Besieged (23 page)

‘Are you sure? The trader said it came from one of the T’En, and should contain some residue of her gift.’

‘I can sense nothing. Perhaps the trader lied.’ Sorne returned the silver button. ‘After all, you only have the trader’s word that this button came from one of the T’En.’

That would be true, if it
had
come from a trader, but it had come from his agent and he had the bloodied T’En garment and plait as proof of the man’s veracity.

Oskane frowned. If Sorne could not sense the T’En gift, then it meant either he had not developed this ability yet, or his awareness was weak.

Did Sorne even have the natural gift defences Oskane had read about? Without them, he would be easily enslaved by the T’En.

‘Have I disappointed you, Scholar Oskane?’ Sorne asked.

‘A little, but perhaps it is too soon. You should be able to feel the gift residue.’

‘I could try again.’

Oskane waved him away. It was probably his youth, but there was only one way to be sure. ‘That’s all for today.’

Dismissed, Sorne collected his shirt, made the obeisance of student to tutor and left.

After wrapping the button, Oskane followed him out. Franto was not at his desk. He knew that his assistant’s stomach had been giving him trouble for a while now. He only hoped it wasn’t a sign of something serious.

Oskane descended the stairs, heading for the cellar. For the past four years, the boys had taken T’En language lessons from the captive every day. In that time, Oskane’s eyes had become so bad he could only read for a short while before they went blurry, his knees had seized up and his hair had gone completely white.

He pulled up a chair and sat facing the cell. ‘I have something to show you.’ He tossed her the silver button.

The half-blood caught it and lifted it to the weak shaft of light falling through the bars of the high window. She cupped her hands around it and breathed in deeply. Her eyes closed and she swayed.

‘So you can sense the gift residue.’

Her dark eyes flashed with anger. ‘Where did you get this?’

‘At what age did you first become receptive to the T’En gifts?’

‘I’ve been around them all my life. It’s like asking me when I could first hear.’

‘Can you tell if this button came from a male or female?’

‘A female. The male gift is rank and offensive, to those of us who grew up accustomed to female power. Will I see the boys today?’

‘Not today.’

He thought she would ask why, but she cast him a sly look. ‘Will you bring me more T’En things?’

‘Perhaps.’ This was interesting. She’d never asked for anything before. The taste of gift power must have awakened a dormant craving, as theorised in the scrolls. ‘What can you give me in exchange?’

‘Nothing. I’ve given you too much already.’

But they both knew she would weaken.

I
MOSHEN WAS TRULY
happy. She hadn’t realised how lonely she’d been since her mother had drowned, but now with her choice-son, Iraayel, Frayvia and Reothe... Just thinking of Reothe made her smile. Her hand slid down over her belly and the baby kicked. Yes, she was very lucky.

She finished pruning the peach tree for the winter, then straightened up, arching her tired back. Something tugged at her awareness. She followed the thread of worry to its source, which was...

Her link with Iraayel; he was in trouble. Her first thought was the sea.

The baby gave a sharp kick.

She placed the clippers on the stone beside the peach tree and hurried out of the walled garden. She’d left Iraayel napping, while Frayvia wrote her report for the all-father. Reothe sailed for the mainland tomorrow.

Where could her choice-son be?

She forced down her fear and opened her gift senses. The link with her choice-son drew her across the high ground beside the lighthouse, down past the fields, towards the trees. Beyond them lay the dunes and the sea.

Breaking into a run, Imoshen headed across the winter-bare fields and into the trees. She placed one hand under her belly to support the weight, and let her instincts guide her.

‘Iraayel?’

The answering cry caused her to look up, to find the four year-old clinging to a tree trunk above her head. ‘Stay there. I’m coming up.’

She might be heavily pregnant, but there was nothing wrong with her arms and legs. She reached Iraayel, and he threw his arms around her.

‘Don’t be angry,’ he pleaded.

‘I could never be angry with you.’ It was true. She loved him so much it terrified her. ‘Now we just have to get down.’

Iraayel relaxed, trusting in her.

As she neared the ground, Reothe arrived. They’d slept in each other’s arms last night, which meant the link was fresh and intense. He’d sensed her worry for Iraayel.

Reothe took Iraayel from her, setting him gently on his feet. Then he reached for her. ‘You should have waited for me.’

‘We managed.’

‘Imoshen...’

The four year-old tugged on Reothe’s arm. ‘I climbed the tree.’

Imoshen took Iraayel’s chin in her hand. ‘Promise me you won’t go climbing trees again. Not until you’re bigger, anyway.’

‘I promise.’ Iraayel’s face brightened. ‘Did you see how high I climbed?’

‘Too high, I’ll wager,’ Reothe said and caught her eye.

‘I’ll miss you,’ Imoshen said. It just slipped out.

‘I’ll be back before midwinter for the birth.’

They both felt the baby kick.

He grinned. ‘Energetic little boy.’

‘Busy little girl.’

He laughed then grew serious. ‘Last time I saw the all-father, he said he would come for the birth.’

‘Rohaayel?’ She hadn’t seen her father for four years. ‘Irian and Ardeyne, too?’

He nodded.

Her heart rose, her gift surged, and she felt the baby wriggle in response.

Reothe took her hand, and they headed back for the lighthouse. As they stepped out of the trees, they saw Frayvia in the fields, searching for them. They signalled, and she ran across the stubble to join them.

‘You’re all right, Imoshen?’

‘I’m fine. Iraayel got stuck up a tree.’ Imoshen laughed. ‘There’s good news. Reothe says the all-father will visit when the baby’s born. Maybe then we can all go live with the brotherhood in the city.’

She caught Frayvia exchanging a look with Reothe, and a chill settled around her heart.

They were not in league against her. They loved her. She was imagining things.

Imoshen slid her arm around Frayvia’s shoulders. ‘You’ll see, everything will work out. The baby will be born healthy. Reothe will be so proud, and my father will be a grandfather. We’re really very lucky.’

Chapter Eighteen

S
ORNE’S HEART HAMMERED
with the enormity of what he was about to do. He had never lied to Scholar Oskane before, but it had been the way his tutor had placed the silver button on the desk with barely concealed repugnance that prompted the lie.

At first Sorne did not want to touch the thing. Then, when he did and he felt the sensation, he did not want to admit it, did not want to associate himself with the power Oskane so clearly despised. As if he could deny his tainted blood.

Until this day, he’d been able to tell himself he might look like a Malaunje, but he wasn’t corrupted. Feeling that odd reverberation of gift residue in the button had stripped him of his illusion.

He hated the button. Wanted to destroy it and everything associated with it.

Wanted to hold it and savour the sensation.

Yesterday, the chest had arrived, and today Oskane had tested him with the button. What else did the chest contain?

He had to know.

Sorne slipped past Franto’s empty chair, into the study.

There was no sign of the chest in here, which left Oskane’s private chamber. It was just as austere as the study, containing a low bed, the symbol of the seven True-man gods, a large chest for his tutor’s robes and his tutor’s scourge.

Sorne remembered being shown the vile thing when he was five and wanted to know why he and his brother had to be beaten. They had been told that only through pain and denial could a man find true strength.

But, if that was so, why did he still feel drawn to the Wyrd’s power? Sorne dropped his shirt on the bed and opened the large chest. The blankets, night-shirts and simple white robes of a priestly scholar lay within, neatly folded. He moved them to one side, looking for the smaller chest, and discovered something wrapped in fine wool. It felt heavy, round and flat. He unwrapped it, keeping the wool between the metal and his bare fingers, as Oskane had done with the ring.

A silver torc set with a bright blue stone lay in his hands. Should he touch it? As much as he wanted to feel the rush of power, he feared it. Yet he had to know if this object contained gift residue. Teeth clenched, he touched the tip of one finger to the silver. Nothing. Nothing from the stone, either. He felt like laughing.

Replacing the torc, he checked the chest one last time. As he did so, Oskane’s journals caught his eye. The scholar started a new one every year. He selected last year’s and opened it at the first page.

This is the boy’s seventeenth year and already he is taller than me...

He flicked through pages at random, skimming words.

...I have searched and even here, in Restoration Retreat, I can find no evidence. All I have left is this hollow ache and the conviction that it is all lies. There are no gods watching over us. Is it better to be happy and believe a lie, or to suffer knowing the truth?

...today I dreamed of Sorna as she was on her wedding day, so happy and innocent. But then she turned on him and denounced him as her murderer...

...Good news, another dead baby. How Nitzel must be gnashing his teeth. If he is not careful, Charald will do away with his daughter and take another wife, one who can give him living sons. He’s done it before...

Closing the journal, Sorne opened the most recent one. Here there were only a couple of pages of writing.

...today the chest arrived. I’ll test Sorne. If, as I suspect, Wyrd power proves addictive for half-bloods, then I must find some way to armour him against it, for I very much fear what will happen when I send him to the Wyrds. He must be ready by spring.

Then I will tell him the truth, most importantly Nitzel’s part in his mother’s murder. If Nitzel hadn’t had his own son-in-law murdered, his daughter would not have been free to marry Charald. Sorne needs to know who his enemies are. He needs to know he’s King Charald’s son and that it is his destiny to bring down the Wyrds and crush Nitzel. Only then can he redeem himself in his father’s eyes, and only then will Sorna’s murder be avenged...

Sorne blinked, unable to believe the magnitude of Oskane’s betrayal. The very foundation of his life was a lie. Grey moths fluttered in his vision. He couldn’t get enough air.

He sank to his knees by the bed, forehead on the cold wooden floor. For a couple of heartbeats, he concentrated on breathing.

Oskane had lied to him. His mother was not his mother... but Hiruna loved him, for all that he was not her true son.

As Sorne’s vision cleared, he realised he was staring at the small chest, tucked neatly under Oskane’s bed.

Spurred by anger, he dragged it out, flipped it open and pulled out the first thing he laid his hand on. A gown made of magnificent brocade, glinting with gold and flashing stones, stained by blood... his hand registered power in the dried blood. He wanted to bring it to his face and rub it on his skin, but he was not a slave to sensation. He put the gown aside, to discover a long silver braid curled in the bottom of the chest.

The moment he touched it, he felt the power. His senses sharpened and his heart raced.

Then he heard voices, Franto and Oskane in the outer chamber. No time to waste.

He dropped the braid on his shirt. The journal was at his feet. He grabbed it and returned it to the big chest.

The voices came closer.

Refolding the bloodstained robe, he placed it in the chest, which he shoved under the bed. Sorne rolled the plait up in his shirt and flung it out the window to fall onto the wall-walk below. He swung his leg over the window sill, lowered himself and let go...

He rolled with the impact. It jarred his teeth and every bone in his body but, when he came to his feet, he was unhurt. And there was the silver plait on the ground next to him, along with his shirt.

Quick as thought, he snatched up the braid and wound it three times around his waist, before throwing his shirt over the top. He sprang off the wall-walk and into the tree, then climbed down into the courtyard.

His mother was standing in the stable doorway. She beckoned him with a smile.

No, Hiruna wasn’t his mother. Sorna was his mother, and Baron Nitzel had ordered her death so his daughter could marry the king.

‘Come, Sorne. I must treat your back,’ Hiruna said.

He could not bear to be near her, knowing she’d lied to him all his life. Rushing through the storerooms, he ran out the back and onto the hillside.

Dimly, he heard Izteben calling him.

He kept going up the old winding path until he came to the sealed mine, and there he leaned against the boards, unable to see for tears.

Furious, he wiped his face and turned to confront Izteben, who’d just caught up with him. ‘Did you know?’

‘Know what? What’s wrong? Did he scourge you again, after I left? Why is he so hard on you?’

Of course Oskane was harder on him. He was the king’s unwanted half-blood son. But he didn’t say that, he wasn’t ready to explain. He wanted time to think things through.

If Oskane had lied to him about this, what else had he lied about?

‘He did scourge you.’ Izteben leaped to his own conclusion. ‘I swear he enjoys it. One day I’ll turn that lash on him and... Seriously, Sorne, what happened up there? You look...’ – he struggled for words – ‘stunned.’

‘You’ll always be honest with me. Won’t you?’

‘Of course, we’re brothers.’

And it was as simple as that. They mightn’t be related, but they were brothers. Sorne sank to the ground, his back to the boards.