Besieged (65 page)

‘No one’s blaming you,’ Ceyne assured him.

‘Kyredeon will,’ Graelen corrected.

‘The counts were a mess. That’s why I didn’t find it until now. My new assistant – the silly lad’s all thumbs – knocked over a cabinet. While I was tidying up the mess I found this.’ He pulled a folded sheet of thick vellum from inside his vest.

Graelen accepted it and opened it up. The writing was Chalcedonian and very faded. ‘This must be forty or fifty years old.’

‘Over forty. King Charald was only fifteen. That’s his signature. The other two are Baron Nitzel and a priest called Oskane, who went on to become high priest.’

‘So the Mieren king borrowed some gold.’

‘Over forty years ago, that was a very large sum. Without it, he would have lost the kingdom. The barons revolted. His father died on the battlefield. The lad was a natural strategist. Why, in his first battle–’

Ceyne cleared his throat. ‘We don’t need a history lesson, Kith. Get to the interesting bit.’

‘That
was
interesting.’ But he shrugged and went on. ‘The boy-king’s advisors told him to sign this document. The gold we loaned him saved his kingdom. As far as I’ve been able to trace, he made a few payments on the loan, about twenty to twenty-five years ago, then nothing. No payments for over twenty years now.

‘And in all that time, the debt has been gathering interest,’ Ceyne said. ‘Show him your calculation, Kith.’

With a dramatic flourish, the tithe collector pulled out another sheet of paper and handed it to Graelen.

‘But it’s huge!’

‘Charald, High King of the Secluded Sea, owes our brotherhood gold to the value of a kingdom,’ Ceyne said, replenishing their drinks.

The tithe-master raised his glass. ‘To a clumsy boy who knocked over a cabinet. If he hadn’t, I would never have found this.’

‘The Mieren king will never pay up,’ Graelen said.

‘No, he won’t,’ Kithkarne agreed. ‘We don’t expect him to. If we tried to get that much out of him, he’d be better off slitting our throats. No, we just want him to acknowledge the debt then I can negotiate a sum that will put our brotherhood in the clear and help us to re-establish ourselves.’

‘You want to go to King Charald’s palace?’

The tithe-master nodded. ‘I want you to go with me to see Kyredeon and explain it all, and then you can come with me to the port to see the king. I’ll need an escort as befits the representative of a great brotherhood. Charald doesn’t need to know we’re nearly destitute.’

Graelen’s head reeled.

Ceyne squeezed his shoulder. ‘It’s good news, Grae. Kyredeon will be delighted. As long as he doesn’t get greedy, we can save the brotherhood. This comes just in time, as Chariode and Hueryx have both caught wind that we’re in trouble.’

‘Yes.’ The tithe-master bristled. ‘They’re trying to squeeze us out of ventures, and calling up loans to force us to declare our brotherhood insolvent.’

Graelen finally understood Kyredeon’s paranoia. ‘Right.’ He came to his feet. ‘We’ll go see Kyredeon.’

And he would get out of the city before his gift corrupted.

Chapter Fifty-Two

S
ORNE FORCED OPEN
the gate of Restoration Retreat. The place been empty since they’d left, in the spring eleven years ago. Now it was midday and a summer breeze stirred the leaves of the maple. He could remember the tree: winter-bare, full of spring buds and glowing yellow in autumn.

He looked around. There was the water pump where the penitents had bullied him and Izteben. That was the day Kolst punched Joaken. Back then, he and Izteben had thought they were brothers.

So many ghosts.

Time to lay one to rest.

Sorne went through the store rooms to the small graveyard where the penitents had been buried. The symbol of the Seven had been carved onto rocks and placed over each grave. He counted the grave-markers, but didn’t find one for the she-Wyrd.

Of course not. She had no soul, according to the church.

Anger gnawed at him. He thought he’d come to terms with everything, but there it was – anger with Oskane for scourging them, and anger with himself for not being the man he should have been. He had a horrible feeling they had just ridden out that morning and left the she-Wyrd...

Sorne forced open the door to the main building. A feeling of dread settled on him as he went down to the cellar.

To his relief, time, insects and rodents had removed everything but her bones. She lay much as he remembered, sprawled on her back. Some of her bones had been gnawed.

His legs gave way and he sat abruptly.

Sobs shook him.

He wept for her, for Izteben, for the boy he’d been. And for Zabier, because he could not love the man he had become.

When he was done, he felt weary, but better.

He was not going to leave her bones here, but he didn’t want to bury her with the True-men who had imprisoned her. So he laid out his blanket and gathered her remains, adding the trophies: her little finger bones and her hair. The last had remained virtually unchanged; rich copper waves.

It reminded him of Valendia. She would have just turned fifteen – he had to make sure she was safe.

Tying off the bundle of the she-Wyrd’s remains, he left the cell. There was one more thing he wanted to do.

He went through the stable into the little kitchen Kolst had built for Hiruna. The table and chairs remained, and the cabinet. As he recalled Hiruna bustling about the kitchen, singing and laughing, it came to him that this was what he wanted for himself. Someone so loyal, they would defy convention for him. He wanted what Kolst had thrown away.

But who would have him?

The pain burned in his belly. For the first time since he’d recovered, he wondered how long before the wound killed him; if not directly, then indirectly, because he could not stand the pain and the remorse any longer.

As he left the stable, he looked up at Oskane’s window. The priest had been a vindictive old man, who’d used people for his own ends. Sorne was glad he was nothing like him. Nothing like his father, either.

He was glad he’d been born a half-blood, otherwise he would have been the heir his father wanted, and then what would his life have been? One long battle after another, to stop ambitious men from stealing his throne.

He felt better. Coming here had settled more than the she-Wyrd’s ghost. Time to lay her to rest.

There was a field, bordered by a stream, where he and his brothers used to go trout-fishing. In the spring the field was covered in wild flowers. That’s where he went now. He chose a hollow, laid her out on the grass, covered her with the blanket then piled rocks on top.

Standing there under the open sky surrounded by mountain peaks, he felt satisfied. The she-Wyrd was free now.

The urge to see Hiruna and Valendia returned, stronger than ever. Sorne grabbed his travelling kit and set off.

T
RAVELLING AS A
blind cripple, Sorne accepted a ride with a farmer and his son, who were heading to market. Four piglets squealed in the back of the cart, as if aware their lives were going to be cut short. The smell was powerful, but at least he was headed in the right direction.

All afternoon he’d listened to the farmer’s complaints. After four years of drought, if they did not get good spring rains, their farms would be nothing but dirt and brown stubble.

The six year-old pointed to green fields on a distant hill. ‘What about there, Da?’

‘Wyrds.’ The farmer spat. ‘They stole the best land. You can bet their wells don’t run dry. Feckin’ Wyrds.’

‘Feckin’ Wyrds,’ the boy repeated.

Sorne made sure his sleeves covered his hands. Upon reaching the town, the farmer picked a prime spot in the crowded market field and Sorne was about to thank them and slip away when he heard shouting and jeering. The farmer stood in the cart, to see over the crowd.

‘What is it, Da?’

‘Stay here.’ He tapped Sorne on the shoulder. ‘Stay with m’boy.’

Sorne nodded. He was happy to wait. He didn’t like the tone of the crowd, but the disturbance was all over pretty quickly and the farmer returned, dusting off his hands.

‘What was it, Da?’

‘Bit o’ trouble with a local Wyrd. Here, jump down, lad. Make up the beds.’ The farmer thrust some blankets into the boy’s hands and drew Sorne away a little. ‘Caught one of them copperheads walkin’ down the main road, bold as anythin’. Sent him on his way.’ He chuckled. ‘That’s if he can swim.’

Sorne thanked the farmer for the ride and headed off. He just wanted to get out of the field, with its many True-men and -women.

He heard the babble of a stream and felt his way down the bank. Once he was out of sight, he lowered the blind-man’s bandage. There was just enough moonlight to make out the water, moving quite fast. No sign of the beaten half-blood. He’d either climbed out or been swept along. Sorne picked his way downstream until he came to a bend and found a dark shape snagged on a fallen trunk.

He waded out into the freezing water and grabbed the injured man, dragging him back to the edge. Sorne’s stomach wound protested when he lifted the man onto the bank.

The half-blood’s mouth was swollen, and he moaned as he regained consciousness. Seeing someone was crouching over him, he said, ‘They’ve taken my purse. I don’t have anything of value.’

‘Except for your life. If you lie here wet all night, you’ll catch a chill. Come on.’

Sorne struggled to his feet and helped him upright. More pain in his gut.

The man gasped and clutched his side. ‘Why are you helping me?’

For answer, Sorne slid the bandage off his right hand and revealed his six fingers. ‘Which way is home?’

The half-blood pointed up the bank, then shook his head. ‘Better not use the road. I don’t know what’s wrong with them. I’ve been passing through here for thirty years and never had any trouble.’

‘It’s the drought. They say the Wyrds stole the best land and their wells never run dry.’

‘If this drought keeps up, all the wells will run dry.’

Sorne slid his arm under the man’s shoulder. They went along the stream bank, slipping in the long grass, staggering, struggling over fallen trees. The injured half-blood stopped to rest, and his breathing sounded bad; Sorne wondered if he would have to carry the man. ‘How much farther?’

‘Up the bank and across the road, to the Twin Oaks.’

‘Can you make it?’

‘I have to, don’t I?’ He reached for Sorne, who pulled him upright, but passed out before he could take another step.

When Sorne lifted the man across his shoulders, his stomach felt like it was tearing open. Would the wound start bleeding again? All the healers he had consulted had taken one look at the ragged, bloodless tear and backed off.

Somehow he made it up the bank, across the road and down the lane under the twin oaks. Adjusting the man’s weight, he kept going. Eyes on the ground in front of him, he almost walked into a metal gate set in sandstone walls. Hoping someone was waiting for the man’s return, Sorne called out in T’En.

A pool of lantern light fell over him. He spotted two Malaunje, one with a lantern, and an armed T’En woman. A gift-warrior? Sorne turned, so they could see the man he carried.

‘Open the gate,’ the gift-warrior ordered. ‘It’s Bedore.’

She stood back as the two Malaunje took the injured man from Sorne. His legs shook with relief.

‘What happened?’ the gift-warrior asked.

‘The Mieren beat him, stole everything and threw him in the river.’

‘You speak strangely.’

Sorne felt her gift rise. It was different from Graelen’s but he still had to fight to resist the attraction. ‘I’m not from around here.’

The gift-warrior grabbed him, swung him off his feet and slammed the gate shut. Before he could recover his balance, she’d thrust him up against the wall. The back of his head hit stone, and his teeth bit down on his tongue.

She held a knife to his throat. ‘Which brotherhood are you from?’ The knife point dug deeper. ‘Which all-father sent you?’

He struggled to draw breath. The pain in his belly...

Sorne came around lying on his back in a tiny room. He could smell roast beef and hear voices arguing. He was naked under a rough blanket, and his head hurt.

‘...looked suspicious, with that hood,’ the warrior was saying. He could just see her in the doorway. ‘How was I to know he was a cripple?’

‘Well, Bedore says the stranger dragged him from the river and helped him back here. We must at least give him shelter for the night.’ This was an older, richer voice. ‘If you’ve injured him and his all-father protests, we’ll have to pay compensation.’

‘His injuries look old. Did you see that wound on his belly?’ Her horror and disgust came across clearly.

Sorne forced himself up on one elbow, swung his legs to the floor and looked for his clothes. He saw them on a chair, along with his poor-man’s bundle, which held the torc and orb. He didn’t know what the sisterhood would do if they discovered he used to be the Warrior’s-voice. He had to get out of here.

‘Oh, no you don’t.’ A plump T’En woman entered. She placed her hands on his bare shoulders and pushed him back onto the bed. It did not take much effort on her part. He could not sense her gift at all.

‘I’m fine.’ He brushed at her hands.

‘Is that what you call it? I’m the herbalist. I’m here to look you over.’

He held the blanket to his chest.

She eyed him thoughtfully before turning to her companion. ‘Go away, Karyxe.’

‘I’ll be just outside, if you need me.’ She shut the door.

‘I’m fine,’ Sorne told the herbalist. ‘Food and sleep will see me right.’

‘Karyxe tells me there’s a wound on your stomach.’

‘It’s old.’

‘Then it won’t hurt to let me see.’

He realised he wasn’t going to win this argument and released the blanket. She examined the wound, and he watched her face, ready for revulsion.

She frowned. ‘This should have been seen to when it first happened. If one of the sisters treated her devotee like you’ve been treated...’ She shook her head. ‘Well, it just wouldn’t happen.’