Besieged (55 page)

Imoshen gave him the Sagora obeisance and they walked on in silence. Even though this was only their fifth lesson, her instinct was to trust him.

‘Were you in the city when the sacrare was killed?’ she asked softly in T’En.

‘Yes. Such a waste.’ He shook his head.

Reoden’s exact words. Her heart warmed to him. Of course, it could all be an act, designed to win her confidence, but if it was, she couldn’t see the point. He did not know who she was.

He glanced to her, only his mouth and jaw visible. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘The sacrare debacle is why I took up Sagorese. I want to study on Ivernia.’

‘And your all-mother has approved this?’

‘She said I must learn their language first.’

‘That’s why you study so hard. But what does studying with the Sagoras have to do with the girl’s death?’

Imoshen hesitated. They’d come to the centre of another arched bridge, where she could see straight down the canal to the lake and the shore beyond. It was late afternoon, nearing midsummer. Sunlight danced on the water, reflecting on the buildings, creating shimmering patterns of light.

Beautiful, but it was still the Celestial City and all that entailed.

‘What did you think of Rutz’s latest play?’ she asked.

‘I don’t see the connection.’

‘Answer the question.’

‘What did
you
think of it?’

‘I saw it three times.’

‘So you liked it?’

‘It made me cry every time.’

‘But it was billed as a comedy,’ he protested, with a smile.

‘It was a tragedy masquerading as a satire.’

He said nothing, which disappointed her.

‘So you want to leave the city and study with the Sagoras because you can’t stand the restrictions of T’Enatuath society?’

Imoshen smiled with relief. ‘Yes.’

‘You agree with Rutz? The restrictions reinforce the problems they are meant to alleviate?’

Imoshen nodded.

‘So your answer is to run away.’

She flushed. ‘I am only one person. What can I do?’

‘Rutz is only one person. He writes plays.’

‘And people laugh at them. They don’t see what he is satirising.’

‘You did.’

‘But I am only one person.’

‘Change starts with one person.’

‘Tell that to All-father Rohaayel!’ And she walked off.Tears stung her eyes and she fought back a sob. Horror filled her. She must not cry here, in front of a T’En man, not after what she’d said about Rohaayel. She should never have brought up his name.

By the time she reached the Sagoras’ premises, she’d regained her self-control.

He caught up with her in the foyer.

‘Rohaayel broke the covenant,’ he said. ‘He hid a female child. He knew the risks he was taking. He went about change the wrong way.’

‘There is a right way?’

He hesitated.

‘By writing plays that go over people’s heads?’ Imoshen prodded.

Feeling she had made her point, she went through the courtyard and took her place as student-she. But it was a hollow victory, because she
did
want to change things. These were her people, whether she liked it or not. When Iraayel grew up, he had to live amongst them. If she had another child... The thought shocked her.

She had no chance of another child. The sisterhood would never give her one. And she wasn’t going to take a Malaunje male for a lover, not when she risked having to give up her baby if it was born a half-blood. In the eight years she had been here, no T’En man had ever asked to tryst with her on midsummer’s day. The brotherhoods feared and hated her. She was a symbol of T’En female oppression. To the sisterhoods, she was a symbol of T’En male aggression.

She would never fit in, and she didn’t want to. She should leave. But, as the lesson progressed, she realised that the Imoshen who had lived on Lighthouse Isle would never have run away.

That Imoshen would never have given up, and she was still that Imoshen. A shiver passed over her body, rousing her gift. Even though he sat across from her, she felt student-he react, his power rising in answer to hers.

It was as if she had been asleep for eight and a half years, and was finally waking up. A strange euphoria filled her.

It was still there when the lesson ended, and they made their way to the foyer.

‘You seemed distracted today, student-she. I’m sorry if I offended you.’

‘No. What you said was true. It is cowardly to run away from the city.’

‘Your... your honesty is disarming.’

Imoshen thought about it. ‘If we are not honest with ourselves, then we do ourselves and others a disservice.’

He gestured to her Mieren cloak. ‘Says student-she, who denies her identity and her race.’

They forced me to become this person. To save my choice-son and my devotee, they forced me to execute my father. Now the brotherhoods hate me.
But she didn’t say this. Instead, she took her Mieren cloak from the hook and settled it on her shoulders.

Then she turned to him. ‘When we are out there, the city and everything that it entails gets in the way. When we are here, it is you and me. Is that enough for now?’

Even as the words left her mouth, she realised she was asking much more than the promise he would not try to find out who she was.

She saw him swallow and felt his gift surge. Instead of the fear she had come to associate with men’s gifts, she felt drawn to his power and to him. Perhaps Vittoryxe was right. Perhaps she was addicted to the male gift.

‘You are as secretive as the Sagoras, student-she. But...’ He reached out to fasten the clasp of the Mieren cloak under her chin.

She brushed his hands away. ‘I can do up my own–’

‘Of course you can.’ He pulled her close and kissed her.

Imoshen’s gift surged. She let it, felt the moment it meshed with his, felt him ignite.

Shaken, he let her go and stepped back. He took another step and his shoulders hit the wall. He seemed as surprised as she was.

He left her without a word.

S
ORNE LEFT THE
message in the wine cellar, along with the borrowed robe, then made his way back to the palace. He had timed the message’s delivery so that he could not meet the adept tomorrow.

Tomorrow they would ride out to the holy site, where he would perform for King Charald’s barons and the church leaders. To think, after eight years of this, he had to prove himself all over again. He might die tomorrow night, but if he didn’t...

With this offering, he would be more powerful than any other priest in all of Chalcedonia, even the Father’s-voice, since Zabier’s visions weren’t real.

His brother was barely speaking to him. He had taken it as a personal insult that Hiruna had told Sorne about her illness and not him. Valendia had retreated into her music. The only truly happy person was King Charald; it turned out one of the barons had a daughter of marriageable age, and she was just his type.

Sorne felt sorry for the girl, who would not be sixteen until midsummer. She and her father had been invited to the ceremony. Charald had made it clear he expected Sorne to get the Warrior’s blessing for what he intended to do.

An altercation made Sorne look up.

At the next intersection, the driver of a carriage was arguing with a carter about right of way. As Sorne stepped around the carriage, someone came out of a shop’s doorway, grabbed him and bundled him into the vehicle.

He recognised the adept’s gift even before the door closed and the carriage started moving, rattling over the cobbles.

‘So the Father’s-voice knows nothing of these sacrifices?’ Graelen said, gesturing with the message Sorne had left. ‘And you ride off to put yourself in harm’s way tomorrow.’

‘Using a T’En artefact.’

‘Is it a braid, like this?’ The adept gestured to his own hair, his eyes glittered with anger. ‘Do you see any T’En walking around with short hair? Or is it a pendant made of little finger bones?’

‘I didn’t kill the T’En these artefacts came from. Some of them are hundreds of years old.’

‘But the ones with the most gift residue are recent, aren’t they? No, you don’t kill or rob a T’En to get the artefact, but someone does.’

‘I’ve done what I said I would. Only the Father’s-voice speaks with the gods, and Zabier was deeply offended when I asked about the sacrifices. It’s just a rumour, like the terrible things they told me about Wyrds, when I was growing up. Unless there’s a splinter group of priests ambitious for power.’

The carriage came to a stop. Sorne tried for the door.

Graelen caught his hand, crushing it on the handle. ‘I’m not done with you yet.’

Short of drawing his sword in the confines of the carriage, there was not a lot Sorne could do. He did not want to head-butt the adept.

‘So you’ll risk death to impress King Charald’s barons. I hear one of them ran off with his wife-to-be.’

Sorne winced. If the adept had heard it, then likely the king would know the truth soon. ‘Charald has his eye on another baron’s daughter.’

‘What will this make, queen number three? And if he tires of her, will you murder her, like you killed the second queen? Was that revenge for your own mother?’

‘Your spies don’t know everything.’

‘I know you went to the Mother’s abbey and came back with proof of a woman’s death.’

‘She isn’t dead.’ Sorne stopped trying to turn the handle and sat back. Graelen let him go. ‘Baron Nitzane was reunited with his mother. A nameless nun lies buried in the queen’s grave. So the king is free to marry where he chooses. And tomorrow night, Charald expects the Warrior to send me a vision supporting his choice of wife.’

‘Can’t you just say you’ve had a vision? Do you have to through this whole–’

‘Offering? Yes. They want to see the artefact glow and disappear in a flash of light.’

‘There are beasts on the empyrean plane so powerful a braid with residual gift essence is not going to satisfy them.’

‘I know.’

‘Yet you do it anyway.’

Sorne did not speak.

‘Do you have a powerful T’En artefact?’

‘I have three to choose from. They’re all of equal strength. I’ll make the one I select more enticing by rubbing my blood on it. That helps to...’ He sat up. ‘What are you doing?’

The adept produced a silver chain, holding a heavy silver disk. Without answering, he grasped the disk in his hands, closed his eyes and concentrated. Sorne could feel the build-up of power.

Sounds became strange and distorted, and scents grew more powerful... His skin prickled.

‘There.’ The adept exhaled and opened his eyes. ‘That should do it.’ Graelen hung the chain around Sorne’s neck, tucking the silver disk inside his robe. ‘Use that. It’s freshly gift-infused. Plenty of power.’

Sorne could feel the power leaching into his skin, making him feel invincible. Was this how the T’En felt all the time? No wonder they were so arrogant. ‘Why help me?’

‘You know why.’

‘I’m not a tame Malaunje.’

The adept smiled. ‘Exactly.’

At that moment, the carriage ground to a stop. Sorne didn’t know whether he was disappointed or relieved.

The door swung open, revealing Harosel. Sorne could see a courtyard behind him.

‘It’s safe to get out here,’ Harosel said. ‘You’re only one block from the palace.’

Sorne touched his chest, where the silver disk sat, pulsing with power. He tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry.

Graelen nodded and Sorne stepped out of the carriage. Harosel took his arm and led him to the end of the lane. ‘That way.’

‘Who... who is he?’

‘Graelen? He’s the brotherhood’s greatest assassin.’

Sorne’s head filled with white noise.

He found he was walking across the plaza, passing True-men and -women with no memory of leaving the lane.

An assassin. Twice, the adept could have killed him.

But he didn’t want to kill him; he wanted to rob him of his freedom.

When Sorne entered the palace, he heard shouting from the king’s greeting chamber and saw Zabier walking swiftly towards him.

‘He knows it was Nitzane who took Marantza,’ Zabier reported. ‘They’ve been sighted at one of his estates.’

Sorne glanced down the corridor. A servant hastily backed out of the room, followed by a tray that flew through the air and hit the wall with a
clang
. Sorne grimaced and turned to Zabier. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to take part in the ceremony tomorrow? All the church leaders and the barons, old and new, will be there. I don’t mind sharing the stage with the Father’s-voice.’

‘No. You do it. The church officials have to see the Warrior’s-voice in action. Have you decided which artefact to use?’

It was on the tip of his tongue to say he did not need one but the addict in him surfaced and he found himself saying, ‘The matching silver arm-torcs.’

‘Good choice. I’ll have them packed.’

‘Did you find out where Barons Bazajaun and Ferminzto went?’

‘They’re in Navarone, stirring up trouble. Why?’

He was about to tell him they had taken trophies from the she-Wyrd’s body, all those years ago, but a female servant ran past them, weeping.

‘I should go,’ Sorne said. It was the longest conversation he’d had with Zabier since he’d missed Valendia’s birthday. ‘How’s Mother?’

‘She’s fine. The healer says he can cure her. It’ll be expensive, but I can manage. He’s started her on a potion of crushed mother-of-pearl and gold dust in white wine.’

‘Are you sure he knows what he’s doing?’

Zabier bristled. ‘He’s the best healer in all of Chalcedonia.’

‘I thought the Wyrds had a healer in–’

‘No Cesspit City Wyrd is touching her. She’s my mother and I’ll take care of her.’

Several servants spotted Sorne and came running.

‘You’re needed.’ Zabier slipped away as the servants all but dragged Sorne down the corridor and shoved him into the king’s chamber.

‘The ungrateful...’ King Charald stopped mid-tirade, spotting Sorne in the doorway. ‘Did you hear about Nitzane?’

‘A masterly stroke, sire,’ Sorne said. ‘By encouraging the baron to run off with Marantza, you’ve kept her from the enemy barons and freed yourself from the duty of marrying that bean-pole of a woman. Now, all you have to do is plant a baby in the belly of Baron Janzten’s daughter and...’