Exile (7 page)

‘I say we send a dozen of our best warriors into the enemy’s camp,’ Saskeyne said. ‘They infiltrate the barons’ tents. They kill all the barons and the king.’

‘Every king has an heir, every baron has a brother. Killing the king and his barons will make their heirs eager for vengeance. For every one you cut down, another will rise in his place, filled with righteous anger and ready to seek revenge. How will this lead to peace?’

Imoshen waited while they discussed alternatives. Her gift surged and she read them. The brotherhoods would fight to die a glorious death; the sisterhoods would fight to survive. Imoshen’s gift told her the moment was right to call a vote.

‘I say we buy time.’ She raised her hand. One by one – some grudgingly, resentfully – the leaders of the T’Enatuath raised their hands.

‘Our warriors will think us weak, if we accept exile,’ Saskeyne protested.

‘Our warriors will think us cunning, if we buy time,’ Imoshen said. ‘When the odds are against you, cunning is all you have.’

‘So tomorrow we ask for time to prepare for exile,’ Hueryx said, to her relief. ‘How much time?’

‘As much as we can get. Meanwhile, we send stealthy messengers to our estates, warning them to prepare for attack, or send their people here in secret. Saskeyne’s right, the lake’s shore is too big for King Charald to patrol. Tell your guards on the wall-walk to watch for refugees from our estates.’

‘Meanwhile, we come up with a plan,’ Paragian said and others agreed.

The brotherhood leaders hadn’t accepted exile. They still thought they were negotiating to buy time to defeat King Charald. Imoshen glanced to Hueryx. He met her eyes, and smiled with dark humour.

‘Yes, go back to your inner circles and ask for ideas,’ Imoshen said. Maybe, just maybe, they would come up with something.

When she climbed down her knees shook so badly she had to lean against the mounting block. Returning the knife, she thanked Arodyti.

They’d bought some time and saved their people out on the estates. But they were still besieged, outnumbered and hated. And she had to persuade the brotherhoods exile was preferable to a glorious death.

Chapter Five

L
AST TIME HE’D
travelled with Charald’s army, Sorne had worked himself into the position of the king’s advisor. At twenty-five, he’d stood on the balcony of the conquered palace in Navarone and discussed how to recapture Chalcedonia. It had taken years to reach that point, and the barons had always resented Charald’s half-blood priest. Now he was relegated to standing behind the king’s chair again, like a servant.

Zabier had his place at the king’s table, but he sat there sour-faced, nursing his wine and his grievances. Meanwhile, the barons and the king celebrated. They were so sure it would be a short, successful siege they were already dividing up the spoils of the city between them. From their point of view, it was much better to convince the Wyrds to walk away, leaving everything intact, than to sacrifice men to capture burnt-out palaces.

As the servants took the empty plates, Baron Eskarnor came to his feet, raising his glass. ‘To King Charald, saviour of Chalcedonia!’

As the barons topped up their glasses to echo the toast, Sorne saw naked greed and ambition on their faces.

How could Imoshen save the city and their people? Originally, he’d meant to rescue Valendia and take her to Imoshen. But for now his sister was safer as Zabier’s prisoner.

The king called for more wine and Zabier excused himself and beckoned Sorne, who followed him out. If only he could convince Zabier to trust him. They had more in common with each other than with any of these violent men.

When they entered the holy tent, Sorne looked for his travelling kit and realised he’d left it with his horse the night of the sacrifice. His mother’s torc had been in that bag; a terrible sense of loss swamped him.

‘I left my horse picketed over the hill from the standing stones,’ Sorne said. ‘You didn’t happen to come across it, did you?’

‘No.’ Zabier gave him a suspicious look. ‘Why? Did you have something valuable in your travelling kit?’

He was about to lie, when he realised Zabier could be motivated to help him. ‘Do you remember the torc I used to wear for ceremonies?’

‘The one that glowed when the walls between this plane and the higher plane were about to break?’

The torc was only thing Sorne had of his mother. Charald had ordered the young queen murdered so he could take another wife, one who would give him True-man sons. His mother had only been fifteen, which seemed impossibly young to him now that he’d just turned twenty-nine. He cleared his throat. ‘I believe it glowed in the response to the gods.’

‘The predators, you mean.’

Sorne blinked. Zabier had always been a believer.

‘I’m not a fool. I know those things are beasts, not gods. We’ve already been through this, but I see the drug has left you with a patchy memory. You’re going to perform the sacrifices for me then tell me your visions and I will tell King Charald. I’ve seen too many ceremonies go wrong to risk my life.’

‘I’ll need my mother’s torc.’

‘I’ll ask if a horse was discovered that night, but I doubt if anyone will admit to finding it. The men-at-arms are little better than savages and the barons are just thieves in fine clothes.’

‘You hid Valendia because you knew this war against the Wyrds was coming. You protected her.’

‘Yes.’ Zabier looked pleased.

Sorne picked his words carefully. ‘What’s going to happen to her after King Charald banishes all the Wyrds?’

‘She’ll be safe with me. She can have her music and a pet. What more does she want?’ Zabier fought a yawn and failed, then gestured to the bunk. ‘That’s mine. You can sleep on the bedroll. Since my assistant isn’t here, you’ll perform his tasks. And remember, I’m a light sleeper.’

‘I remember.’ He found it hard to reconcile the boy he’d known with this man. ‘You’re high priest of Chalcedonia, advisor to the king. You’ve come a long way from the carpenter’s cottage. What more do you want, Zabier?’

Thre was no answer. Zabier undressed and dropped the nightrobe over his shoulders, put out the lamp and lay down.

Sorne stretched out on the bedroll. He preferred it to True-man beds, which were never long enough.

‘I want to be powerful enough so that I don’t have to live in fear,’ Zabier said softly. ‘When you sailed off with King Charald I was thirteen. King Matxin named me Father’s-voice and high priest, then forced me to perform sacrifices to frighten the barons. He gave me lists of names and told me to say the gods had revealed them as traitors. I had to obey him. Ma and Valendia’s lives depended on it.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’ He didn’t know how the man he’d met once and instantly trusted could have turned into the tyrant Zabier described. Yet other people described Matxin as a despot. ‘I’m sorry, brother.’

Zabier shifted on his narrow bunk and Sorne thought he would protest. But he said nothing.

If Sorne could just win Zabier over, convince him that keeping Valendia locked up was no way for her to live and come up with a way to help Imoshen save the T’Enatuath...

His head ached and he gave it up for now.

I
MOSHEN RETURNED TO
the palace feeling exhausted. Everyone was subdued. Tired and heartsore, she suspected.

She was glad to retreat to her bedchamber. She moved quietly, so as not to wake Frayvia or the baby. Stripping off her finery, she dressed in a simple nightgown and slipped into the nursery.

Last night, she had shut this door on the sisterhood’s T’En children, not knowing if the next person to open the door would be herself or an armed Mieren. Today she’d barely had time to see her infant daughter. Now all she wanted to do was hold her.

Imoshen found her devotee curled up with Umaleni. She stretched out beside her baby daughter; so small and vulnerable. A fierce love welled up in her. She would do anything to protect her child, her children, her people. But realistically, what could she do? Charald seemed set on a kingdom free of her kind.

Years ago, when she’d escaped the brotherhood and failed to save her infant son, she had travelled across Chalcedonia with Frayvia and Iraayel, who was only four at the time. She’d experienced first-hand the hatred of the Mieren. And today she had looked into the mind of the man who’d attacked her and found, behind all the logical arguments, a deep irrational fear of her race.

How could they fight this primitive fear?

A warm hand cupped her cheek.

She opened her eyes to find Frayvia watching her fondly. ‘Your mind is racing. It makes my stomach churn. Sleep.’

‘Sorry. Do you think Sorne would betray us?’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

Imoshen gestured to the window seat and they retreated there. As they settled under a blanket, she told Frayvia about the meeting with King Charald.

‘Sacrificing T’En?’ her devotee repeated. ‘Poor Sorne.’

‘You think he has no choice? King Charald is awfully proud of him.’

Frayvia exhaled slowly. ‘I don’t think he would willingly betray us. You read him when you healed him, surely you know?’

‘Usually I read a momentary emotion, which only gives me a glimpse and I have to interpret it. With Sorne I read his core, and he is pure of heart. But what if he discovered something that made him hate us? A person of principle can do terrible things, if they believe what they do is justified. Remember how Kyredeon sent his warriors to murder Reoden’s daughter? True-men are right to fear us. We are stronger than them and our gifts can shatter their minds.’

A wave of tiredness swept over Imoshen and Frayvia yawned. Imoshen realised she was unconsciously draining her devotee through their gift link. ‘Enough talk for now.’

S
ORNE WAS NOT
used to being confined.He’d spent all day in the tent with Zabier. Now he paced. Soon the Wyrds would meet with the king. He didn’t understand why they’d made Imoshen their causare. Other than her gift, she had no qualifications. They were blinded by their reliance on the gifts to interpret the world. Surely one of the all-fathers would be better qualified? Then again, maybe not; the Wyrds lived segregated in the city or on their estates. Few went out into the larger world. Even those who sailed their trading vessels were limited in what they could observe. None of them knew True-men, or strategy, or King Charald like he did. He would have made a better causare.

The realisation stopped him in his tracks.

Since he was seventeen, he had been observing King Charald, the greatest living commander – perhaps the greatest ever, since no one else had succeeded in uniting the Secluded Sea under one leader before. He knew Charald was single minded and utterly ruthless.

The Wyrds were trapped in an ever-tightening noose, and it was up to Sorne to find a way out.

‘I swear, if you don’t stop pacing I’ll...’ Zabier rubbed his face and shoved his notes aside. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘I need to walk.’ He did his best thinking that way.

‘Go. Then maybe I’ll get some peace.’ Zabier seemed edgy as he gestured to the chest. ‘Wear the cape and hood.’

Zabier stood and went to the entrance, where an awning protected a table and chairs. When Sorne joined him, he found half a dozen of the new order of priests intent on dicing. They looked more like men-at-arms than priests.

‘You didn’t have these priests before,’ Sorne said.

‘My holy warriors? I wasn’t sacrificing silverheads before.’ Zabier raised his voice. ‘Two of you are to escort the Warrior’s-voice wherever he goes.’

‘Don’t trust me?’

‘No, I don’t. But then I don’t trust the men-at-arms, either. Some of them might forget you are the Warrior’s-voice and see only your tainted blood.’

Zabier had a point. Last time he had walked the army camp, King Charald had not been making war on Wyrds.

As Sorne set off with his escort of priests, he was reminded how Oskane used to call him and Izteben his holy warriors.

There had to be a weakness in King Charald’s defences. Not physically, the king was far too experienced for that, but an army was made up of individuals, whose allegiance extended no farther than the next man in the chain of command.

While conquering the kingdoms of the Secluded Sea campaign, Sorne had seen Charald turn men against their kings and use them to his advantage.

Walking the camp revealed where each baron had pitched his tent, which told Sorne something of their allegiances. There were the five southerners who had risen to the position of baron while serving Charald in his Secluded Sea campaign. He had rewarded them with land and wealth upon returning to Chalcedonia. They were ruthless, ambitious men. Then there were the six original Chalcedonian barons who, when Charald’s cousin had stolen the crown, had given their allegiance to King Matxin. When Charald returned, they had bent over backwards to prove their loyalty.

The southern barons had pitched their tents on the south side of King Charald’s tent, while the Chalcedonian barons were camped to the north.

Clearly neither group trusted the other.

Baron Nitzane occupied an odd position, camped between both sets of barons. King Matxin had banished him and his brother because they were related to Charald through his marriage. They had gone straight to King Charald and served him loyally, so Nitzane and his brother had served with the southern barons. The king had rewarded the eldest brother with the kingdom of Navarone, which he ruled under High King Charald, while Nitzane now owned the estates that had once belonged to both his mother’s father and his father, so he was also a Chalcedonian baron.

It struck Sorne that Charald was right to fear the young baron. If anyone could unite both the southern barons and the Chalcedonian barons against the king, it was Nitzane. This division of loyalties and mistrust could be turned to the Wyrds’ advantage but, as yet, Sorne did not see how.

When he returned to the tent, Zabier appeared more relaxed. As they went outside to join the king, he noticed Zabier’s eyes seemed glassy.