Besieged (52 page)

‘He swore to serve the Warrior. He’s a faithful servant of the Seven. I will make a generous donation to ensure a suitable stone is carved.’

‘In that case...’

It took the better part of the night to prepare the crypt and lay Idan to rest alongside the nun, who would henceforth be known as the queen.

Burying young Idan was hard for Sorne. He wept unashamedly as the crypt was sealed.

The next morning, they shared the same meagre fare as the nuns, then hitched up the horses and turned their noses toward the castle. The abbess gave him a message of condolence addressed to the king, informing him that his queen had died two years earlier.

Sorne took the reins while Nitzane’s mother hugged him one last time.

‘Good-bye, my little Zane.’

As the cart trundled out the gate, Sorne asked, ‘Zane?’

‘My brother’s pet name for me. I misjudged you, Sorne. Consider me your friend.’

Chapter Forty-One

W
HEN
S
ORNE RETURNED
with the news of Idan’s death, as well as the queen’s, King Charald was pleased. Eight years had passed since the king had taken Idan hostage to ensure the cooperation of the Khitite royal family. In that time, the boy had grown into a man, and allied himself with Chalcedonia.

‘If one of the royal hostages had to die, then Idan’s the best one to lose,’ he told Sorne, who hoped his face did not betray his true feelings. ‘Idan’s father is dead, his sister adores Etri and they have three children. Etri’s hold on Khitan is secure, and I trust him. He has the other royal hostages in his care. Just as well we didn’t lose the Maygharian prince. Norholtz is having problems. The man always was a pious prick with no head for strategy.’ Charald cast Sorne an assessing look.

‘Idan said you were minding his gold.’

Charald laughed. ‘Yes, the lad had a way of making coin breed.’

‘He wanted me to take it to his sister.’

‘I’ll send it to Khitan.’

‘I promised him I would do it.’

‘I have all my barons out claiming their estates, and it’s summer’s cusp now. Do you think it’s too soon to wed Matxin’s filly? I need to get a son by her before the year is out. I’ve heard the whispers. They say I’m getting on, that I’ve won an empire and made myself high king for nothing, since it will all die with me.’

Sorne knew he should reassure Charald, but tonight he could not bring himself to speak the platitudes. He made his excuses and left.

When he returned to his chamber, Sorne unpacked Oskane’s journals and scrolls, along with a bag of malachite he’d found in the chest.

Although the scrolls were probably full of interesting information on Wyrds, he went straight to Oskane’s last journal. It started on his seventeenth birthday, just after winter’s cusp, and went through to summer’s cusp, when Oskane had died. If something had gone wrong in the preparation for the ceremony that killed Izteben, perhaps he’d find it here.

Oskane’s last few entries made it clear that Matxin had been a great help to him. He also wrote of the pride he took in Zabier. The scholar’s plans for Baron Nitzel’s downfall did not correlate in the slightest with what had unfolded that evening. Clearly, it had been a terrible accident, and there were forces on the higher plane that could not be appeased with a T’En artefact.

Sometimes it didn’t matter what you did, things were beyond your control.

Flicking through the pages reminded Sorne how happy he’d been in the retreat. When Zabier returned to them, Hiruna had become her usual sunny self. Catching glimpses of his family through Oskane’s journal was painful.

Then he came to the morning they’d set off for the port. Meticulous as always, Oskane had recorded the she-Wyrd’s passing.

.
..woke up this morning and found the barons had saved Franto the trouble of killing the she-Wyrd. This evening, when we made camp, they showed me their trophies. Norholtz has one little sixth finger and Etri the other. Bazajaun and Ferminzto divided the hair between them. Roitz took the eyes. I don’t know what he thought he could do with them.

Sorne closed the journal with a snap. Until tonight, he had not understood how Oskane could beat them every day, yet continue to tutor them and take pride in their work.

It was clear there was something missing in the man.

Sorne returned the journals to his chest and hid them under oddities he’d collected in his travels, before concealing the chest under his bed.

That night, sleep was a long time coming. He tossed and turned, troubled by what he had read. If he was any kind of man, he would hunt down the five barons mentioned in Oskane’s journal.

Norholtz, Etri and Roitz had remained loyal to Charald, and now ruled Maygharia, Khitan and Welcai respectively. The other two had returned to Chalcedonia and sworn allegiance to King Matxin. Sorne could find out where they were now, if they still lived.

The next morning, as he headed across the plaza, he saw that parts of it had been roped off, and performers were entertaining the crowds. A group of jugglers blocked his path to the Father’s church, so he took a side street.

‘Warrior’s-voice?’ A pretty Malaunje woman approached him. ‘Will you help me?’

He didn’t know her... but he remembered Zabier’s saying how pretty Malaunje women were taken off the streets. Imagine if it were Valendia? ‘If I can.’

‘Come quickly.’ She took his hand, weaving through the crowds.

‘Wait, where are you taking me?’

‘Please?’ She looked up at him, wine-dark eyes wide with fright. And he remembered the she-Wyrd asking him to set her free. He’d failed her... maybe he could atone by helping this woman.

She tugged on his hand and he followed.

‘T
HEY’RE COMING.
’ H
AROSEL
ran lightly down the wine cellar steps and moved into the shadows. The cellar was long and deep, with huge barrels stacked all the way to the vaulted ceiling.

Graelen’s gift surged, and he reined it in as he checked that the infant was still sleeping safely in her basket under the table. She was a necessary part of his plan.

The Warrior’s-voice had been away from the city for almost a whole small moon, giving Graelen a chance to refine his original plan. As much as he would like to dispense justice, he needed more information first. If the churches were sacrificing half-bloods, he wanted to know where, when and who.

While spying for Kyredeon, he had discovered that information freely given was more likely to be the truth, and nothing loosened a tongue more than a pretty girl in trouble – in this case, a pretty girl with a baby. If the Warrior’s-voice was sacrificing infants to feed an addiction to power, he would want the child and give himself away.

Lysania drew the white-haired Malaunje down the steps.

Hidden in the cellar were Graelen’s four Malaunje, plus two of Chariode’s, who were there to ensure Lysania and her daughter came to no harm. They all knew of Graelen’s suspicions, and – once the white-haired Malaunje’s guilt was confirmed – were ready to execute him on the spot.

The half-blood seemed to sense this; he looked around, uneasily. The Warrior’s-voice was armed with a sword, worn low on his right hip for left-handed use. Yet, according to the treaty with King Charald the Peace-maker, Wyrds were not allowed to carry swords.

‘You said you would help me,’ Lysania pleaded. ‘I need–’

At the sound of her voice, her choice-daughter gave a tentative cry. Lysania ran over to pick up her baby, crooning softly.

‘Boy or girl?’ the white-haired Malaunje asked, clearly interested in the infant. Graelen felt his gift surge, and knew his Malaunje warriors would be getting edgy.

‘Girl. Tamoria.’ Lysania settled the baby on her hip. The infant studied the white-haired Malaunje with frank curiosity. ‘She’s almost a year old. She’s the reason I came to you.’

‘I don’t know how I can help you.’

This was not the reaction Graelen had expected.

Lifting a hand, the half-blood went to touch the baby, but Lysania drew back.

‘If you two are in danger, you’d be safer with your own kind.’

‘They want to take her away from me,’ Lysania improvised.

‘Why would they do that? I know True-women have to give up their half-blood babies to the Wy... T’Enatuath, but–’

One of the Malaunje shifted impatiently. The Warrior’s-voice thrust Lysania and the child behind him, drawing his sword. He handled the weapon with confidence.

‘Were you followed?’

‘I don’t know.’ Lysania glanced to where Graelen was hiding, clearly desperate.

The Warrior’s-voice was ready to protect her, and the last thing Graelen wanted was a dead Malaunje on his hands. Focusing his gift, Graelen prepared to overcome the half-blood’s untrained defences. All he had to do was slip into his mind and trick him into revealing what he knew.

Gesturing for Lysania to step away, Graelen glided silently into her place and went to touch the half-blood’s neck. But before he could turn...

S
ORNE FELT A
gathering of power that was both terrifying and exhilarating. He’d been on edge ever since he entered the wine cellar, and now he realised he’d been lured into a trap.

He turned, raising his weapon, to find a T’En warrior behind him. Well-dressed, scarred forehead, crooked knuckles on his left hand suggesting broken bones in the past. A fighter, then. Older than him, not an initiate; an adept.

Seeing the warrior was unarmed, Sorne hesitated. Then he realised the T’En didn’t need a blade, not when they had their gift.

Sorne swung his weapon, but before he could land a blow, someone grabbed his arm from behind and twisted. The sword hilt flew from his fingers and the blade clattered to the floor. A second assailant pinned his other arm and a third grabbed him around the waist.

Sorne turned so swiftly, the one holding his arm lost his grip and was flung up against a wine barrel. The air was driven from the young Malaunje’s chest, with a crack that sounded like ribs breaking.

The attacker who had Sorne around the waist lost his grip as Sorne drove his elbow into his throat and he went down.

The third attacker tried to grab Sorne, who swung his leg out, kicking the man behind the knees and sending him to the floor.

Sorne backed up. Three Malaunje staggered between him and the T’En adept, whose gaze flicked to something behind Sorne. He turned and failed to duck in time as a fist drove into his head, over one eye.

He reeled and staggered, bent over double. Someone grabbed him from behind. Sorne reached down, caught one of his attacker’s knees and straightened up. The man went over backwards, clipping a wine barrel.

Two of the attackers caught his arms and two more moved in on him. Their eyes blazed with anger, and their blows were driven by vicious determination. He didn’t understand what he’d done to earn their hatred. A fist slammed into his belly. He doubled over, and someone grabbed his hair. A knee slammed into his face, hitting his mouth.

The two men restraining him hauled him upright.

Still reeling, he sucked in a desperate breath. As one of his attackers went to punch him again, the T’En adept caught the man’s arm in mid-strike.

‘Get Lysania out of here,’ the adept ordered, shoving the warrior away.

This close, Sorne felt the force of the adept’s power. Like the heat of an open fire, it could so easily burn him up.

As soon as the adept become involved, Sorne had felt his attackers relax their grip on his arms. He dropped, stepped back between them, and grabbed the backs of their necks as they staggered, driving them in together. Their heads met with a satisfying
thunk
.

Sorne backed off, heading for the steps.

Someone grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms at his side. Sorne threw his head back, heard the crunch of his attacker’s nose. That one let him go, but at least three of them pounced on him, driving him to his knees on the cold stone floor of the cellar. The sheer weight of numbers kept him down.

‘We have him,’ one of them reported.

‘You sure?’ the adept asked. ‘There’s one of him and only five of you!’

‘You said not to hurt him.’

They spoke T’En, and apparently didn’t expect Sorne to understand.

At a signal from the T’En warrior, they lifted him to his feet, but kept him pinned between them.

The young woman and her infant were gone. Two injured half-bloods were a little unsteady on their feet, but that left three relatively uninjured Malaunje and the adept, who had not raised a sweat while Sorne staggered and bled.

Anger curled through Sorne; he could feel the tug of the adept’s gift from a body-length away. Resisting the lure of power was what Oskane had spent years preparing him for. Sorne no longer felt a duty to Oskane, but that didn’t mean these Wyrds were his brothers.

‘I am Adept Graelen of Kyredeon’s Brotherhood.’ The full-blood spoke Chalcedonian. ‘And you are going to answer my questions.’

Sorne lifted his chin and glared, the effect slightly spoilt by the way blood kept dripping into his right eye. In truth, his mouth was so swollen, he didn’t know if he could speak.

‘We could rough him up some more,’ the one with broken nose offered in the T’En language.

‘Because that’s worked well so far.’ Graelen grimaced, then returned his attention to Sorne. Lifting the lamp, he switched back to Chalcedonian. ‘Just who are you, Warrior’s-voice?’

‘You must know who I am, since you sent the woman to lure me down here.’ Sorne was pleased to find his words were only slightly slurred.

‘Show some respect,’ Broken-nose barked, kicking the back of his knees and driving him back to the floor.

The adept crouched in front of him and tore his robe open, exposing his chest.

‘Make sure your hands do not touch bare flesh,’ Graelen told the Malaunje who held Sorne captive.

Panic welled up in Sorne and he jerked back, to no effect. His heart convulsed as if a fist squeezed it, once, twice. He wondered if he could die of fright.

Graelen closed his eyes. Sorne felt his gift gather like the threat of a thunderstorm. He inhaled sharply. The power seemed to have a taste and, as it hit the back of his tongue, it terrified him. Because he wanted it.