Somewhere behind the dunes was an abandoned cottage, where the baby would be born – his son, he thought with a thrill, his gift stirring. He pushed it down, reminding himself to be realistic. If the boy was stillborn, as happened so often, no one would be any the wiser, which was why he had suggested bringing his trysting partner to the deserted cottage. When her time came, he would send the cook, who delivered all the island’s babies.
For they meant to cheat the sisterhoods once more.
Not cheat. Why should keeping their own children be cheating? Why was it so hard to think of breaking with custom?
Because those customs had four hundred years behind them.
Yet when Karokara’s pregnancy progressed past the seven small moons to deliver a Malaunje child, he’d gone straight to Rohaayel and Ardeyne. He’d argued that it was almost thirteen years since they’d hidden Rohaayel’s daughter and, in that time, they’d delivered all four T’En boys to the sisterhood. No one would expect them to keep this one. But they had to move quickly, leave early to visit Lighthouse Isle and take Karokara with them.
He looked down to where she sat at his feet, her head resting on his knee. In the belly of the boat she was shielded from the wind; even so, she shivered. He placed his hand on her copper hair and she looked up, wine-dark eyes distant as though she was with him in body but not mind. What went on in her Malaunje head? He resented not knowing. She’d steadfastly maintained her defences.
Did she adore him as much as he adored her, or was he only a means to an end?
‘It’s time,’ Irian said then raised his voice. ‘Ship oars.’
The rowers lifted the oars and sat them across their laps. The boat continued to glide towards the beach.
Irian stood, legs braced.
When the hull ground on the sand, he jumped into the shallows, reached up, lifted Karokara in his arms and carried her onto the beach, setting her down on the dry sand. As he did, she leaned against him and he felt his son kick. His gift surged with excitement and she pulled back.
He hid his annoyance and banked his power, then turned to catch the food and stores Ardeyne tossed onto the twilit beach.
Irian waved as they rowed away.
He took Karokara’s hand and led her up the slope. The fine white sand shifted under their feet, making it hard going, but she struggled on without complaint.
Where was that cottage? Had his memory played him false? It had been thirteen years since he’d last scouted the brotherhood’s island.
They crested another dune to find the empty dwelling just as he remembered, its roof shingles silvered by time. No one lived in the one-bedroom fisherman’s cottage now, not since they’d built the stone cottages around the base of the lighthouse.
‘Come on.’ He drew Karokara down the slope.
He’d been drawn to her laughter and wit, but as the pregnancy progressed, she’d become quieter. When she went past the time to deliver a Malaunje baby, and every day made it more likely the child would be born T’En, she’d begun to mourn the baby in preparation for giving him up to the sisterhood.
It was more than Irian could bear.
When this is over, she’ll smile again, he told himself.
Pushing the cottage door open, he expected to find the single room sandy and dilapidated, but it was surprisingly clean. He crossed to the hearth and made up a fire. Someone had left a stack of driftwood. He suspected the fishermen’s children had been playing here.
When he had the flames going, he turned to find Karokara stretched out on the blanket. The journey, the excitement, the fear of what would happen if sisterhood gift-warriors caught them... it had all taken its toll.
‘You’re safe here,’ he told her, smoothing the copper strands from her cheek. She wasn’t his devotee; he wouldn’t do that to her. He would die in the service of his brotherhood, that much was certain, and he didn’t want her to die with him. He wanted her to have a long, healthy life.
Her eyes flickered open and she nodded, too tired to speak. As far as they could tell, it would not be her time for another seven or eight days. He watched his son turn inside her belly, the cloth straining. Strange, he’d never felt this possessive about a child before.
Because this time he would be keeping the boy.
‘I have to go.’ First he laid out the food, blankets and watered wine then lit the lantern. ‘I’ll visit each day. Don’t worry. This will all be over soon.’
‘They will not find us here?’
He knew she wasn’t referring to the island’s Malaunje fisher folk. ‘The sisterhood gift-warriors will not find us here.’
‘And I’ll have him all to myself for five years, just as you promised me?’
‘You will have him for five years, I promise,’ he said. Five years was what Rohaayel had allowed his devotee. Five years to rear her child, before Mariska returned to him. In those five years, Rohaayel had come to the island often, making excuses to hide his real destination. In Irian’s opinion, he’d spent too much time here, but their subterfuges had worked.
No one suspected their secret, because it was unthinkable.
Irian knelt beside Karokara and leant down to kiss her cheek. A rush of love filled him and he felt his power rise, felt her tense against him. The instinct to imprint his gift on her was almost overwhelming. He fought it every day.
‘Please,’ she whispered.
Please, I’m tired of fighting this, make me your devotee, or, Please, don’t do this?
Was it only the Malaunje attraction to T’En power, or did she truly love him?
With an effort of will, he controlled his instincts and came to his feet. If she’d been pure T’En, he would not have to hold back. She could have met him on every level.
Yes, and even crippled his gift, if she chose. No wonder the males were wary of females.
‘You’ll be safe here, Karo,’ he told her. ‘No one comes this way.’
He closed the door, and then set off over the dunes at a jog. He should not have stayed so long. This trip, they were accompanied by the ambitious new gift-tutor and two gift-warriors: all recent additions to the inner circle.
Rohaayel had taken powerful, determined men onto his inner circle and into his confidence, and their triumvirate had been able to retain leadership of the brotherhood. But it did mean, when the new additions learned about Imoshen, they insisted on coming to the island to assess if she was a threat.
Back at summer’s cusp, the Scholar Nereon had been new to the inner circle, and had been horrified to discover that instead of maintaining the proper distance, the Malaunje treated Imoshen like one of their own. She worked in the garden, helped haul in the fishing nets and prepared food.
Irian had grown used to how they lived on the island, but he hadn’t been aware that she handled uncooked food. He’d taken the cook aside and pointed out how inappropriate this was. T’En might perform the spiced wine ceremony, but they never touched unprepared food, and the proper distance should be maintained. Although Imoshen did not have her gift yet, one day she would and, when she did, an unthinking act could break a Malaunje’s defences. Mortified, the cook had been full of apologies. Imoshen was just a child. She’d been with them forever, and she was always offering to help. She had no idea of the proper boundaries between T’En and Malaunje.
‘Well, it’s time she learnt,’ he’d said. ‘She’s growing up.’
Pity she could not remain a child forever. In a few days, she turned thirteen. If she had been living with a sisterhood, she would have been taken to Egrayne the Empowerer and her gift’s true nature discovered, so she could begin her training.
Instead, she was innocent of her gift, and of the rivalry between male and female T’En.
Not that she was simple. Mariska had taught her to read and write, and Ardeyne had selected suitable treatises for her to read. Because he had to find treatises that contained no hint of the true state of affairs between brotherhoods and sisterhoods, he’d resorted to Sagora treatises in the
language of True-men. They covered the natural world and philosophy. He’d thought learning another language would slow her down. It had, but not for long.
Rohaayel was so proud of her.
But soon, her gift would stir, and she would begin asking questions. Soon, a lie of omission would not be enough.
IMOSHEN ALMOST CALLED out when she saw Uncle Irian bring the pregnant Malaunje woman ashore, but she was dressed like a half-blood herself, in old breeches and a knitted vest, and she knew he would not approve. Besides, something about his manner made her hesitate.
She’d never seen Irian this way before, protective and proud. Yet when he came out of the cottage, his expression was so forbidding he hardly looked like the uncle she knew and loved.
Intrigued and a little unsettled, she followed him over the dunes for a way to be sure he was heading towards the lighthouse end of the island, before she stopped.
Why had he hidden this stranger in her secret place?
Well, it was not really a secret, as the other children knew about it, but since the others had stopped speaking to her, she thought of it as her retreat. She wasn’t sure what she’d done, to make them shun her.
After being shut up all winter in the lighthouse, reading the treatises, she had come out expecting to pick up where they had left off in autumn, but the Malaunje boys and girls of twelve and thirteen she had grown up with had taken on the work of adults.
The change hadn’t been as noticeable with the grownups, who had always been busy with work. She’d realised they were shunning her too when she walked into the lighthouse kitchen and the cook had ushered her out, sending her up to her room to wait for the dinner tray.
She hadn’t felt so lonely since her mother drowned.
In the past, she’d always looked forward to the half-yearly visits from her father and uncles – when they were here, the world seemed so much richer – but this time she was impatient for company. They would bring more treatises from the Sagoras, and she would finally have someone to talk to.
A seagull cried, and she looked up to see it hovering on the wind.
She could either go back to the lighthouse or go to the cottage. If she went back to the lighthouse, her father and uncles would be there. There had been three extra T’En men in the boat that delivered Irian and the pregnant woman. She loved her father and Uncle Irian and Ardeyne, but she didn’t like meeting new T’En men. Scholar Nereon had asked questions, and it didn’t seem to matter what she said, he’d made her feel like she’d done something wrong.
She knew what would happen if she went back to the lighthouse. She didn’t know what would happen if she went to the cottage.
Propelled by curiosity, she retraced her steps across the dunes, bare feet sliding in the silky, cold sand. Soon she would have to wear boots and stay indoors, and then the days would be interminable, but for the Sagora treatises.
From the top of the dune, she looked down on the cottage. The wind tore the smoke from the chimney and flattened the sharp-edged dune grass, whipping it so that it stung her bare calves.
She was glad when she entered the hollow and approached the cottage. A faint glow came from the only window. Bubbled, distorted glass made it impossible to see inside. She tapped on the door.
No one answered.
Were they deliberately ignoring her? She was so used to this now, she nearly left. But the cottage was her special place and this woman had invaded it – this woman Uncle Irian loved, but had to hide. Why?
She pushed the door open. ‘Hello?’
Empty. The stranger must have gone to the outhouse.
The lantern revealed blankets and provisions. A fire burned in the hearth and a pot sat over it. She could smell onions and chicken.
Her stomach rumbled.
She meant to go over to the pot and stir it, but the moment she stepped inside the cottage and shut the door her senses went on alert. Scents suddenly became stronger and sharper, and her heart raced. She had always felt more alive when the T’En men came to visit, but never to this extent.
She inhaled deeply, enjoying the rush of energy that coursed through her body. It felt like when she stood on the cliff tops, daring the wind to pluck her off and blow her away.
Where was it coming from?
Kneeling, she inspected each of the new objects on the floor, handling them, sniffing them; it was on everything and nothing.
Frustrated, she came to her feet and went over to stir the food. If the Malaunje woman wasn’t careful, it would burn. Wrapping the edge of the blanket around her hand, she lifted the pot, moving it away from the centre of the fire.
Behind her, the door swung open.
Imoshen turned. ‘Your food was–’
The woman’s eyes went wide with fear. With a shriek, she turned and made off.
‘Wait.’ Imoshen ran after her.
She caught up with the heavily pregnant woman before she reached the top of the dune. The poor thing had collapsed in the sand on her knees. She held her hand under her belly, panting.
Imoshen crouched next to her, watching warily, not sure if she should speak in case she distressed her further.
The woman caught her breath and lifted her head to meet Imoshen’s eyes. In the moonlight her hair looked black, her eyes enormous. Now that they were close, she looked vaguely familiar.
‘I didn’t mean to scare you,’ Imoshen apologised.
‘I wasn’t scared, just surprised.’
That was a lie. She’d been terrified. Imoshen didn’t know how to respond.
‘I should have realised you were Imoshen.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right.’ The woman lifted a hand to cup Imoshen’s cheek. In that moment, Imoshen realised no one had touched her since summer’s cusp, when her father and uncles had visited. She leant into the warm palm, soaking up the sensation.
‘Sorry.’ The woman removed her hand.
‘For what?’
The woman blinked. ‘Malaunje and T’En do not touch, skin on skin, unless...’
‘Unless?’
‘It’s just... You look so much like her,’ the woman marvelled.
‘Who?’
‘Your mother.’
‘You knew my mother?’
‘Knew...’ The woman bit her bottom lip and nodded. ‘My half-sister. Same mother, different fathers, both T’En.’
‘Why did Uncle Irian hide you here...’ She realised she didn’t know her name.
‘Karokara.’
‘Why did he hide you here, Aunt Karokara?’
The woman gave her a sharp look. ‘T’En don’t acknowledge their Malaunje kin.’
‘Why ever not?’ When Karokara didn’t answer, Imoshen wondered if it was a lie. It hadn’t felt like a lie, yet... ‘My father used to acknowledge my mother.’
‘That’s different.’
‘How?’
Karokara stared at her as if she’d said something extraordinary. Imoshen felt as if she was speaking the same language, but navigating unknown territory. Before she could ask Karokara to explain, the woman winced and bent over her belly.
‘Baby’s coming,’ Imoshen guessed. The summer just gone, she’d seen one of the fishermen’s women grow big with child, seen someone come to the kitchen door late one night to get the cook, heard the screams in the night, then watched the excited chatter as the others welcomed the baby to the island. ‘Come back to the fire.’
She slid her arms around Karokara and helped her stand. She was nowhere near as tall as her father and uncles, but she was bigger than the cook and the fishermen’s wives; as big as some of the Malaunje men.
Another contraction came before they could start walking, another at the base of the dune, and another before they got to the door. This one was worse than any of the others. Karokara doubled over, moaning.
When Karokara could stand again, Imoshen helped her inside. Another contraction came as she tried to lie down on the blanket in front of the fire.
&nbs
p; ‘Baby’s coming fast. I’ll go get help.’
‘Don’t leave.’ Karokara gripped her arm with surprising strength. ‘It’s quick because I had a fright.’ Her hand tightened and her breathing changed as she went with the pain. When it had passed, she looked up. ‘Stay with me.’
Chapter Thirteen
OSKANE LOOKED UP.
Franto stood in the doorway with his evening meal on a tray. He often forgot to eat, so deep was he in his study. Tonight it was the Wyrd scrolls. He had never been able to work out why the T’En had powers, when True-men, the gods’ chosen people, had none. If there were no gods, as he feared, then this was just bad luck. But he kept searching for a logical reason, because if he found it, maybe he’d find his faith again.
One heretical priest had put forward the theory that the silverheads were fallen angels, who had defied the Seven and been sent to earth to suffer alongside True-people. He had been excommunicated for his trouble.
Sensible scholars held that the Wyrds were closer to animals, but the logic of this troubled Oskane. If he only knew more about the Wyrds, he might be able to work out where they fitted in, but the old scrolls were full of gaps.
A year ago, his agent from Enlightenment Abbey had captured an adult Malaunje for him to study, but the silly creature had killed itself. If Sorne and Izteben were to infiltrate Cesspit City, they would need to speak the Wyrd’s barbaric language, so he’d asked the agent to locate a suitable Malaunje to teach the boys.
Franto cleared his throat.
Oskane looked up to see him in front of the desk with the meal. ‘Just put it there.’
His servant slid the tray onto the desk. ‘There’s been trouble.’
‘Between the penitents and the Wyrds?’
Franto nodded.
‘It was inevitable. While the boys were little, they looked sweet and innocent. But now that they’re as big as full grown True-men... I’m surprised the penitents have put up with them this long. We may have to forbid them from using the main courtyard.’
‘Denat threw Sorne’s shirt in the mud.’
Oskane shrugged.
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