Besieged (39 page)

‘You gave it to Franto to read?’ the king asked.

Sorne nodded. ‘I thought it might contain a message from High Priest Oskane. When Franto read it, he wept, then sent me to bed. That’s all I know.’

Charald eyed the message cylinder, then gestured for Baron Etri to take it. ‘Read it.’

The baron took out the proclamation. ‘Where is the message from Oskane? How do you know it was from him?’

‘It had the Father’s seal. What’s left of the message is in there. Franto burned it.’ Sorne shrugged. ‘I thought it strange, but...’

Charald sank into his chair. ‘What does the decree say, Etri?’

The baron opened it, went very pale, then lifted his head. ‘I think you had better read it yourself, sire.’

‘Permission to take Franto’s body?’ Sorne asked.

The king dismissed him with a wave.

Sorne carried Franto into their alcove and laid him out on his bedroll. Then he knelt by the body and waited.

The king’s rage, when it exploded, was truly terrifying. His shouts thundered, carrying across the camp. Wood splintered, glass smashed.

The first time he’d heard the king in a temper, Sorne had felt fear. Now, after Franto’s explanation, Sorne felt contempt. Rage achieved nothing.

The barons joined the king in cursing Matxin’s betrayal and heaping scorn upon Nitzel for his failure to protect Prince Cedon.

Sorne thought he’d escaped the worst of it, when Charald began bellowing for him. He entered the tent, and two of the barons grabbed him and dragged him in front of the king.

They tossed Sorne onto the carpet. Charald pulled him to his feet, shaking him like a dog. They were the same height, but the king was heavily muscled and Sorne had yet to fill out.

Charald’s hands closed on his throat. ‘How can this be?’ Foam flecked the king’s mouth, spraying Sorne’s face. ‘The Warrior promised me victory!’

Sorne caught the hands on his throat and held on, struggling to suck in a breath. ‘You had victory in port–’

‘And, while my back was turned, I lost my son and my kingdom! Why is the Warrior doing this? What have I done? Those lies... how could Oskane write them?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It’s just as well he’s dead. I’d have his balls for–’

‘He’s dead? Scholar Oskane’s dead?’ Sorne wasn’t supposed to know this yet. He held onto the hands at his throat, in the hope he would live long enough to make the offer that would send the king out to conquer the kingdoms of the Secluded Sea. ‘No wonder Franto wept.’

The king’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m here because of you, half-blood. You sent me–’

‘The Warrior sent you here. I bear the Warrior’s mark.’ He had another streak of white hair growing from the scar on his forehead. ‘You stood in the presence of the gods. You were blinded by the flash of light.’

Charald released him, and Sorne crumpled to his knees.

‘Why is the Warrior doing this?’ Charald paced, rubbing his face. ‘I’ve done everything he wanted and now–’

‘Perhaps the Warrior is warring with the Father?’ Baron Norholtz suggested. ‘You left the Father’s-voice in Chalcedonia.’

Sorne looked up, surprised by help from this quarter. From Norholtz’s expression, it was a genuine suggestion.

‘That’s right,’ Baron Etri said. ‘A son sometimes fights with his father. Have the half-blood make an offering. Ask the Warrior what he wants of you.’

Which was exactly what Sorne wanted to suggest. He lowered his eyes to hide his relief.

The king strode back to stand over him. ‘You’ll summon the Warrior for me.’

‘As soon as your men find me a holy site.’

‘A holy site? Do they even have them, this far south?’

There was silence, then Baron Norholtz ventured a reply. ‘They have what they claim are holy sites, but whether they are truly pathways to the gods... Only the Warrior’s-voice could tell you.’

Charald brushed this aside. ‘We’ll find a holy site and make a sacrifice to call the gods.’ He returned to stand over Sorne. ‘The Warrior will grant you a vision.’

Sorne nodded and came to his feet, although he kept his head bowed. ‘As you say, sire. At the season’s cusp, when the walls are weakest, I will be able to reach the one-eyed Warrior god. Until then–’

‘Your pardon, my king?’ One of the night watch pushed the tent flap aside.

‘What is it now?’ Charald turned on him.

‘There’s a delegation from the Khitite ruler. They just arrived.’

Charald sent a triumphant look to his barons. ‘Now we talk terms.’

‘Accept what he offers,’ Baron Etri urged softly. ‘As soon as news reaches him, he’ll know we’re stranded here.’

Charald grimaced and flung himself into his chair. ‘Show him in.’

The barons ranged themselves behind him, and Sorne moved to one side.

Three men entered. One wore rich brocade, decorated with the geometric patterns popular in Khitite clothing and architecture. His black hair was oiled and sleek. To Sorne, it seemed too black for a man of his age. Rings covered his fingers. The other two wore simpler garments, and each carried an ornate chest.

‘King Charald the Great,’ the leader said, giving him the Khitite bow. ‘His Majesty King Idan has sent me to negotiate. As a token of his sincerity, he offers these gifts.’

The two servants went on bent knee to present the two small chests.

With a flourish the Khitite gestured. ‘The first is filled with precious jewels.’

Charald inspected the gems. ‘I have whole chambers filled with such stones at home.’

Sorne hid a smile.

‘Secondly, the orb of power.’

The servant opened the second chest. Charald leant forward to look.

Sorne stepped in. ‘Allow me, your majesty. I will ascertain the orb’s authenticity.’

He rolled up his sleeves and went to take it out of the chest. A tingle of awareness told him it did indeed hold power, but when he removed the glass ball from its bed of silk nothing happened.

The orb’s power was unlike anything he had encountered before. Curious, he touched the orb with his other hand and the moment his fingers made contact he felt the power flow through him. The orb glowed with an inner radiance.

Sorne returned the orb to its chest. ‘It is indeed pretty, your majesty. But it is nothing compared to the objects of power we have back home.’

King Charald smiled and Sorne enjoyed his approval, before remembering this man did not deserve his loyalty.

The next morning, they accepted King Idan’s surrender and took his eldest son hostage, before the Khitite king realised all but four of Charald’s barons had deserted him in the night.

Chapter Thirty-Two

I
MOSHEN FELT SICK
with dread. Ever since she’d escaped from Lighthouse Isle, she couldn’t bear to be apart from her choice-son. Logically, she knew he was safe in the sisterhood palace, playing with Egrayne’s choice-daughter Saffazi, but even so, her heart raced. She couldn’t help but envision a terrible accident befalling him.

‘What is it?’ Reoden asked. ‘Do you need to go back?’

Imoshen shook her head. This was the first time she’d been out of the sisterhood quarter, out of the palace even, since the all-council where she’d...

But she mustn’t think about that.

Nearly half a year, locked away. For someone who was used to wandering her island, it was unbearable.

It was autumn cusp, the air was warm and the stones under her feet held the heat of the day. Sweet-scented flowers tumbled from shopfront pots and over balconies, mingling with the aroma of rich food being prepared in the eateries for this evening’s celebrations in the free quarter. Soon the Mieren shopkeepers would pack up for the day and hurry out the causeway gate.

And all she could think about was getting back to her choice-son.

Reoden pulled her into an alleyway between shops. Imoshen looked up at the sisterhood leader: beautiful, exotic and powerful. Her gift stirred.

‘I can feel your heart racing, Imoshen,’ Reoden said. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, I...’

Two brotherhood warriors tackled another group. It was play fighting, but the sudden surge of their gifts made Imoshen gasp. When had she become this timid creature?

‘Imoshen?’

She should never have come here.

‘Imoshen?’

She despised herself.

Reoden kissed her.

It was so unexpected that her gift broke free and she sensed the nature of Reoden’s healing gift, so pure and powerful. Lips incredibly soft, skin like hot satin. Who would have thought a kiss could be this perfect?

Reoden pulled back and Imoshen saw colour race up her cheeks as she fought to rein in her gift.

‘Come on,’ the healer said. ‘If we don’t hurry, they’ll be closed.’

‘Where are you taking me?’ And what had just happened?

‘You’ll see.’ There was laughter in Reoden’s voice; she sounded young and happy. This wasn’t the face she showed the other leaders of the sisterhoods.

Imoshen felt privileged, and a languid warmth flowed through her body. Her feet barely touched the ground. Since arriving in the city, she’d observed the T’En sisters. She knew that it was common practice for an adept to take an initiate for a lover and guide her as she settled into the sisterhood, like Arodyti and Sarosune. Sometimes they became shield-sisters when the initiate finished her training. But she and Reoden were from different sisterhoods. Was it even possible for them to be lovers?

In the street, they passed T’En and Malaunje alike, some hurrying to complete their business before the shops closed, others already off to celebrate, dressed in their finery, and a few Mieren wearing the distinctive short red mantles that proclaimed they had a licence to be in the city.

‘Here we are.’ Reoden pulled her around a corner and covered her eyes.

Imoshen could feel the healer at her back. The warmth of Reoden’s body, the sensation of her gift barely leashed, made Imoshen’s heart race.

‘Are you ready?’ the healer whispered, breath brushing Imoshen’s ear.

She removed her hands.

Imoshen blinked. Before them was a single-storey shopfront. What was so special about this place? Then Imoshen recognised the scroll and the nib: the symbol of the Sagoras.

‘They have a shop here? I can buy treatises? Learn anything I want?’

The healer laughed. ‘Come inside, before they close up.’

As they ran across the street, a young shop assistant stepped out of the door to lower the shutters. He, or she, wore traditional Sagora clothing, a long-sleeved gown and hood with a fine mesh veil that revealed only the mouth and chin. The Sagoras were notoriously private.

Imoshen and Reoden entered the shop. By the glow of a single lamp, Imoshen saw maps, diagrams of plants and animals, cunningly constructed models and cleverly wrought puzzles in both wood and metal. This must be where Ardeyne used to purchase the treatises for her.

That thought brought a halt to her joy, but instead of sadness she felt anger. Such a waste.

A man came out of the shop’s backroom. Like the young assistant, he wore the Sagora costume, but the slight stubble visible beneath the veil revealed his gender. He spoke Chalcedonian with an accent. ‘I’m sorry, we are closed for today.’

Imoshen could not leave without getting one thing to take home and treasure. She wanted to understand why the problems between the brotherhoods and sisterhoods existed and the closest she could think of was... ‘Do you have any treatises on military history?’

‘No, but I can order something in for you.’

‘Do that, but...’ Imoshen desperately wanted to take something home with her now. She’d had to leave all her wonderful treatises back on Lighthouse Isle. And she remembered one she’d been reading. ‘Do you have Felesoi’s treatise on the passing-on of traits in plants?’ In her excitement she couldn’t remember the exact title and her Chalcedonian was a little rusty.

‘That one I do have.’ He smiled as he turned away and searched several small drawers. He retrieved the treatise with a flourish, placed it on the counter and named a price.

Only then did Imoshen realise she had no way of paying.

‘Let me,’ Reoden said, stepping forward and producing some coins. ‘Think of it as a welcome home gift.’

‘Thank you.’ Imoshen blushed.

She accepted the treatise and they were escorted out

‘We should get back,’ Reoden said. ‘The free quarter can get rather... wild during celebrations.’

‘Thank you for taking me to the Sagoras,’ Imoshen said, touched that Reoden should remember a chance remark.

‘Not everyone sees scholarly works as a treat.’

Imoshen smiled. As they crossed the street, she memorised the shop’s location.

They were on the main road, heading for the sisterhood quarter, when she felt the approach of aggressive male gifts. Tension gathered in Reoden’s body and Imoshen’s mouth went dry.

‘Keep walking. Don’t meet their eyes. They’ll see it as a threat,’ the healer said softly, then raised her voice. ‘Are you pleased with your purchase?’

‘Oh, yes, I had no idea the Sagoras had a shop here...’ But her senses were trained on the five T’En men walking towards them. Gift-warriors, armed with long-knives, armoured with hate; so much anger and violence seethed within them.

It was only when she and Reoden entered the sisterhood gate that she felt Reoden relax and ceased her chatter.

‘That...’ Reoden sagged against a wall. She took a moment to catch her breath before hurrying Imoshen on. ‘I’ve never sensed that much animosity before. I shouldn’t have taken you into the free quarter. It’s too soon. I’m sorry, Imoshen. You were right to be nervous.’ Reoden summoned a smile. ‘Don’t worry. One day you’ll be able to walk the streets without fear.’

‘Would they attack me?’

‘No... No, that would be an attack on the sisterhoods.’

But Reoden’s hesitation gave her away. She wasn’t certain.

As they reached the steps of Aayelora’s palace, the healer went to place a kiss on Imoshen’s cheek, then hesitated. Both of them could feel it, this thing that surged between them. There would be no more casual kisses.

Reoden cupped Imoshen’s cheek, looked into her eyes and was gone.