Besieged (67 page)

‘Right away, sire.’ Zabier made his bow and left.

G
RAELEN FINISHED HIS
meal and left the tithe-master playing cards with the old sea captain. They were having a wonderful time trying to outdo each other with outrageous tales. If you believed everything they said, the brotherhood feuds were ten times fiercer, the gifts more powerful, the duels more deadly and the women more beautiful when they were young.

He found Harosel waiting for him in his chamber.

‘There’s a rumour the king’s son is deformed,’ Harosel said.

‘The barons will refuse to follow him if that’s the case.’ Graelen shrugged this aside. It had been three years since the all-father had told him there were no missing Malaunje infants but... ‘There haven’t been any half-blood babies delivered to the warehouse. Do you know if–’

‘There’s been any handed in to the other warehouse? No, but I can ask Paragian’s people, and while I’m at it, I’ll speak with All-mother Imoshen’s port Malaunje.’

‘Do that. And while you’re out and about tonight, see if you can discover if the rumour about the king’s heir is true,’ Graelen said, wondering if it benefited the T’Enatuath to offer to heal the boy.

D
ESPITE THE
T’E
N
sister’s advice, Sorne had resumed his costume for the rest of the journey back to port. He saw field after field of dying crops. In Port Mirror-on-Sea, the drought was felt in the price of fresh fruit and vegetables. Dust billowed in the street, and in the royal plaza the trees drooped in the heat. Evidence of hard times, the church’s poor-door courtyard was packed with the destitute. Sorne thought only of seeing Hiruna and Valendia.

It was almost dusk when he managed to slip into the Father’s church. From the public chambers, he made his way through to the private corridors. There he hid until the bells rang calling the priests to prayer, when he made his way to the chambers of the Father’s-voice.

Where he found Zabier’s assistant, Utzen, hard at work.

‘Yes? Do you have an appointment?’ The old priest didn’t look up from his work. ‘The Father’s-voice is not here. He was called to the palace.’

That suited Sorne. ‘It’s me, Sorne. I’ve come to see–’

‘You...’ Utzen went white. ‘They told us you were dead.’

‘Not yet. But I have lost my key, so if you’ll just...’

‘I can’t. Only the Father’s-voice has a key.’ And clearly, he wasn’t going to let Sorne past.

‘I have to know. Hiruna...’

The old priest shook his head.

‘When?’ Sorne could hardly speak.

‘The second winter after you sailed.’

A roaring filed his ears.

‘Come back tomorrow, around this time.’

Stunned, Sorne did not object when Utzen summoned penitents to escort him out.

Z
ABIER RETURNED TO
the church, deep in thought. If Charald was going to mount a campaign against the Wyrds, Valendia wasn’t safe. He’d have to move her. The only safe place he could think of was the crypts. The old priest who’d shown him around had claimed the crypts predated the churches, and had been natural caverns. He’d shown Zabier paintings in caverns far below the earth. The old priest was long dead, and Zabier doubted anyone else knew more than a passage or two, from where they’d laid their own dead to rest.

He didn’t want to shut Valendia away from the sun, but if it meant saving her life...

Opening the door to his private chambers, he found his usually unflappable assistant pacing.

Utzen hurried over to shut the door. ‘I sent him away. I hope I did the right thing.’

‘Who? Sent who away?’

‘The half-blood who used to visit your...’ He glanced upwards significantly.

‘Sorne?’

‘Walked in here, large as life, and asked me to let him in. He’d lost his key. I told him I didn’t have one, and to come back tomorrow evening. I hope I did the right–’

‘You did. Quick thinking.’ Zabier found he was shaking. He would have to take Valendia down to the crypts tonight, and hide her.

‘I told him about Hiruna. He asked, and I didn’t see any point in lying.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Find five priests you trust and bring them here.’

As Utzen left, Zabier unlocked the door. Sorne was not going to turn Valendia against him. He ran up the steps, heart hammering.

She was eating on the terrace, but she sprang to her feet when he arrived. ‘Zabier. If I’d known you were coming, I could have made enough for two. I’ll–’ She broke off, seeing his expression. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s not safe here anymore. You need to come with me.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘The king’s going to make war on the Wyrds.’
And Sorne’s come back, but he can’t have you.
He caught her hand. ‘Get your things.’

She ran into her private chamber. He followed, and watched as she gathered her instruments. She wrapped them in her clothes, moving with natural grace. The sway of her hips, the curve of her waist, the way her long hair swept over her shoulder and fell past her breasts. She was fifteen, taller than him and very much a woman. She was too lovely for her own good. No man was going to lay a hand on her, not if he had anything to say about it.

She looked up as a thought struck her. ‘Sorne’s vision was right.’

‘What?’

‘Remember the message you sent to Adept Graelen?’

The message Zabier had burned without reading. ‘Yes.’

‘Sorne sent it to him because he’d had a vision of bad things happening to half-bloods.’

If he’d known this earlier, he could have claimed the vision as his own.

‘What’s made the king turn on the Wyrds?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. They’ve sent a T’En delegation to see him, and it’s upset him. Just bring what you can carry for now. I’ll get the rest to you later.’

‘I have everything I want.’ She rolled up in the blanket and swung it over her shoulder. ‘I’m ready.’

He led her out into the main room. ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything else?’

‘I have my instruments. I don’t think... Oh, there’s that.’ She pointed to a camphorwood chest. ‘I promised I’d mind it for Sorne, but he’s not coming back.’

What could be so precious that Sorne would leave it here, rather than take it with him? ‘Have you ever opened it?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Good girl.’ He took her hand and drew her down the stairs. In his private chamber, he found a cloak and hood for her, drawing it over her head to hide her glorious hair. ‘Keep your eyes down and hands hidden. Don’t speak.’

His assistant and five priests had gathered in his study. They looked up expectantly when he entered. He didn’t care if the five priests thought she was his mistress; only his assistant knew the truth.

At the door he told her to wait, then went back to his assistant, keeping his voice low so Valendia would not hear. ‘Strip the apartment. Get rid of everything but the camphorwood chest by the entrance. Put that in my bedchamber. I want the apartment to look as if it has been empty for at least a year.’

Utzen asked no questions.

Taking a lamp, Zabier led Valendia to the nearest crypt entrance.

‘We’re going down there? I thought you’d take me–’

‘Where? To the Wyrds? Do you think I want you dead?’ He turned and held her eyes. ‘Do you trust me, Dia?’

‘Of course.’

He led her into the crypts. The upper tunnels had been finished with neat stone columns and arches. There were niches for lamps and statues, and antechambers where the remains of high-ranking church officials lay in darkness. The air was dry, dusty and cold.

‘Was that a skull?’ Valendia whispered.

He raised the lamp. It was a skull, sitting in a wall niche. ‘Listen.’ He turned her chin so that she looked at him. ‘I have to hide you amongst the dead to save your life. But don’t worry. I’ll leave you a lamp and adequate oil to keep it burning. If anyone else but me comes, hide. I’ll be back tomorrow with food, and we’ll find you a safer place. You’ll be all right for now. You have your pipes and books. You can play as much music as you like down here.’

‘But no one will hear it.’

He handed her the lamp, then lit a candle for himself.

‘Thank you, Zabier.’ She hugged him. Soft curves, racing heart; a woman’s body.

Seeing her there, with her copper hair glinting in the lamplight, surrounded by darkness, he was reminded of the she-Wyrd. But Valendia was not going to end up like her. Not even if he had to lock her away from everyone.

Back in his chamber, he lit a lamp and opened the camphorwood chest. After removing some foreign rubbish, he found two compartments. One contained a bag of stones, which he recognised as malachite. The other contained Oskane’s journals, and some scrolls.

Not just any scrolls. They were the missing Wyrd scrolls, which no one had been able to find for the last thirty years. Oskane must have taken them.

He went looking for Utzen. In the private apartment above, he found one of the priests mopping the polished wooden floors. Through the glass doors, he saw his assistant and another priest pulling the flowers and vegetables out by the roots and stuffing them into a couple of baskets. Zabier had to hand it to him, Utzen was thorough.

Zabier drew his assistant aside. ‘Leave that for him to finish. The king has given me a special commission. I need fifty of our best scholars. They must be discreet. If the king learns that they’ve gossiped he’ll cut out their tongues.’ The priests would believe this; the king’s rages had become legendary. ‘We’ll set aside a large chamber for the work. The priests bring nothing in and they take nothing out. I have some precious scrolls and journals that need to be analysed. The king wants the answer to a very important question. How to destroy the Wyrds.’

S
ORNE WAS TIRED
and hungry. The food the sisterhood had given him had run out yesterday. If this had been a small country village in one of the southern kingdoms, he would have offered to read fortunes in the local tavern. But, after seeing what had happened to the sisterhood’s half-blood servant, he didn’t want to risk exposure.

He bought a pie from a street vendor, then made his way to the wine cellar. The door was locked, but he forced it open and crept downstairs. When he lit his candle stub, he found the cellar just as he remembered. He would sleep here tonight, and leave a message in the morning.

If Graelen was in the city, they would meet here.

But he didn’t expect it would be as easy as all that. He planned to take Valendia to the Celestial City, for he had learned one thing in his travels.

Wyrds were vastly outnumbered by True-men. For every friend Sorne had found, there had been a hundred who despised him on sight.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Z
ABIER HURRIED TO
answer to the queen’s summons, sick dread filling him. But if he wanted to win her, he had to protect her from the king. He found Jaraile in the corridor wringing her hands.

‘It’s the Wyrds,’ she whispered. ‘They’re in the greeting chamber. They came first thing this morning, and they’ve been waiting ever since. Charald refuses to see them.’

‘What do they want?’

‘I don’t know. He won’t tell me and he’s acting strangely.’

‘Don’t worry. Everything is going to be all right. I’m already working on it.’ Zabier caught her hands in his and squeezed them. ‘I’ll go in and see him.’

‘Oh, thank you.’ Tears glittered in her eyes. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

Zabier found the king slumped in front of the fire, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. It was unusual to see him sitting still, let alone looking dejected. As Zabier cautiously approached, he realised the king was muttering under his breath.

Charald looked up and saw him. ‘There you are. The Wyrds, they haunt me. It was all your idea, Oskane. You and Nitzel advised me. It’s your fault they’re here.’

Startled to find himself addressed as Oskane, Zabier took a step back. Jaraile had said the king was acting strangely. Was he losing his mind? ‘Sire?’

Charald sprang to his feet. ‘Arrogant Wyrds...’ And he was off again, pacing and ranting, but at least he now recognised Zabier.

Zabier said all the right things and eventually managed to calm the king. Then he set out to discover why the Wyrd delegation had unnerved Charald.

‘W
OULD YOU CARE
for another curried egg?’ Kithkarne asked. The plump tithe-master had insisted they come prepared with food, drink and books to read, while they waited for the king.

Graelen resented the need for this but he had to admit he’d rather not go hungry. It was mid-afternoon now, and he was getting restless.

Just then a priest in rich robes entered, closing the door after him. Graelen recognised him as the Father’s-voice, and thought of Sorne, who had been sent to Maygharia on the king’s business only to be killed in the uprising.

The priest made a shallow bow. ‘I am–’

‘The Father’s-voice,’ Graelen said.

‘At your service.’ The Mieren smiled briefly, his gaze settling on Graelen’s brotherhood torc, avoiding his eyes.

Graelen glanced behind him to Kithkarne, who was sitting elegantly, fanning himself with High Golden Age grace, as if he had not been polishing off pickles and curried eggs a moment before.

‘Tithe-master Kithkarne, of Kyredeon’s brotherhood,’ Graelen introduced his companion. ‘And I’m his assistant, Gift-warrior Graelen.’

‘King Charald has asked me to discover the nature of your business.’

‘It concerns the king’s debt,’ Kithkarne said, sorting through his papers.

As the tithe-master explained the origin of the debt and what it now amounted to, Graelen observed the Father’s-voice. He wore the white robes of a priest, and a rich brocade vestment. A small, flat-topped cap sat on his head, and his hair hung down his back in rippling waves. In the shaft of light from the window, it had a gingery tinge. He was young, but then these Mieren lived such short lives. If he was twenty-five, his life was already half over.