Besieged (58 page)

‘They say he’s been left a lackwit,’ someone muttered, as they passed by.

‘If he was a lackwit, he wouldn’t be conducting this ceremony,’ the companion said.

‘True,’ a third said. ‘But he could still do it, if he was merely horribly deformed.’

‘Come on, or we’ll be right up the back and miss everything.’

The three of them hurried inside.

Trusting to the curiosity of the Mieren, Graelen slipped just inside the entrance. He had no trouble seeing across the sea of heads. A hush fell over the crowd as a dark-robed priest was escorted in by two priests wearing white. He was too short and plump.

The Warrior’s-voice put back his hood. A Mieren.

Had Sorne lost his position?

Graelen left the church and the plaza, making his way to the wine cellar near the port. No message. He was almost at Chariode’s warehouse when he spotted Harosel, returning from the Celestial City.

The veteran Malaunje dismounted and walked with him.

‘What did Kyredeon say?’ Graelen asked. ‘Does he want me to look further into the rumours?’

‘He consulted the saw-bones. Ceyne says he has records going back three hundred years, and there have been other times when the numbers of half-blood infants dropped.’

‘Then it is cyclical. Sorne was right,’ Graelen said. Harosel seemed strangely reticent.

‘What’s wrong?’

The veteran met his eyes and shook his head. They entered the warehouse and took the horse across to the stable. Once Harosel had made sure that none of Chariode’s people were around, he took a message from inside his vest. ‘You’ve been recalled.’

‘But–’

‘Kyredeon needs you. Paryx botched the sacrare’s abduction. She died and he’s been executed. The brotherhood’s suffered a severe loss of stature. Kyredeon fears one of the all-fathers will make a move on him.’

‘Paryx dead.’ Graelen felt no grief, only relief, which saddened him. But he didn’t want to leave the port yet. ‘Nine days ago, Sorne’s own holy-swords tried to throw him to the beasts of the higher plane. He was alive when they brought him back, but...’

‘I’ll ask around.’ Harosel began to unsaddle his mount. ‘We can delay a few days. No more.’

After three days, Harosel returned with the news Sorne had been sent to Khitan on a mission for the king.

‘He’s already sailed?’ Graelen found it hard to believe.

‘After Khitan, he goes to Maygharia. It looks like he became an embarrassment and the king sent him away.’

‘But he was alive and well?’

Harosel hesitated. ‘They say he was horribly burned.’

Graelen went to the window. Ships sat on the sparkling sea or were nestled into the quay, where Mieren bustled about, loading and unloading. Sorne hadn’t left a message for him, which surprised him. ‘Did he say anything to you, the last time you saw him?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’ Harosel shrugged. ‘He did ask what you did in the brotherhood.’

A feeling of foreboding settled on Graelen. ‘And you told him what, exactly?’

‘I told him you’re our greatest assassin.’

Recalling the assassins’ scars on Sorne’s body, Graelen sank onto the window seat.

‘It’s nothing but the truth.’ Harosel shrugged. ‘Do you want me to check the wine cellar one more time?’

‘No. There will be no message.’ Graelen came to his feet. ‘We return to the brotherhood.’

Back to Kyredeon and his paranoia.

Four days later, he led his Malaunje into the Celestial City. As they rode through the causeway gate, a Sagora stepped aside to give them precedence.

I
MOSHEN KEPT HER
head lowered and her gift under tight rein as a grim-looking gift-warrior from Kyredeon’s brotherhood rode past her, through the causeway gate.

‘Who’s that?’ someone whispered behind her.

Imoshen glanced over her shoulder, spotting two Malaunje warriors: a veteran and a youth, from All-father Hueryx’s brotherhood. The veteran didn’t answer until the gift-warrior and his Malaunje had passed by.

‘One of Kyredeon’s killers. If you see him or any of his Malaunje watching our high-ranking T’En, let me know. Or any of our devotees, for that matter. Kyredeon’s not above using them as weapons to get to us.’

Imoshen’s stomach churned. The brotherhoods had still not forgiven her for executing Rohaayel. If Kyredeon suspected she felt something for a T’En man...

Deep in thought, she hurried along the causeway. After what had happened at the last lesson, she had been tempted not to come today. Yet nothing could have kept her away.

It was an unusually overcast and muggy summer day; clouds hung so low over the lake that they brushed the pinnacle of the highest sisterhood tower, and the air felt heavy with foreboding. Her gift responded, surging as it sought to break free of her control.

A scattering of heavy rain droplets hit the hot stone of the arched bridge to the foreign quarter. She recognised the signs. Soon the heavens would open. She could not wait for him here; she sped down the far side of the bridge and made for the Sagora’s house.

A hand caught her arm, stopping her in mid-flight. Her captor used her own momentum to swing her into the shadows of a building’s portico, where she collided with his chest. The instant he grabbed her, her gift surfaced.

Recognising his power, she let down her defences. Her senses were heightened, and everything beyond the shadowed portico became unreal. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo. Imoshen knew her gift was on the verge of something momentous, but she managed to rein it in. Like a spoilt child it lashed at her, impatient with her control.

‘What was that?’ he whispered.

‘Nothing...’ But she’d promised herself, since she had to lie about her identity, she would lie to him about nothing else. ‘I don’t know what it was. My gift tried to slip its constraints.’

There was so much more to this than the gift-tutor had let on. Was Vittoryxe wilfully blind, or was it that she simply did not know, having shut herself away from male company?

‘Where are you?’ he asked. ‘Your body is here, but your mind–’

‘Sorry.’ She stepped back. At that moment, the heavens opened. Sheets of rain poured down, drumming on the stone, slapping the canal water. She had to lean close to him to be heard. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t–’

‘Don’t.’ He gestured from himself to her. ‘This is very rare. Don’t you feel the way our–’

‘I’m not ruled by my gift, or my body. I can’t be.’ She wanted to see his eyes, but that would mean revealing herself, and she was afraid that if he knew her true identity, he would despise her. She caught his hands in hers, lifting them to her lips to kiss. ‘I have people depending on me. I have to think of them.’
And you.
It’s safer, if no one ever knows how I feel about you.
To start something now, when he did not know her true identity, was dishonest.

She let his hands drop and stepped back. ‘It’s for the best.’

‘Don’t make decisions for me, student-she.’

Tears stung her eyes. She gave the Sagora bow and spoke Sagorese. ‘Student-she apologises to student-he.’

At that moment, darkness filled the doorway. They both turned towards the threat, gifts rising.

But it was only the Sagora servant, standing under a sheet of canvas. The hem of her gown was sopping wet.

‘Merchant Mercai sent me.’ She gestured.

As Imoshen stepped forward, he caught her arm and whispered. ‘You’re wrong. Life’s too short to be cautious.’

Then they were making their way to their lesson.

Imoshen was preoccupied when she returned to the sisterhood that evening, and it took her a while to realise Frayvia was subdued.

‘Something’s wrong. Tell me.’

‘You haven’t heard?’

‘I’ve been at my lesson all afternoon. It’s bad news, isn’t it?’

Frayvia shrugged. ‘I said he would come to a bad end, and he has.’

‘Who?’

‘The Warrior’s-voice. Something went horribly wrong at a ceremony. Several Mieren died, and he’s been banished. Well, sent south, but it amounts to the same thing.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Chapter Forty-Seven

Year 317

M
ORE THAN A
year later, and student-he still had the ability to make Imoshen question herself. Despite this, she always arrived early and waited for him, on the arched bridge near the Sagoras’ building.

During the last lesson, they had circled back to their old argument. She was torn between wanting to leave to study on Ivernia, taking Iraayel with her – not that she had told student-he about her choice-son – and wanting to stay and change things in the Celestial City, but she was not a brilliant playwright like Rutz. What could she do to change the way people thought?

Tragic as it was, it seemed the sacrare’s murder had done much to foster good relations between the brotherhoods and sisterhoods. That first midsummer after her death, there had been no trystings. Since then, the brotherhood leaders had set out to win the all-mothers’ trust.

But Imoshen had had a glimpse of the worst of brotherhood life, and time was running out for Iraayel. In three years, he would be handed over to Chariode’s brotherhood.

But Imoshen didn’t want to declare Iraayel dead to her. She did not want to see him grow callous and cruel like Kyredeon’s killer. And that was what he’d have to do to survive. He was her choice-son, and the brotherhood would be twice as hard on him.

She should take him to study with the Sagoras.

Only yesterday, Egrayne had helpfully pointed out that, once he joined his brotherhood, Iraayel would be subject to his all-father, and might not be allowed to remain with the Sagoras.

‘You are far away today,’ student-he said.

She jumped with fright and her gift surged. It was on the tip of her tongue to confess her worries over Iraayel, but that would mean revealing her identity and she was afraid if he knew she was Imoshen the All-father-killer, he would despise her.

‘Is something wrong?’

Yes, I’ve been lying to you all this time and now I regret it.
‘No.’ Imoshen tried to come up with something to distract him. ‘You know more languages than I do. Does it strike you that the structure of Sagorese is too logical?’

‘Too logical?’ His lips twitched.

Her heart rose. ‘With T’En and Chalcedonian, there are as many exceptions as there are rules. But in Sagorese, once you know the rules–’

‘Just be grateful it is logical.’

‘Oh, I am.’

‘Do you still plan to run away to live with the Sagoras?’

She wanted to tell him the truth, wanted it so badly she couldn’t bear it if he turned away from her. ‘We’re here.’

‘H
IGH
K
ING
C
HARALD
!’

‘To High King Charald!’ the deep voices of Norholtz’s war barons echoed. And Sorne raised his goblet in response to King Norholtz’s toast to celebrate the successful suppression of the Maygharian uprising.

More than a year had passed since Baron Janzten had bundled him onto a ship and sent him south to King Etri of Khitan. During that time, Sorne had come to terms with King Charald’s actions. After the debacle on the pinnacle, the king had to claw back control. He’d known Sorne was not at fault, but others could not see that.

So, while appearing to banish him, the king had actually rewarded him. Charald could not acknowledge his first-born half-blood son, but it was clear he trusted Sorne. He’d made him his agent.

Sorne was effectively the king’s voice abroad and, as an extension of that power, it was he who controlled Norholtz’s war barons. Twenty days ago, he’d sent a message to Charald reporting the successful suppression of the uprising.

The musicians struck up a Chalcedonian air, and the dancing began. This was Norholtz’s problem. The customs, beliefs and language of Maygharia made Norholtz uneasy. Unlike Etri, Norholtz had clung to Chalcedonian ways.

Sorne studied the feasting hall as he drank his wine. The barons danced with their Maygharian wives, but the servants, all locals, were sullen and downcast. Against Sorne’s advice, four days ago, Norholtz had made an example of the uprising’s two leaders and their entire families, executing them publicly. Instead of subduing the populace, it had forged resentment into hatred. That hatred was now directed at Sorne and Norholtz. Force may have secured this kingdom, but it had not secured the minds of its populace. King Norholtz had bought himself a few years’ peace at most. And as for his wife...

Sorne leaned back to look at her. She sat on the king’s left, ignored and isolated, while Norholtz tapped his foot in time to the music and talked of his boyhood in Chalcedonia to one of his aides. He was almost fifty, and had never been the same since taking a leg wound in the first battle for Maygharia.

There was only one child, a boy of five, and, judging from their separate bedrooms, there would be no more. Although Norholtz had taken the vanquished king’s daughter to wife, he had never taken her into his heart, and the queen did not love him. Right now, her eyes followed a servant who moved like a warrior. The next uprising could be closer than anyone guessed.

Hand in his pocket, Sorne rubbed the silver-mounted trophy Etri had made from the she-Wyrd’s little finger. When he’d arrived in Khitan, Sorne had delivered the news of Idan’s death and his chest of gold. Then he’d lingered, intending to execute Etri in such a way that his death would be considered an accident, but not before explaining to the True-man why he had to die.

The she-Wyrd’s undignified, mutilated body still haunted Sorne’s dreams.

But then he’d experienced life in Etri’s court. Philosophers and scholars were welcome at the king’s table, along with painters and poets. His wife, Idan’s sister, hosted discussions, debating with the king and the scholars. Their three children listened and learned.

Sorne could not bring himself to avenge the she-Wyrd.

Troubled, he had stayed his hand while he wrestled with the conflict between his duty and his instincts. It wasn’t until Hiruna came to him in a dream that he understood.