‘Don’t fret,’ Redravia whispered. ‘Your brothers will be safe. They’re on the causare’s ship with Healer Reoden.’ She squeezed Aravelle’s hand. ‘You need to accept it, Vella. By the time your brothers take their place as initiates, they won’t acknowledge you. If you try to reach out to them, you’ll only embarrass yourself and them.’
Rebellion burned in Aravelle’s heart. She told herself Ronnyn would never abandon her. But she found Redravia’s sympathetic warning much harder to ignore.
‘COME WITH ME.’
Ronnyn led his brothers back to the cabin. He found two empowered lads at the door, armed with long-knives. He knew the lads from weapons practice and had admired their skill. Both were head and shoulders taller than him, and both looked determined. Violence-tinged gift readiness radiated from them, making his heart race.
Inside the cabin all the children and the three old T’En women were clustered at the windows. They’d doused the cabin lamp so that Ronnyn had to pick his way across the floor, which was littered with bedding.
‘Over here.’ Sardeon made room for them.
Ronnyn let his little brothers climb up to peer out the windows, while he looked over Sardeon’s shoulder. All he could make out through the fog was leaping flames and the shadows of people fighting.
‘Ronnyn?’ Reoden’s devotee tapped his shoulder. She held out her arms, dark eyes gleaming with fierce determination. ‘Let me take Ashmyr. I can protect him if there’s trouble.’
He did not doubt she meant it, and if the sea-vermin attacked, he would have enough to do watching out for Vittor and Tamaron. He handed baby Ashmyr over to her.
And a weight lifted from him. Ever since his father had been gored by the sea-boar, he’d shouldered the load of protecting his family. At least now he didn’t have to do it all on his own.
‘With that fire we’ve so much lost,’ old Alynar muttered, shaking her head. ‘The paintings, the treatises –’
‘Just like a historian to value the past over people,’ Gift-tutor Sarodyti said, sharing a smile with her scarred shield-sister.
‘The fighting’s died down,’ Sardeon said.
Sarodyti took the old, scarred woman’s arm. ‘Come, Lysi.’
They lit the lamp and mixed up a warm posset to settle the children. Ronnyn tucked his little brothers into bed. All the while, he watched the other ship.
At last, they heard the sounds of oars breaking water and the rowboats approached the ships.
Ronnyn and Sardeon tried to slip out of the cabin, but Sarodyti spotted them.
‘Where are you two off to?’
‘They’re coming back,’ Ronnyn said.
They all went outside then, leaving the devotees to watch over the sleeping children.
The mid-deck was full of Malaunje helping as the empowered lads, Malaunje warriors and T’En sisters from both Reoden and the causare’s sisterhoods returned.
‘What happened?’ Sarodyti asked their hand-of-force.
Cerafeoni was sooty and bloody, but she seemed unharmed. ‘Sea-vermin attacked, using the fog as cover. Ceriane’s dead, her voice-of-reason and hand-of-force, too, but we saved the T’En children and none of the Malaunje children were lost.’
‘How could this happen?’ The historian turned on Sarodyti’s scarred shield-sister. ‘You should have foreseen it, Lysi. You should have warned us.’
‘Don’t,’ Sarodyti warned.
‘Don’t what? Don’t say what everyone’s thinking? What good is a scryer, if she won’t scry?’
Ronnyn glanced to the scarred woman. She lifted one trembling hand to her mouth, her lips working as if she was trying to hold something back. Her left eye just above the scar twitched and the scar climbed further up her cheek.
He blinked. Surely that scar had not advanced? And, if this sister could see the future, why hadn’t she warned them?
With a strangled moan, the scryer turned and ran down the passage towards the cabin.
‘Now, look what you’ve done,’ Sarodyti muttered, going to follow her.
The historian caught her arm. ‘It’s about time someone said it. She might be your shield-sister, but you’re not doing her any favours. She has to face this or –’
‘Saro, we’re going over to the Endurance to help treat the injured. You’re in charge,’ Nerazime announced as she delivered an empowered lad, who was clasping an injured arm to his chest. Blood poured from between his fingers. ‘This is one of Ceriane’s lads. He fought well. Have Ree’s devotee see to him.’
When Nerazime left him, the big lad swayed and almost fell.
Sarodyti beckoned Ronnyn and Sardeon. ‘Help him into the cabin before he passes out. Get Meleya to sew him up.’
They guided the injured lad, stumbling and groggy from blood-loss, down the hall. Just inside the cabin, his knees gave out.
Between them, they lowered him to the floor and called for the healer’s devotee.
Meleya rolled him over, clucking her tongue as she inspected the wound in his forearm. ‘This is deep. It’ll need stitching. Fetch the bag, Sardeon.’
The devotee wrapped a cloth around the lad’s forearm.
‘Ronnyn, I need you to hold this tight as you can and keep his arm raised. We must stop the bleeding.’
Sardeon returned with the bag and she unrolled it, selecting powder, thread and needle. ‘This will hurt, lad.’
‘You think it doesn’t hurt now?’ he muttered.
Ronnyn met Sardeon’s eyes with a smile.
Meleya threaded the needle. ‘Do you want something to bite on… What’s your name?’
‘Vittor. And I don’t want anything to bite on. I want to go back and help.’
‘Good lad,’ the devotee smiled.
‘My brother’s called Vittor, too,’ Ronnyn said, trying to distract him.
‘I’m ready.’ The devotee nodded to Ronnyn. ‘Release his arm.’ He removed the cloth to reveal a long jagged wound in his forearm. ‘Nasty. The blade’s gone through the muscle.’
Blood pumped from the wound.
Without a sound, Sardeon pitched forward in a dead faint, right across the big lad’s legs. It was so unexpected that Ronnyn laughed.
‘I should have known,’ Meleya muttered. ‘His heart’s in the right place, but he hasn’t got the stomach for it. Get him out of here, Ronnyn.’
He caught Sardeon under the arms, lifted him off the injured lad’s legs and dragged him towards the cabin door. By the time they’d reached it, Sardeon had shrugged off his hands and staggered to his feet.
Ronnyn tried to draw him into the hall.
Sardeon brushed him aside. ‘I’m all right. I’m not afraid.’
‘I didn’t say you were.’
‘It’s just… I hate the sight of blood.’
Ronnyn wondered what Sardeon would do if he had a martial gift.
SORNE HEARD VOICES coming back up the beach towards the tavern. He crept over the sleeping children to peer through the gap in the cellar doors. From the shape of the bodies silhouetted against the silver sea, it was the Maygharian and two of his men. The celebrations on the captured ship had died down; it was late.
‘…this ship has fallen into our laps at just the right time,’ the Maygharian was saying as they entered the tavern.
Sorne crept through the sleeping children to the steps and positioned himself at the tavern door. Peering through a crack in the wood, he could make out the edge of a table and something on the floor.
The Maygharian lit a lamp, revealing an old woman asleep under the table. He gave her a shove with his boot. ‘Get us some food and ale, Loris.’
She scurried off, while the three men sat down. Sorne could only see the edge of a shoulder and the side of someone’s face. From their talk, he gathered they were planning a big raid. He’d heard of sea-vermin uniting to attack port towns.
‘I don’t like it,’ one of the men muttered. ‘The Marlin sea-king claims he has a power-worker. They’re almost as bad as Wyrds.’
‘The prize is big,’ the other man said, ‘but it could be a trick to lure us away so they can steal our exotics. I’m not sure we should trust the other sea-kings.’
‘Of course I don’t trust them. I don’t trust anyone. But only our people know we have a cellar full of exotics. And this is too good an opportunity to miss. The spoils will be divided according to the number and size of the ships we bring. That fat merchant ship means all the more for us.’
‘What about the exotics?’
‘They’ll keep.’
The woman returned with plates of onions and beans. Sorne’s stomach rumbled.
The rest of the conversation was about who they’d take and who would remain behind. He gathered the more fighters the better. All of which pleased him.
If everyone who could swing a sword went on the raid, it would be easier to escape with the children. But if the sea-vermin took all of their boats, there was no point escaping the cellar.
Chapter Thirty-One
IMOSHEN WATCHED AS All-mother Ceriane’s body slid over the ship’s side into the water. It made one small splash as the sea swallowed her body. Ripples spread across the incoming swells. They’d held the farewell ceremony on the deck of the burned ship.
Imoshen was surrounded by the other all-mothers, and their sorrow felt like needle-sharp rain, drumming on her senses.
The scent of burned wood still clung to everything and everyone. The fire had left its mark here on the scorched planks, but it was worse on the foredeck, where Ceriane’s cabins had been gutted.
A rope fell down to coil on the deck. A Malaunje sailor hastily retrieved it and scrambled back up the mast. Working silently, out of respect for the dead, the sailors clung to three of the five masts, rigging spare sails. As it turned out, Athazi’s ship was well named – the Endurance – and Imoshen suspected it was a quality they would all need.
‘Poor Ceriane.’ Melisarone wiped her cheeks. ‘Our only gift-wright, too.’
‘What will we do?’ Athazi asked. She was barely sixty, yet her face had settled into a perpetual scowl. ‘The ability to repair damaged gifts does not arise in every generation. We’ll…’ She looked up at the healer. ‘I’m sorry.’
Imoshen met Reoden’s eyes. Her dear friend’s sacrare daughter had been identified as a gift-wright when she had been empowered. But thanks to Kyredeon, Lyronyxe hadn’t lived to grow into her power.
‘Yes, we lost more than a beloved girl-child that day,’ Imoshen said. ‘But we can be thankful at least half of All-mother Ceriane’s people survived, and we didn’t lose any of the Malaunje or T’En children.’
Deep, mournful singing carried across the sea to them.
‘Over on the Perseverance, the brotherhoods are bidding their dead farewell. Both All-fathers Egrutz and Dretsun survived, although I hear Egrutz lost a lot of warriors,’ Imoshen said. ‘Unfortunately, not enough of Ceriane’s high-ranking sisters lived to reform the sisterhood. We’ll have to –’
‘I’d take her people in,’ Athazi said. ‘But you can see the state of my ship, half-gutted by fire. Ceriane’s sisterhood will have to be split up and spread around the other ships. The most I could take would be the two T’En girls and perhaps some of her Malaunje.’
Imoshen’s gift surged and she read satisfaction underneath the offer. Athazi had always envied and resented the gift-wright. Now she would add two girl-children to her sisterhood, while her rival’s sisterhood was disbanded.
Imoshen wished her gift left her with some illusions.
‘I can take some Malaunje, but my three-masted ship is already too small,’ Melisarone said, with genuine regret. ‘Ceriane’s choice-sons will have to go another all-mother. I’m too old to take on more children, especially boys.’
‘I’ll take the T’En boys,’ Reoden said, prompted by generosity of spirit. Imoshen could have kissed her.
As they organised the details of breaking up Ceriane’s sisterhood, Imoshen realised only four all-mothers remained, while there were seven all-fathers. If the brotherhoods put the causareship to the vote, she would be hard-pressed to retain it.
Later, as they were rowing back to the Resolute, Reoden said, ‘I should have thought before I spoke. Taking in more boys means there’s no room for Ronnyn and Sardeon in my cabin, and I don’t want to put them in with the empowered lads. It would be cruel when their gifts haven’t manifested.’
‘You said Sar has been improving since Ronnyn became his choice-brother. I think it might help bring on Sardeon’s power if you put them in with the empowered lads.’
‘You’re not a gift-wright, Imoshen, what makes –’
‘We know our gifts react to each other. What if shutting Sardeon away from the other youths on the cusp of –’
‘I kept him in seclusion because his gift had gone dormant and he’d stopped growing. I shut him away to protect him.’
‘As I recall, before this happened his gift had begun to manifest and he was on the cusp. Maybe he’s ready now. Try it and see. What have you got to lose?’
TOBAZIM HAD ALWAYS loved the brotherhood songs. The martial songs, the love songs and the dirges, like this one. It called to something deep inside him as the men sang to farewell those lost on the Endurance. The all-fathers and their seconds stood on the high-rear deck, while the Malaunje filled the mid-deck.
As the singing ceased, Ardonyx slipped away to speak with the ship’s master.
Meanwhile, the rest of the all-fathers offered their sympathy to Dretsun and Egrutz. The old all-father looked exhausted. His brotherhood had borne the brunt of the attack.
‘I hear the adept Egrutz was grooming to replace him was killed last night,’ Norsasno whispered. ‘Egrutz’s brotherhood has been stable for thirty years. But now I fear –’
‘Tobazim, it was your voice-of-reason who chose where we anchored last night.’ Dretsun stepped up to them. The other brotherhood leaders fell silent, and all turned to watch the confrontation. Tobazim could sense Dretsun’s gift, laced with challenge. The all-father gestured to the gathered mourners. ‘And look what happened.’
‘The wind dropped. That’s why we anchored where we did,’ Tobazim said. ‘We couldn’t go anywhere while becalmed.’ He felt Norsasno behind him, felt the build-up of gifts feeding off Dretsun’s aggression. ‘I suppose you’re going to blame us for the fog as well.’
‘He’s got you there,’ Paragian said.
‘This morning the sea-vermin’s sails were still hugging the horizon,’ Dretsun said. ‘They’re waiting for another opportunity to attack us.’
‘Depending on the wind, we’ll pass the last of the islands sometime today.’ Tobazim was glad Ardonyx had shown him the course he’d plotted. ‘Then we’ll head south by south-west. Our course takes us straight across the Secluded Sea, if the winds favour us. If not, we’ll have to tack.’ He saw Dretsun did not understand, and gestured. ‘Weave back and forth.’
‘Why waste time?’ Dretsun snapped. ‘Why not sail straight?’
‘If the wind is blowing from the west and we want to sail into the west, we –’
‘What landsmen we all are!’ Hueryx mocked. He’d been leaning against the mast, now he straightened up. ‘He’s saying we have to cut across the wind to fill the sails.’
The all-fathers turned to Hueryx with a certain wariness and Tobazim got the impression they’d felt the sharp edge of his tongue in the past.
Hueryx gestured impatiently. ‘Not one of us knows the sea as well as Tobazim’s voice-of-reason. Leave it up to him, unless one of the brotherhoods is hiding a weather-worker?’
Had anyone else said this, there would have been laughter. As it was, they broke up and returned to their ships.
‘I spoke with Egrutz,’ Ardonyx said, as they climbed down to the rowboat. ‘He’s shattered.’
Tobazim felt his gift rise to incorporate all the other brotherhoods, in a
structure that protected but could also threaten his own brotherhood.
When they reached the Victorious, Tobazim found the adepts cheering from the rear-deck as they watched a fight on the mid-deck. The brotherhood’s initiates crowded around the participants, but they were strangely silent.
He pushed through them to find Iraayel and a skinny youth in his mid-twenties circling each other. Both were bleeding. Up on the mid-deck, Karozar took bets. This was just the sort of thing Tobazim wanted to eradicate.
Furious, he was about to plunge in and pull the two combatants apart, when Ardonyx took his arm and Norsasno broke it up.
Iraayel fell to his knees, holding his side.
‘Get him up to the infirmary,’ Norsasno ordered.
No one came forward to help Iraayel. As he struggled to his feet, Tobazim’s gift told him that although he had accepted the causare’s choice-son, his brotherhood hadn’t. Even Haromyr and Eryx stood with their arms folded, faces grim.
‘This must be a personal grudge match, because when I became all-father I said the initiates would not have to fight for the entertainment of the adepts,’ Tobazim said. He rounded on Iraayel. ‘Did you offer this initiate insult?’
Iraayel looked offended.
Tobazim turned to the other combatant. ‘You…’
‘Oteon.’
‘Did you offer him insult?’
As Oteon glanced up to the adepts on the rear-deck, Tobazim noticed faded bruising on his ribs. Old habits died hard; his warriors were used to winning stature through force and violence.
Oteon swallowed and grimaced. ‘Yes, I insulted him.’
Iraayel blinked in surprise.
Tobazim hadn’t expected Oteon to lie. It put him off his stride.
Luckily, Ardonyx stepped in. ‘In that case, you are appointed Iraayel’s carer until he is healed. Take him up to the infirmary.’
Oteon offered Iraayel his arm. The seventeen-year-old refused it and limped off, holding his side. Oteon followed. The initiates parted for them.
Tobazim looked up at the adepts along the rear-deck rail. Most would not meet his eye, while a few stared down with barely concealed contempt. From the age of seventeen they’d lived under Kyredeon’s rule, bowing to fear and intimidation. It was all they understood. Did they think that because he was fair, he was weak?
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