Exile (56 page)

Ferret-face came over to peer into the cage. ‘Just in time. We’ll reach port before they close the gates.’

When Aravelle looked into his shallow blue eyes, she read only calculation, no pity or compassion. Bitterness sat in her chest like an undigested meal. She closed her eyes, channelling her anger.

Ferret-face climbed onto the cart seat and turned the pony towards port.

The jolting woke their mother. She pulled herself up on one elbow and smiled down on the baby. ‘We’ll name him after your father.’

Aravelle could hear the unshed tears, thick in her mother’s throat. Now the same tears stung her eyes and filled her chest, until she felt it would burst. But she pushed them down, refusing to give in to emotion.

‘Baby, Asher,’ Ronnyn whispered, stroking the tiny curled fingers.

‘No, Ashmyr,’ their mother corrected. ‘That’s the T’En form of the name.’

The baby gave a stronger cry, which woke the little ones.

‘Baby’s here?’ Vittor was excited.

‘Wanna hold him.’ Tamaron clambered over. ‘Lemme see.’

Little Itania was also fascinated. They did not understand the significance of their mother’s grey skin, and Aravelle and Ronnyn shielded them from the blood.

‘You can hold him soon.’ Sasoria pressed the baby against her body as she caught Aravelle’s arm, pulling her closer. ‘You’ll need to cut the cord and tie it off. The afterbirth will come soon...’ A groan cut her off.

Their mother seemed too tired to put any effort into expelling the afterbirth.

They needed a knife to cut the cord. Only the Mieren had knives.

‘Ronnyn.’ She nudged him. ‘We need to cut the cord.’

He came to his knees and called to the Mieren as they drove the cart. ‘Can I borrow a knife to cut the cord?’

‘Chew through it,’ ferret-face muttered. ‘That’s what dogs do.’

Shock robbed Aravelle of coherent thought.

‘But–’ Ronnyn began.

She shoved him aside, snatched up the cord and tore through it with her teeth, backhanding her mouth with a shudder. ‘There. Now tie it off.’

He stared at her.

She tore a scrap from her tattered nightgown to seal the baby’s cord, then passed the baby across to Vittor. ‘Take him down to the far end and show the little ones. Keep him warm.’

The next contraction drove out the afterbirth, followed by another great rush of blood. Aravelle tried to stop it with their one thin blanket, but it was soon drenched.

Ronnyn’s terrified eyes met hers. ‘Ma needs a T’En healer.’

‘We’ll be there soon. Hopefully...’

‘You hear that, Ma?’ He lifted their mother’s head in his arms. Her eyelids flickered, but did not open. She was so pale her lips were blue. ‘We’re going to a T’En healer.’ He smoothed matted hair from her forehead as brooding grey clouds gathered overhead. ‘Just hold on.’

But there was too much blood and they had no way of knowing if there would be a T’En healer in port.

Chapter Forty-One

S
ORNE RODE INTO
port with Captain Ballendin and fifty of his men. They’d only gone a short way beyond the gate when the wagons in front of them stopped moving. In the gathering twilight, it was hard to tell what the holdup was.

‘What is it?’ Captain Ballendin directed his question to a woman standing in the doorway of her shop.

‘The Wyrds. Must be thousands of them. Started arriving around midday today. It’s been so bad decent folks haven’t been able to get around.’

Sorne stood in his stirrups. The wagons were moving, but too slowly. ‘Come this way.’

He led the others through the back streets. It was amazing how people got out of the way for fifty armed, mounted men. They reached the royal plaza without trouble.

Sorne turned his mount to face Ballendin. One part of him wanted to go to the palace to ensure that Nitzane and Jaraile were coping, but he belonged with his people. ‘Find Nitzane. Tell him the king has to make sure the Wyrds get onto their ships, or he won’t get his son. I’ll be down at the Wyrd wharf.’

As Captain Ballendin rode off with his men-at-arms, the prayer bells rang out and Sorne was reminded of Scholar Igotzon. He turned his horse towards...

‘The Father’s church?’ Valendia protested. ‘I spent eleven years locked up in there.’

‘There’s one more thing I have to do.’

‘What?’ Graelen baulked. ‘Tell me why I should take Valendia into that place again.’

‘We have to find and destroy the reports that led King Charald to realise he could conquer the Wyrds.’

‘Why?’ Graelen countered. ‘The Mieren have called our bluff.’

‘Very few people know the true limitations of Wyrd gifts,’ Sorne said. ‘I’ve seen what one little old Wyrd woman can do to a room full of war barons. King Charald has banished the Wyrds, but more half-bloods will be born and they’ll eventually produce T’En. In the future, our kind will need the mystery of the gifts to protect them. If I destroy these notes, they’ll stand a chance.’

He took them down one of the narrow streets that ran alongside the church, found the old gate and handed his reins to Graelen. Standing on the saddle, he climbed over the wall, dropped to the courtyard beyond and let them in.

‘Only a few dedicated scholars come to these old halls,’ he told them. At this time of the evening, Igotzon should really be at prayer, but Sorne suspected the scholar would work through the evening prayers. ‘Leave the horses and come with me.’

This was the old section. It was dim and near-silent. From far away, he could hear the chanting of prayers. Sorne recognised the door and opened it to find the desk empty, but a lamp still burned.

‘Scholar Igotzon could be back any moment.’ Sorne pointed to the chest. ‘Open that, Grae. Oskane’s journals should be in there. Valendia, come with me.’

He went down the length of the wall until he found the right row of niches. ‘Hold out your arms.’

He piled up Wyrd scrolls, but what he really needed was Igotzon’s reports and he didn’t know where they were.

Back at the desk, he found Graelen kneeling by the open chest. The adept showed him a journal. ‘These?’

‘Yes. Tip the scrolls into the chest, Dia.’

Footsteps came from the hall. He gestured for them to step to one side of the door and stood near the desk, just as the scholar entered.

‘Sorne.’ Igotzon was genuinely pleased to see him. The scholar walked in, unaware of Graelen and Valendia in the shadows. ‘Where have you been? I have that list of questions for you. I put them...’ He searched his desk.

‘Igotzon, how many copies of the Wyrd reports did you make?’ Sorne asked.

‘Just the two. One for me and one for the high priest. No one else cared.’

‘And where are these copies?’

‘You said the high priest’s set was destroyed. My copies are... Here’s the questions.’ He offered Sorne a sheet of cramped writing. ‘If you answer these, I can start on the history of King Charald’s reign. They’re saying his mind is going, and he won’t last much longer.’

Sorne went cold. ‘Who’s saying?’

‘Everyone.’

‘Where are your Wyrd reports?’ Sorne pressed.

‘Why? Do you want to check their accuracy? I must admit, I would like to get someone who knows to look them over. You... What’s wrong?’

‘Is it true?’ Sorne had just recalled something the scholar said the first time they’d met. ‘You once said you remember everything you’ve ever written.’

‘I do. I’ve trained my mind to hold an image of this church. Every corridor contains doors, and behind every door is related information. I just have to find the right door,’ Igotzon said, then frowned. ‘Why?’

Graelen stepped up behind him, waiting for Sorne’s signal – a knife through the ribs, a twist of his neck, or, failing that, the adept could wipe the scholar’s mind and leave him a gibbering wreck.

Igotzon glanced over his shoulder, spotted Graelen and Valendia and gave a jump of fright. ‘Sorne?’

Graelen caught the scholar’s arms before he could run.

‘What’s going on, Sorne?’ Igotzon asked.

‘The information you collated in your reports led King Charald to believe he could attack the Wyrds and defeat them.’

‘All I did was seek the truth.’ Igotzon swallowed audibly. ‘Knowledge–’

‘...is power,’ Graelen said. ‘We can’t let him live. Step outside, Valendia.’

Sorne had killed in self-defence. He had stood back and watched others die because he could not prevent it. He had watched Graelen die, or thought he had, and it had killed something in him.

‘Grae?’ Valendia whispered.

‘Sometimes it’s necessary to kill. I don’t want you to see me do this, Dia.’

‘I thought you valued knowledge, Sorne,’ Igotzon whispered, stricken. ‘I thought I’d found a friend.’

Graelen put his hands on the scholar’s head.

‘Please, no.’ Igotzon closed his eyes. ‘There’s so much I don’t know.’

‘Wait.’ Sorne swallowed. ‘Would you like to write the history of the Wyrd exile?’

Igotzon’s eyes widened. ‘How can you ask?’

‘It would mean leaving your home, sailing–’

He was already nodding.

‘We can’t take a Mieren,’ Graelen protested. ‘He’s not one of us.’

‘My Wyrd reports are in the chest.’ Igotzon gestured to the chest, then realised it was open. ‘Oh, I see you already found them.’

‘Do you need to pack?’ Sorne asked.

Igotzon nodded.

‘Make it quick.’

He collected ink, pen and paper, and added this to the chest. ‘Ready.’

Sorne had to smile. ‘Good. By now the road to the wharf should be clear.’

T
OBAZIM CROSSED THE
wharf. Clouds obscured the sun, bringing an early twilight. He could not believe the number of people and the amount of supplies they had ferried out to the ships, but looking around him there was so much more to load. He rounded the warehouse to find Ardonyx with Hand-of-force Reyne.

They’d put Hueryx’s brotherhood on the same ship as Kyredeon, simply because his brotherhood had arrived next. All-father Hueryx was not happy, but at least he could load his supplies. The rest of the brotherhoods and the sisterhoods had to to ferry people and the lighter stores from the two floating jetties.

Ardonyx sent Reyne off and turned to Tobazim. ‘I wish we knew how much time we had. If we don’t load the holds properly, the ships will be unstable in high seas, but we might be better off loading everything onto the ships’ decks and sorting the holds while we’re at anchor in the bay. I wish I knew where Sorne was.’

Before Tobazim could comment, they were hailed by Captain Vetus.

The veteran Mieren escorted two rough-looking brigands and a child of about five or six, who was wrapped in a stained travelling cloak. Stolid, wine-dark eyes looked up from under the hood and the child hugged a bundle under his cloak as if it was the most precious thing in the world. Tobazim noticed small, bare feet, blue with cold.

It started to rain and they stepped into the warehouse, where several Malaunje were preparing a meal for those who would not make it onto the ships in time for the evening meal. The smell of the spicy beans made Tobazim’s mouth water, and the child looked hopeful.

Vetus indicated the unsavoury-looking Mieren, who gripped his sword hilt aggressively. ‘They’ve come to claim the reward.’

Ardonyx pulled open his pouch. It was very light now. ‘That’s one silver coin.’

The two Mieren exchanged looks.

‘Five silvers,’ the older of the two corrected and he pulled off the child’s hood to reveal white hair. When the child turned his head, Tobazim saw that a copper streak grew above one ear.

‘Five silver coins for
each
of them.’ The Mieren flipped back the boy’s cloak to reveal the child held a baby with the wine-dark eyes and downy white hair.

Tobazim glanced to Ardonyx. This was the first time anyone had delivered a T’En child, let alone two. The boy and the baby had to be the only survivors of a sisterhood estate. Tobazim bristled. What had happened to everyone else?

‘So that’s ten silver coins you owe us,’ the older one said.

‘Which sisterhood did you come from? Where’s your choice-mother?’ Tobazim asked the child in T’En. Stony mulberry eyes stared up at him. Was the boy dimwitted?

‘Where’s our reward?’ the brigand asked.

Ardonyx beckoned the cabin boy, Toresel. ‘Go tell the causare two T’En children have been delivered. We don’t know which sisterhood they belong to.’

The lad ran off.

‘What’s he saying?’ the brigand demanded of the king’s guard. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I don’t have ten silver coins.’ Ardonyx jingled the pouch to show it was nearly empty. ‘So–’

‘Don’t you try to cheat us,’ the younger one warned and gestured to Tobazim’s arm-torcs. ‘What about them? They’ve got to be worth ten silvers each.’

Tobazim glanced to the silver arm-torcs. Embossed with the symbol of his brotherhood, they weren’t his to give away, and they symbolised much more than their worth in silver. ‘They’re not–’

‘Don’t try to cheat us!’ They younger one snatched the boy, and both brigands began to back off towards the door, knives drawn.

‘Here.’ Tobazim pulled the torc from around his right bicep. ‘Take this. It’s worth twenty silver coins.’

He tossed it to the older brigand, who caught it, inspected the workmanship and nodded to his companion, who shoved the boy aside, sheathing his knife. Tobazim darted forward, catching the child before he could trip and drop the baby.

During all this, the boy had not made a sound but, now that Tobazim held him, he could feel the child trembling. What had he seen and endured?

‘You’re safe now,’ he told the boy, kneeling to look into his eyes. ‘What’s your name?’

But again the child only stared at Tobazim.

Meanwhile, Ardonyx had stepped between him and the brigands. ‘Get them out of here, Vetus. And make sure they leave the wharf.’

As soon as the others left, Ardonyx came over to Tobazim. ‘Is he all right?’

‘Yes.’ Tobazim stood. ‘But he might be deaf.’

Ardonyx snapped his fingers. The boy’s eyes went straight to his hand. Ardonyx grinned. ‘I don’t think so.’