Praise for Rowena Cory Daniells
“A fast moving, gripping fantasy.”
Fantasy Book Critic on The King’s Bastard
“Rowena Cory Daniells has a splendidly devious way with plotting.”
SFX
“It’s a story of kings and queens, beasts and warriors, magic and religion. If you like any of the aformentioned things, then you’ll probably join me in loving this book.”
Den of Geek on The Chronicles of King Rolen’s Kin
“The King’s Bastard is a cracking read and the pace never lets up.”
Geek Syndicate
“Royal intrigue, court politics and outlawed magic make for an exciting adventure.”
Gail Z. Martin, author of The Chronicles of The Necromancer, on The Chronicles of King Rolen’s Kin
“Pacy and full of action and intrigue.”
Trudi Canavan, author of The Black Magician trilogy, on The Chronicles of King Rolen’s Kin
“The King’s Bastard is a fabulous, rollicking, High Fantasy adventure that will keep you up at night, desperate to find out what happens next.”
Jennifer Fallon, author of The Demon Child trilogy
Also by Rowena Cory Daniells
The Outcast Chronicles
Besieged
Exile
Sanctuary
The Chronicles of King Rolen’s Kin
The King’s Bastard
The Uncrowned King
The Usurper
The King’s Man (ebook)
Rowena Cory Daniells
BESIEGED
Book One of the Outcast Chronicles
First published 2012 by Solaris
an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,
Riverside House, Osney Mead,
Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK
www.solarisbooks.com
ISBN: (epub) 978-1-84997-372-4
ISBN: (mobi) 978-1-84997-373-1
Copyright © Rowena Cory Daniells 2012
Cover Art by Clint Langley
The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of he copyright owners.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
The seeds of every conflict are planted in the past, and so it was in the last days of the Late Golden Age of my people. When the war started, no one knew all the facts, and not one person was properly prepared, least of all me.
Taken from Imoshen’s Private Journal
Chalcedonia and the Five Kingdoms
PART ONE
Chapter One
Year 290
(290 years since the Wyrds signed the accord with King Charald the Peace-Maker)
‘THEY ALWAYS SCREAM.’
Oskane flinched at the baron’s tone. This was his cousin’s daughter, not some bitch whelping puppies. Luckily, no one was watching him. They had eyes only for the young woman labouring on the royal bed.
He’d been in this very room for the king’s birth twenty-seven years ago, which was the last time he’d seen a woman in her extremis. A high priest did not attend women in childbirth, unless it was to witness a royal birth.
He was glad. Birthing was a cruel process.
‘It is a woman’s lot in life to suffer,’ the baron continued. His colleague, and rival, Baron Nitzel, called himself a scholar. But Oskane knew him to be a consummate manipulator and master strategist.
Which was what had been needed when the King, Charald’s father, died on the battlefield, leaving him the throne and a kingdom in chaos. Between them, he and Nitzel were the reason the fifteen-year-old boy-king had been able to curb the barons and unite Chalcedonia, while holding back the kingdom’s greedy neighbours. For twelve years, King Charald had done nothing but fight to survive.
Now he wanted an heir.
And this woman writhing on the royal bed was the means to that end. A single sheet covered the swell of a belly that looked too big for her small frame. At fifteen, she was the same age Charald had been when he was thrust onto the throne. Until now, Oskane had thought her role less demanding.
Sorna was the daughter of a powerful baron whose claim to the throne was almost as good as Charald’s, and her marriage to the king had guaranteed her family’s loyalty. In return, Oskane’s family gained the king’s ear and a crown for the baron’s grandson. All Sorna had to do was birth a healthy boy, to ensure King Charald’s claim on the future.
‘I said I’d plant a child in her belly within the year. Didn’t I?’ King Charald stated, pleased with himself. ‘A son is just what I need.’
‘True, sire. An heir is what the kingdom needs,’ Nitzel agreed smoothly, and it must have cost him, because the girl was related to Oskane, not him.
‘With any luck he’ll be a fine strapping lad. I’ll call him Cedon, after my father,’ King Charald announced. He was a handsome man, despite the scar on his chin, which pulled one corner of his mouth down. He had very fair colouring, with ice-blue eyes and a receding hairline. A big man, he was as tall as one of the T’En race, not that anyone would say this to his face.
King Charald was a True-man and proud of it, just as he was proud of his strength.
Oskane had seen it over and over. What King Charald wanted, King Charald got. He did not rest until he achieved it, going days with almost no sleep. The eager boy-king had turned into a single-minded bully, and Oskane had come to regret the role he’d played in securing Charald’s throne. But this child...
He had such hopes for this child.
‘Is there nothing you can do to speed up the birth?’ Charald demanded of the saw-bones. ‘She’s been at it all night.’
‘It’s a natural process,’ Etri said. Perhaps five years younger than the king, the man was very ambitious, but not without skill.
Skill, that is, in sawing off men’s legs after they festered from battlefield wounds. What did he know of birthing? That was women’s business. Oskane only knew as much as he did because he’d consulted a midwife, when he heard the king wanted his son born into a man’s world. Charald had hung the symbol for his patron god over the bed. The Warrior, the belligerent one-eyed god, seemed out of place in a birthing chamber. If women had a choice, they chose the Mother to watch over them.
In the space between contractions, Sorna caught her breath. Sky-blue eyes glistening with pain and fear searched the faces of the men surrounding her: her father, her two brothers, the king, his advisor, the saw-bones and the high priest.
Fewer witnesses than the day Charald was born. Oskane had been the high priest’s personal assistant, back then. An ambitious priest of twenty summers, he had believed it was a woman’s place to suffer. Now... now he no longer knew what he believed. With the loss of his faith, there was nothing but a hollow ache where once he’d held conviction. All he had left was his duty, and he clung to that like a drowning man. He was here to bear witness to the birth of a prince.
If it was a boy.
If it was a girl, Charald would farm the babe off to a wet-nurse and get Sorna with child again as soon as possible. She would then have to go through this all over again – the bruises on her flesh from Charald’s love-making, the brave smiles. Since the morning after the wedding, when Sorna had called for the high priest, she’d prayed every day, but not one word of complaint had passed her lips.
Now Oskane wanted to reach out to ease the panic in her eyes.
; Another contraction took her, and she gave a keening groan that rose in pitch to a scream.
‘Can’t you do something for her?’ the older of her two brothers asked, having to raise his voice. His younger brother looked on, eyes darting from face to face, out of his depth.
‘It is a woman’s lot to bear children,’ Baron Nitzel said. ‘I’ve gone through three wives. The first two died in childbirth. The third is with child now. You miss them, but you get used to it.’
Oskane fought the urge to throttle him.
‘What about pains-ease?’ the younger brother asked as her screams subsided.
‘Pains-ease?’ Charald echoed. ‘Don’t like it. Never touch the stuff. Makes you weak.’
‘Not everyone has your fortitude, sire,’ the saw-bones said, with a smile. Then he turned to the younger brother. ‘Too little pains-ease has no effect. Too much makes females insensible and risks the baby’s life. The woman has to be conscious to do the work of birthing.’
‘Besides, females don’t feel as we do,’ Nitzel added. ‘They are simpler creatures, closer to animals. The gods did not give them finely-attuned minds and souls like ours so they could endure childbirth.’
The brothers did not look convinced. Sorna panted, face contorted with pain.
‘Don’t worry,’ Nitzel advised. ‘Once this is over, she’ll have her baby and forget. I’ve seen it time and time again.’
Perhaps that was true, but why did the gods inflict the agony of childbirth on women?
The answer was simple.There were no gods. No matter how he searched, he could find no proof for the Seven: the Father, his five sons and the Mother. The heretical thoughts terrified Oskane and he kept searching, hoping for a sign.
The pattern of Sorna’s breathing changed. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her body arched. Belly stretched under the sheet, hands clutching the pillow beside her head, Sorna gulped a breath and drew her legs up, grunting with effort.
‘It’s time, baby’s coming,’ Oskane said.
‘I must see this!’ King Charald gestured to Etri, who drew back the cover.
Her nightgown had ridden up to her breasts, revealing the swell of her belly stretched tight as a drum. The lips of her vulva bulged outwards. Oskane remembered thinking last time that surely a baby’s head could not pass through; he’d been proven wrong. However, according to the midwife, sometimes the baby became wedged and both mother and child died. Fear made Oskane’s heart race. A midwife should be present, but Charald would not hear of it. He wanted his son born under the Warrior’s patronage.
Trapped between horror and fascination, Oskane could not look away. What happened to the bones of her hips? No wonder women screamed.
Sorna did not scream. She held her breath and bore down with total concentration. The assembled men watched with terrible fascination as a crown of wet, matted hair appeared, then slid back in.
‘The head, my king!’ Healer Etri announced as proudly as if he was the one producing the child. ‘Your son is about to come into the world.’
Sorna gulped another breath, preparing to bear down again.
The infant arrived face down. Etri took the baby’s head and turned him, pulling one shoulder through, then the other.
Carried on a tide of blood and fluid, the baby’s legs slipped out easily, and Sorna gave a guttural groan of relief. No caul covered the baby’s face, which was just as well. The child had to be physically perfect to rule.
The long, ropey cord still pulsed with life as Etri turned the babe around to display his genitals. ‘A boy!’
‘A boy...’ Charald whispered. ‘Praise the Seven, a boy!’
‘Look at those balls, pouch as big as a peach,’ Etri crowed. ‘What a man he’ll be. And he looks just like you.’
With his little face bruised from the birth and his skin slippery and red, it was hard to tell who the newborn resembled. The babe threw out his arms, screwed up his face and screamed.
‘Give him to me,’ Charald commanded.
‘A moment.’ The saw-bones tied off the cord and cut it, then wrapped the babe in a cloth despite his struggles. ‘A fine, strong boy. Look how he fights me. Just listen to those cries. Here, my king.’
Charald took the proffered baby, holding his son out towards the Warrior symbol above the bed. ‘My heir, Prince Cedon of Chalcedonia, son of Charald, grandson of Cedon. One day he will be King Cedon the Sixth. May the Warrior’s fire fill his heart, may the Warrior’s guile guide his judgement on the battlefield.’ The king lifted his voice addressing the servants by the door. ‘Bring us wine!’
They hurried to pour goblets and distribute them.
Oskane glanced to Sorna, lying on the bed in a pool of blood and birthing fluid. There was still the afterbirth, but Healer Etri had left her side to celebrate with the king. Twenty-seven years ago, things had gone wrong at this point. Charald’s mother had died three days later of child-bed fever – that, or a broken heart.
‘It’s starting again. What’s happening?’ Sorna whimpered, eyes wide with fright. ‘Is there another baby?’
Was there another baby? Oskane hoped not, not after last time. He hoped it was just the after-birth.
‘Didn’t your mother tell you, Sorna?’ he asked, then recalled the girl’s mother had died giving birth to a stillborn boy seven years ago. ‘It’s the after-birth.’
Her hand reached for him as she gulped and bore down again. He pushed her hair from her forehead. The exertion of childbirth had made her hair dark at the temples, but the ends were still the colour of honey in sunlight. A sprinkling of freckles stood stark against her pale skin.
With a grunt of relief, she expelled the after-birth. ‘That hurt.’
‘You must have torn.’ Which reminded him – they needed a midwife to sew her up. But Sorna had other thoughts.
‘My baby. I want to hold him.’ She tried to push herself up the bed, to sit against the headboard. Even as she did this, she adjusted her nightgown and reached for the sheet, wincing. More blood gushed from between her legs. It worried Oskane. The midwife would know what to do.
‘Here, let me.’ He lifted the sheet, pulling it up and moving a pillow so she could sit comfortably. ‘I’ll fetch the women now. They’ll clean you up. By then, the king should be finished admiring his–’
A roar of outrage made them both stiffen. Everyone feared the king’s temper, so violent and unpredictable.
‘What’s this?’ Charald turned, holding the baby out. One little arm had worked loose from the swaddling cloth. Fingers splayed, the newborn reached for something to hold onto and wailed so loudly, Charald had to shout. ‘What have you done, Sorna?’
She shrank back, growing even paler. Her mouth opened soundlessly and she shook her head.
‘The babe has six fingers!’ King Charald declared.
Oskane felt sick.
As Charald strode across the chamber to the end of the bed, everyone looked horrified. Everyone but Nitzel. For a heartbeat his face was unguarded; he was delighted.
‘Six fingers!’ King Charald thrust the baby forward. ‘A filthy Malaunje, a half-blood. This is no son of mine!’
And he threw the wailing baby towards her. Sorna shrieked.
Swaddling cloth trailed the writhing infant as he sailed through the air. Acting on instinct, Oskane lurched forward, catching the newborn before he could hit the headboard.
The baby fell silent.
‘There’s no Wyrd blood in our family!’ Sorna’s father insisted, as his two sons reached for their weapons, only to recall they were unarmed. ‘You insult our honour!’
‘Are you saying there’s Wyrd blood in the royal line?’ Charald demanded, his skin purpling with fury.
Nitzel, who had also been at Charald’s birth, glanced to Oskane. They both knew the truth, a truth Charald had never been told.
‘Father,’ the younger brother cautioned, putting a hand on the baron’s shoulder. Oskane marked his maturity, changing his assessment of Matxin.
‘Your daughter cuckolded me!’ Charald flung a hand in Sorna’s direction.
‘No. Never!’ Her father spoke over Sorna’s denial.
The chamber filled with bellowed accusations and counter-accusations.
Oskane felt a tug on his arm. Sorna reached for her baby. Eyes feverish with intensity, she unpeeled his little furled hand to find... ‘Six fingers.’ Next she freed a tiny foot. ‘Six toes, too.’ Terrified, she looked up to Oskane. ‘But I never... I’ve never lain with anyone other than the king.’
Oskane sat on the edge of the bed to get a better look. The babe was a half-blood, no doubt about it – an accursed six-fingered half-blood. Just like Charald’s twin, who had been whisked away, never to be spoken of again.
‘Before the Seven, I swear this is the king’s son,’ Sorna insisted.
‘I believe you. Sometimes it happens. No one knows why.’ Once, Oskane would have said it was the Seven’s punishment. ‘It happens in the best of families.’
‘It’s never happened in my family,’ Sorna insisted.
‘Are you sure? How do you know the babes weren’t declared stillborn and taken away?’
That made her pause.
He noticed the king slip outside with the others. What were they up to?
Tears spilled over the young queen’s cheeks. ‘His eyes... I can’t tell. Does he have the T’En eyes?’
Oskane tried to pry the baby’s eyelids apart, but his fingers slipped on skin still streaked with blood and birthing fluid. He shuddered, repressing a True-man’s natural repugnance for anything to do with Wyrds.
Besieged Page 1
