset.

Imoshen watched for a moment then asked, ‘What is remembrancing?’

‘Remembrancing is the calling up of a powerful event associated with an object or place,’ Vittoryxe said. ‘The gift is innate, unlike memory-sharing or dream-sharing, which both spring from the intellect.’

‘Then remembrancing is not something I could do,’ Imoshen asked, certain she had.

‘You’re a raedan, isn’t that enough for you?’

Imoshen said nothing. At empowerment, a T’En child’s gift was revealed, and then he or she was trained to be proficient in it. Like an unused limb, other nascent gifts withered. Perhaps T’En training traditions were too restrictive; she suspected culling the gift treatises would be a good thing.

Laughter and running footsteps reached them. The gift-tutor sprang to her feet and charged out the door. Imoshen followed. She was in time to see Vittoryxe catch the oldest of four T’En boys. Imoshen recognised Dragazim, the gift-tutor’s own choice-son.

The other boys apologised and left.

‘What have I told you, Dragazim?’ Vitttoryxe asked.

‘Forgiveness, choice-mother. We were just–’

‘I don’t care what you were doing. If you’ve got nothing to do, you can review your lessons.’

His face dropped. ‘But it’s a feast day.’

‘I don’t care. Go inside.’

‘Yes, choice-mother.’ Face flushed, Dragazim gave obeisance and entered the gift-training chamber.

Imoshen’s heart went out to boy. ‘Must you be so hard on him?’

Vittoryxe turned on her. ‘What would you know? You’ve only ever raised one choice-son, and you were too soft on him. Dragazim is a male about to come into his gift. He’s going to be a danger to himself and others. Once the power starts manifesting...’ She shuddered. ‘The gift surges in the first few years. It drives even sensible boys to do stupid things. Some of them never get it under control. I’m only thinking of him. The harder I am on him, the harder he will be on himself when the gift rides him!’