Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘Not yet, but I will if you let me get on with it.’

  Oskane gestured for him to go and Franto scurried out.

  ‘You shouldn’t let him speak to you like that, Uncle.’

  ‘I trust him implicitly.’

  Edorne did not look convinced.

  ‘You will report to me. I must know what Baron Nitzel and the king are up to.’ He leaned forward, dropping his voice even though they were alone. ‘Beware Nitzel. He will try to win you over with promises of an alliance, but he is not to be trusted.’

  ‘I’m no fool, Uncle.’

  ‘Which is why I chose you to replace me.’ His nephew was smart, but he didn’t have nearly thirty years experience of court politics.

  ‘And I am honoured to follow in the footsteps of Oskane the Pious.’

  Oskane had the grace to look down. His daily flagellation was common knowledge. Each time he took the holy scourge and punished himself in search of the divine, he dug deeper into the hollow core of a man who could see only human frailty and chance behind events both great and small. And he prayed even harder for a sign from the gods.

  Pouring two goblets of wine, he passed one to Edorne. ‘To the new high priest.’

  Edorne took a sip, then put his cup down, as abstentious as he was fastidious. ‘You say you are stepping down from office to carry out a special service for the king?’

  ‘For him and for Chalcedonia.’

  ‘Surely as your successor I should know the nature of this service?’

  Oskane drew breath to tell him, only to discover he was reluctant to admit he would be raising a half-blood child, even if that child was the king’s unwanted son. Edorne was an educated man, but he had a True-man’s natural repugnance for anything Wyrd. ‘It would be safer for you if you didn’t know.’

  ‘Where you are going?’

  ‘Your reports will be forwarded to me.’

  ‘All this secrecy... is it truly necessary?’

  I just saw the queen murdered. What do you think? Oskane raised his glass. ‘To Chalcedonia, and the church curbing the worst of the king’s excesses.’

  Edorne took another sip. ‘You can trust me.’

  He could. Because Franto had appointed an agent to report on the new high priest.

  Oskane put his wine down unfinished. ‘I must go.’

  ‘It’s mid-afternoon. Surely it would make more sense to leave early tomorrow?’

  Oskane shook his head. The longer he stayed, the more chance someone would discover the infant and want to know what he was doing with a newborn. The more chance Nitzel would decide one of his trusted servants was a better choice to train the king’s half-blood son. Forcing down his impatience, Oskane gestured to the map of Chalcedonia and the many islands off the coast. ‘I have a hankering to live on an island.’

  He was going inland and south.

  ‘Very well.’ Edorne came to his feet and opened his arms for a parting embrace. ‘I will miss you, Uncle.’

  Bless him, he meant it. Oskane felt tears burn his eyes and was surprised by the depth of his reaction. As he pulled away from the embrace, he wondered if he was doing the right thing by his nephew. But there was no time for doubts.

  When he entered his private chambers, he found a raddled female fingering the rich brocade of his formal robe. The wet-nurse? Was this the best Franto could do? The smell of her made him wrinkle his nose. ‘Don’t touch that.’

  She jumped and snatched her hand back. ‘I didn’t hear you–’

  ‘Obviously. If the babe wakes, keep him quiet. Sit there and do not move.’ He pointed at the velvet stool where he sat each morning while Franto washed and oiled his feet. Surely she was too old to be a mother? ‘You are a wet-nurse? You can feed him?’

  She nodded and went to unlace her undershirt.

  ‘No need for that,’ he said hastily then strode back through the hangings to the outer chamber to find Franto and complain. But his servant had six penitents lined up. There was a cripple, and a boy of seven, and the other four were all over forty. ‘These are our servants?’

  ‘You want them to agree to leave the port, leave their families and sign on to serve for seventeen years,’ his assistant said. ‘This is what you get.’

  Oskane sighed and gestured to the penitents. ‘Kneel.’

  They sank to their knees and lifted their faces. He went to each one and said the words, then stepped back. ‘Now sign your names, or make your mark, and your souls will be saved.’

  ‘Even if we die before our times have been served?’ one asked. He had a conniving cast to his features, and Oskane didn’t want to think what he had done before becoming a penitent.

  ‘That will make no difference.’ Because, unless the gods proved otherwise, there was no next world. ‘Fetch your bundles and meet us in the courtyard before the next prayer bells.’

  They gave the obeisance and left.

  Oskane rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘We are packed?’

  ‘Yes. Your clothes–’

  ‘My research papers?’

  Franto nodded. ‘Everything’s ready.’

  ‘Then there’s no reason to delay.’ The sooner he was out of the port, the sooner he’d feel safe.

  The baby gave a tentative cry.

  ‘That...’ Oskane searched for the right word to describe the wet-nurse. ‘That–’

  ‘...whore was all I could find.’

  ‘You offered gold.’

  ‘Coppers. If I’d offered gold in the street where I found her, I would not have lived long.’

  Oskane shuddered. Nothing about this journey was going to plan. ‘Does she know about–’

  A screech cut him off. Oskane darted towards the hangings, but the whore met him halfway.

  She thrust the baby towards him. ‘A half-blood? You expect me to suckle a filthy copperhead?’

  He had not thought she would be so particular. Seeing her outraged expression, he bit his tongue.

  ‘I’m a True-woman, not some tainted half-blood bitch. Here...’ She thrust the baby into his arms. ‘Keep your brat, Wyrd-lover!’

  Oskane realised what she meant with a start of surprise. ‘He’s not my child.’

  She sent him a withering look and held out her hand, palm up.

  He looked at it uncertainly.

  She rubbed her finger and thumb together. ‘For my silence.’

  ‘Take this.’ Franto dropped a small purse into her hand. ‘And consider yourself lucky.’

  She peered into the purse eagerly. Her face fell. ‘The high priest can afford better than this.’

  ‘Would you rather I cut out your tongue to ensure your silence?’ Franto asked.

  She blanched. She believed him. So did Oskane.

  As the whore flounced out, Oskane flushed. Franto had entered the church as a nineteen-year-old penitent. Rather than serving a year and a day to win favour with the gods or absolve his sin, he had chosen to stay. Oskane had never asked why, although he had gathered from things his servant let slip that Franto’s background was very different from his own.

  The baby wailed in earnest.

  They couldn’t take him out into the courtyard like this. Oskane offered his knuckle, but the infant rejected it after two sucks with an even more indignant cry.

  ‘Wait here.’ Franto disappeared.

  Stomach churning, nerves on edge, Oskane paced while the infant writhed and screamed. He tried changing the baby, then re-wrapping him, tucking his arms and legs in tight as the midwife had recommended. That did not help. He felt helpless as he held the small bundle.

  Surely the whole church, with its many priests in their little cubicles, must be able to hear the newborn’s piercing cries? So much for secrecy. And he still had to get out of the port.

  After an age, Franto returned, took the infant from him and offered the babe a rag dipped in a bowl of milky mixture.

  The change was instantaneous, from screaming despot to serious suckling. Oskane heaved a sigh of relief, his ears hu
mming in the sudden silence. ‘Goat’s milk?’

  Franto nodded. ‘With a little honey and brandy to knock him out.’

  Oskane gasped. ‘Should you–’

  ‘It’s what the mothers used to give their babies to make them sleep while they worked.’

  Oskane did not want to ask what kind of work those mothers did, or how Franto knew where to look for whores. ‘If you can care for him tonight, we’ll find another wet-nurse tomorrow on the road. Some fine healthy farm girl.’

  ‘One night is my limit,’ Franto agreed. ‘Caring for an infant isn’t as simple as slipping into the crypts to steal the Wyrd scrolls.’

  ‘They’re safe on the–’

  ‘Everything’s ready.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’

  ‘As soon as this settles him. I’ll hide him in the food basket.’

  In the time it took to feed and settle the infant, Oskane wrote one last thing and sealed it with his official seal. It was a confession of his part in hiding the circumstances of King Charald’s birth. He would leave it with his agent at Enlightenment Abbey as insurance. On its own, it would not be enough to bring the king down, but it could be used to cast doubts on the legitimacy of Charald’s claim to the throne, which meant it could be used to cloud the legitimacy of any heirs he produced through Nitzel’s daughter. And it would strengthen his own cousin’s claim on the throne.

  A little later, they climbed into the cart and tucked the baby under the seat. With the back of the cart a jumble of belongings and penitents, they left by the delivery gate of the Father’s great church, where their departure was hidden amidst the comings and goings.

  Time had gotten away from them, and the light faded fast as they headed for the port’s eastern gate. Franto drove the cart, while Oskane rode beside him, wearing the simple robe of a scholarly priest.

  As they rattled down one street and up another, he watched the passers-by, on the lookout for Nitzel’s spies or guards, but he couldn’t pick them out – in his current mood, everyone appeared suspicious.

  He felt out of his element, adrift and vulnerable. He was used to being high priest of the Father’s greatest church, leader of the Seven. Now he was just a priest with a handful of servants and a half-blood brat, and he discovered he did not like feeling so powerless.

  The jolting of the cart made his bones ache. He was too old to start all over again.

  They came to the three-ways. On their right the road went east towards the gate and Chalcedonia. Straight ahead it continued on to the merchant district. On their left the road went down to the docks, where one T’En sisterhood and two brotherhoods had warehouses. If he told Franto to turn left, they could leave the baby on the doorstep of one of those warehouses. He could ride off knowing the boy was safe, find a quiet corner and live out his days without fear of Nitzel plotting against him.

  He put his hand on Franto’s arm.

  The little man hesitated at the entrance to the three-ways. No breeze blew in from the harbour this evening, and the pall from so many chimneys made it hard to see even to the far side of the intersection.

  Once he had been driven by ambition, believed in hollow gods and served a king who turned out to be an unpredictable bully. Now, he was an old priest seeking to restore his family’s position. He was tired.

  Behind them, someone shouted for them to get a move on.

  He thought of Sorna, and he found the strength to gesture towards the city gate.

  There it was ahead, a dark tunnel behind the guards who stood in the glow of two lanterns, one to each side. Were they in Nitzel’s pay?

  Apparently not. They waved the cart through.

  In the confined space of the gate tunnel, the rattling of the cart’s wheels echoed off the walls, obscenely loud. Two shadows detached from the wall and caught the horses’ bridles.

  Oskane went to cry for help, but the youths pushed back their hoods and he recognised his cousin’s sons.

  ‘Uncle Oskane, it is me, Aranxto,’ the eldest said.

  ‘Lower your voice.’ Oskane beckoned them closer. ‘What is it?’

  The youths, aged nineteen and seventeen, came to the side of the cart.

  ‘Uncle, I fear for Sorna. Father’s heading home tomorrow. I thought you would watch over her,’ Aranxto said. ‘Then I heard you were also leaving–’

  ‘Aranxto.’ If Oskane told the truth, his cousin’s sons would get themselves killed, and that wouldn’t help Sorna or their family. At least the boys had some spine, unlike their father. ‘I’m afraid you two must prepare yourself for the worst. Sorna’s dead. I said the words commending her soul to the Mother.’

  Aranxto’s mouth fell open and he took a step back, shaking his head. The younger one turned to Oskane, frowning intently.

  ‘Take your brother and go home with your father for now,’ Oskane told Aranxto.

  ‘But–’

  ‘Go home while you still can. Nitzel’s family is rising, and he will seek to destroy ours. Don’t play into his hands. We must bide our time. If we move too soon, we lose everything. Do you understand?’

  He looked like he might argue, but the younger took his arm, whispering to him.

  ‘Listen to Matxin,’ Oskane said. He performed the sign of the Seven, and Aranxto yielded to his authority, backing away.

  ‘But how will we contact you?’ Matxin asked.

  ‘I will contact you,’ Oskane told them. He nudged Franto, who urged the horses on.

  Another moment and they were through.

  ‘Leaving it late to start a journey?’ one of the gate guards said as they trundled into the moonlight. Before them stretched the road, a pale ribbon between winter-bare fields.

  ‘Better late than never,’ Franto said.

  Chapter Seven

  VITTORYXE WAS TIRED from the strain of the ceremony on the bridge and a long day in the saddle, but she drove herself on. If Egrayne could walk the camp perimeter before turning in, then so could she. A single Malaunje warrior was on watch by the ford, hidden in the shadow of a tree.

  ‘Good spot,’ he said. ‘Water and shelter from the wind.’

  ‘We were lucky to find it free of Mieren.’ Luck had nothing to do with it. She’d scouted ahead, taking the lead from Egrayne again. The gift-warrior’s reaction intrigued her. She couldn’t tell if Egrayne resented being bettered or was amused by their rivalry. The sooner they were lovers and she’d won Egrayne’s trust, the better.

  Lovers let down their guards. Lovers said things... She would find something to hold over the gift-warrior and ensure her silence.

  Vittoryxe left the Malaunje and turned uphill. Travelling always unsettled her. It was impossible to keep the proper distance between T’En and Malaunje.

  Behind her, the water chattered happily over the shallow ford. Ahead of her, protected from the wind by the deep stream banks, the trees still retained most of their leaves. It was dark beneath the canopy, except where the silvery light of the near-full moons speared through.

  Enough leaves had fallen for her boots to stir them as she climbed, making a quiet approach impossible. Good. No one would be able to creep up on them. Vittoryxe reached the spot where Arodyti should have been. Empty.

  Where was she? The young initiate fancied herself a warrior, but if she could not follow orders...

  ‘There you are,’ Arodyti greeted her, slightly out of breath as she skidded down the slope. She’d come from beyond a fold in the river bank, probably answering a call of nature, but even so...

  ‘You left your post. We have a newborn and a lad struggling with his gift. Your duty–’

  ‘Come, look what I found.’

  ‘I’m not going off on some wild goose chase. I have to check the camp sentries.’

  ‘It’s a tree–’

  ‘I’ve seen trees.’

  ‘Not like this one. Its branches are all twisted. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘This is your first time out of the Celestial City. There is much you’ve
never seen.’

  ‘I think–’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to think. I asked you to keep watch. Stay at your post.’ Vittoryxe headed further up the rise. ‘And mind you don’t doze off.’

  ‘I wouldn’t...’

  Vittoryxe ignored her and kept walking. One more sentry. He was perched up a tree, watching the road.

  ‘First sign of approaching Mieren, you warn us,’ Vittoryxe said. The thought of sleeping near their ancestral enemy made her uncomfortable. ‘We claimed this camp site, and we’re not moving.’

  She didn’t really expect him to see Mieren this close to season’s cusp, when the walls between the earthly plane and the higher empyrean plane were at their weakest.

  Leaving the sentry, Vittoryxe headed downhill. It was steep here, and she was in a hurry. Her boots slipped in the leaf litter. Before she could fall, a strong hand caught her arm, setting her back on her feet.

  ‘Egrayne.’ She reached out to steady herself and let her gift surge so that Egrayne would get a taste of it. ‘Thank you.’

  The warrior sucked in a breath and stepped back into shadow. Vittoryxe wished she had the raedan gift so she could read her. If she could perceive the nuances of people’s feelings, she could manipulate them. Then it would be easy to cajole and threaten her way to become the sisterhood’s all-mother. But the last raedan died over two hundred years ago.

  ‘Everything good?’ the gift-warrior asked.

  ‘Fine.’ She didn’t bother to mention Arodyti’s tree. Foolish girl. Before this excursion, all the initiate had ever seen were topiary trees in pots and the sculpted trees of the city’s park.

  Egrayne stifled a yawn. ‘I’m for bed.’

  ‘Me too.’

  They both clambered down the slope to the spot by the river where two tents had been erected for the T’En. The Malaunje would sleep in the open. Both initiates were on watch; that meant she and Egrayne had the tent to themselves. Perfect.

  Already planning her moves, Vittoryxe didn’t notice anything as they passed the gift-tutor’s tent.

  But Egrayne paused, chin lifted eyes narrowed. ‘I sense–’

  ‘Male gift?’ Vittoryxe opened her senses to confirm it. ‘The lad, Graelen.’ The one they’d taken from the winery; the one the gift-tutor had been sent to test. ‘I sensed it on him when we were riding.’