Besieged (73 page)

She placed a finger on his lips.

He caught her hand and kissed her palm. ‘Fray, I must save my sister. But after that, we could...’

She was shaking her head. He sat up, putting his back to her. What was he thinking? What did he have to offer a beautiful woman like her?

‘Sorne...’ She came to her knees and hugged him, her warm cheek resting on his shoulder. ‘I can’t leave Imoshen, I’m her devotee. I’m addicted to her gift.’

Shock and then anger ran through him. He turned in the circle of her arms. ‘How could she do that to you?’

‘When I was dragged through to the higher plane, she saved my life. It imprinted her gift on me. I am bound to it, but what we share is so much more.’ She cupped his face in her hands, kissing him. ‘So, you see, we only have tonight.’

And she pulled him down onto the bed.

He did not get much sleep that night, but he didn’t feel the lack as he saddled his horse the next day.

‘Here,’ Imoshen said, putting a small metal disk in his hand.

He felt the gift infusion. ‘Why give me this?’ Was she trying to bind him as she’d bound Frayvia?

‘Anyone from my sisterhood will recognise it. Go to our warehouse in the docks. They’ll feed you and give you whatever you need.’

‘Why are you helping me?’

‘I was a prisoner once,’ she said, simply. ‘How will you know where to look for Valendia?’

‘He loves her. It has to be somewhere close by and secure.’ He tightened the straps of his travelling kit.

‘Are you sure you want me to keep the orb?’ Imoshen asked.

‘See if your scholars can work out what it is.’ Besides, if he took it with him and he failed, which was possible, it would fall into Mieren hands. ‘You saved my life and asked for nothing in return.’

‘You told us your vision.’

He shrugged. ‘Which could come true in thirty years.’

‘There is something you could do for me. If it looks like your vision could come true, let me know. You can leave a message with my sisterhood’s warehouse in port. They’ll send it to me.’

‘You want me to spy for you?’ Sorne almost laughed. He’d gone from being Oskane’s weapon against the Wyrds, to protecting them.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Z
ABIER DID NOT
like the place the Warrior’s-voice had chosen to hold the ceremony. Izteben had died here.

Since the Warrior’s-voice was in charge, Zabier chose to stay well back. He could remember the moment he had almost been taken. The further he was from the priest, the better. His brother had saved his life. Everyone seemed to forget Izteben and Prince Cedon had died the night of that botched ritual. All they remembered was that it was the night King Matxin had come to power. Zabier fingered Oskane’s ring.

From up here, he could see all the barons Charald had invited. After the offering and the vision, which would show him triumphant, Charald was going to reveal his war plans.

Watching the Warrior’s-voice as he set up the offering, Zabier had to wonder: if Charald didn’t believe True-men had visions, why go through with this?

Four priests escorted the T’En, who could hardly walk. Zabier cursed. He’d told that fool priest not to drug the Wyrd for the ceremony.

Plump and balding, with his fancy robe all rumpled and his face half asleep, the tithe-master wasn’t going to impress the barons. He wanted to kick the Warrior’s-voice. Men of learning only held the power they did because men of violence feared them. If these barons weren’t impressed by the ritual, it undermined Zabier’s power, too.

At least, they should be impressed that they had captured a T’En.

Charald strode out, decked in his war gear. Why a man would bother to wear plate if he wasn’t going into battle was beyond Zabier, although the king did cut a striking figure in his finery. Strutting about down there, in glistening armour, you couldn’t tell Charald was nearly sixty. He had the energy of a man of twenty as he gesticulated, finishing his speech with a flourish of his sword.

The barons cheered.

Well, they would, if they knew what was good for them.

Finally, it was time for the ceremony. Seeing the tithe-master slumped there, squinting at the lanterns, chains dangling from the two poles they’d tied him to, the barons muttered. As the Warrior’s-voice went to make the first cut, one wit called, ‘Watch out, he might faint and smother you!’

The Warrior’s-voice glanced over his shoulder, before muttering to his priests, who approached the offering and each grabbed an arm. The Wyrd twisted and bucked. The Warrior’s-voice fumbled the cut, spraying himself and the others with Wyrd blood. Zabier cursed. He’d warned them about this. Two more priests ran to help while the barons laughed and jeered.

Zabier could hear the Warrior’s-voice yelling at his priests to hold the offering still. A pool of blood spread at the feet of the tithe-master, and the priests’ breath began to mist with each exhalation. The ritual was working.

‘They’ve got to get out of there,’ he muttered, coming to his feet. ‘Get out of there!’

But his voice was lost in the jeers of the crowd.

The offering went very still, lifted his head and called out something in his barbaric language. His voice sounded triumphant. Then he vanished, taking all five of the priests with him. Their clothes settled on the ground in the silence that followed.

Zabier realised the silverhead had just dragged himself and five True-men through to the higher plane, body and soul.

No one moved.

Then the god came through, ripping the posts from the ground as if they were sticks.

‘Run!’ Zabier screamed. ‘Run for your lives.’

Because he knew it wasn’t a god; it was a beast. He’d felt its claws when it grabbed him all those years ago.

He turned and ran. A single glance behind him revealed chaos, with the barons scattering and the king trying to stop them.

Please, let it get Charald. Him and his Warrior god. Let it get him.

Zabier did not stay to watch. He ran down between rows of overgrown vines to the clearing where they’d erected the tents.

The night lit up as if lightning had struck behind him and the ground shifted under him. He lost his sight and his footing, as a wall of air slammed into him. It sent him flying into the brambles. Someone collapsed on top of him.

He could have thrown them off – they were unconscious – but he preferred to stay where he was. If Charald survived, he would want to know why the Father’s-voice hadn’t intervened to save them from the Warrior god. How could he, when he’d been swept away with the crowd, trampled and left unconscious?

It was what he let his rescuers assume, when they found him and carried him down to the tents. Lanterns had been lit. The dead had been laid out; and servants and saw-bones tended to the injured.

‘Terrible thing,’ a priest muttered. ‘Just terrible.’

‘But then the gods should be terrible,’ another said.

‘Here he is, King Charald,’ a servant announced, as Zabier was carried into the king’s tent.

Charald had survived? That man had more lives than a cat.

At least seven of the barons were present, along with their captains. Zabier pretended to be disoriented. He needed time to learn how everyone was interpreting the events.

A man leaned over Zabier and held up his hand. ‘How many fingers do you see?’

Zabier frowned.

The saw-bones shook his head and called for clean water and bandages. Meanwhile, Charald paced. They’d taken off most of his armour, and now he wore just the leather and padding.

‘Did you see it?’ he demanded of Zabier, as the saw-bones bathed his forehead. ‘Did you see the bolt of power? The Warrior was pleased with our offering.’

‘It was terrible,’ someone whispered.

‘The gods are meant to fill men with terror,’ Zabier said.

A man strode in, demanding to see the king. He brushed aside the servants who tried to stop him. ‘My brother the baron’s gone. He just vanished.’

‘Taken by the Warrior!’ The king’s eyes gleamed with holy fervour. ‘Praise be.’

The new baron took a step back and said nothing, proving he was a sensible man.

‘How many were taken by the Warrior?’ Zabier asked.

‘Ten, maybe fifteen. We’re still trying to work out who is missing.’ The saw-bones tied the bandage and moved off.

Charald took his place. ‘You were unconscious. Did you have a vision? Did you see me?’

Zabier nodded; anything else would be foolish.

‘And?’ Charald prompted. He glanced around, to make sure everyone was listening.

‘I saw you triumphant, marching across the causeway into the Wyrd city.’ What else could he say? Besides, Sorne’s vision had been of Wyrds being loaded into carts by True-men; the city must fall.

‘Triumphant!’ Charald raised his fist and words poured from him. ‘I’ll stage a tourney at your estate, Aingeru.’ He pointed to an unsuspecting baron. ‘It’s a day’s ride from the Wyrd city. On the morning of winter’s cusp, we’ll march towards the city and strike that very night while they’re celebrating. Our holy war will be begun and ended in the space of a single night!’

And the barons cheered.

Zabier was glad he wouldn’t be in the front ranks when they invaded the city. He’d just seen one plump old T’En kill five True-men.

But the tithe-master was dead, and there were hundreds of True-men, eager to avenge the priests’ deaths.

Martyrs, to Charald’s ambition.

G
RAELEN DID NOT
know how long he’d been here. It felt like days. At first he’d performed exercises to use up his gift, so that it wouldn’t trouble him. Then, when there’d been no food and the water ran low, his gift had raged, along with his hunger. But that had passed and he’d come to the conclusion they’d chained him down here to die.

A distant noise reached him. It was high and repetitive. He tilted his head, listening. It wasn’t the music again. No, this was a pitiful squeal, repeated over and over. He could feel his gift stirring.

Was that a glow?

His gift rose – and he’d thought it exhausted by deprivation. If someone was coming he’d...

What if he was mistaken?

Hope was a terrible thing, when he’d resigned himself to dying down here.

The glow gradually grew until it resolved itself into a tiny circle of golden light. As it came closer, he realised he was looking at a Mieren in a dirty brown robe, holding a lantern high in one hand while pushing a small trolley in front of him. The squealing sound came from one of the wheels.

All this time, he’d known of only the wall at his back and the stone under his feet. He’d thought he was in a locked room. Instead it was a tunnel, under the palace.

‘Have you bought me food as well as light? How long have I been here?’ He realised he was babbling. He was just so glad to see someone, even an old Mieren. All he had to do was get close enough to touch bare skin and he would have him and be out of here.

Hope burned in him, focusing his gift.

The man blinked and stopped the trolley. A line had been chalked on the stone. The man unloaded a basket of food from the trolley, then used his walking stick to push the basket across the line.

When Graelen reached for the basket, he discovered the chalk line was the extent of his range. He could just reach the food, and he drew it to him eagerly. Cheese, bread and pickles. His mouth watered.

A rapping noise made him look up. Now two buckets stood on his side of the line. He left the basket to retrieve them; a water bucket and an empty bucket. He took them back to his nest.

The man rapped the cane again and gestured for the two used buckets and Graelen pushed them to the chalk line.

‘Is it day up there?’ He thought he smelled sunshine on the man’s robe.

The man put the lantern on the trolley and prepared to leave him.

‘Why are they doing this? What do they want?’

The man pointed to his ears and shook his head. He couldn’t hear.

Graelen slumped. For some reason it seemed particularly cruel, to send a man who could not talk to him.

There he went, taking the circle of light. Graelen watched until the tiny glow disappeared. Then he watched some more as the after-image lingered in his mind’s eye. His gift seethed in frustration.

Graelen ate sparingly. The idea that the food might be poisoned or drugged crossed his mind but he had to eat, and they already had him.

Clearly, they were keeping him alive for a reason. As for poor Kithkarne... he hoped the tithe-master was still alive, but he feared the worst as the rumours of sacrifices returned to haunt him.

If they didn’t plan to use him in some vile ceremony, why keep him alive?

Rage fired up his gift. Just let them try to feed him to the empyrean beasts. He’d shift himself to the higher plane, sacrificing his life so he could take as many of them with him as possible.

But he’d still be dead. And no one would know what the Mieren were getting up to.

He had to escape.

One of these times, the mute would slip, and he’d get close enough for Graelen to grab him. Especially if the manacle chain had been loosened from the stone. He worked on the bolts until his fingers bled.

Finally, he curled up on his blanket with his food basket hugged close to him. If the rats came after it, he’d scare them off.

He dreamed he was a boy again, impatient to leave the sisterhood. His older self wanted to tell the eager lad to savour this time. He would never know peace like this again.

He woke to a brief glimpse of a beautiful face, eyes watching him in the glow of a candle, long copper hair gleaming.

The candle went out.

‘Wait. Don’t leave me.’ His gift leapt, eager and ready.

No answer.

Was that the softest of breathing?

‘I won’t hurt you. Please don’t go,’ he coaxed.

The image of that face stayed with him in the darkness. She was a Malaunje. He could not mistake that vivid copper hair. Was she a captive like him, stolen from the port Wyrds? Why would they take a beautiful young woman, and then lock her in the crypts? Was this where they kept the Malaunje before they sacrificed them? ‘Did they drug you, or just grab you off the street?’