Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘The she-Wyrd says the... gods’ – beasts was what she’d said – ‘are always hungry for T’En or Malaunje blood. So we have to be very careful. I’ll keep well back and throw the artefact towards it.’

  ‘And then you’ll have your vision. It needs to be a useful vision for us. How does sending the king across the Secluded Sea to wage a war undermine Baron Nitzel?’

  ‘The king takes the army, leaving Nitzel as regent. Cedon won’t be fifteen for another two years. Oskane returns to the court. Next thing you know, Nitzel catches a chill and dies.’

  ‘Murder?’ Izteben baulked.

  ‘Nitzel poisoned Oskane’s nephew.’ And my mother. Every chance he missed to say it made it harder.

  ‘What is it, boys?’ Franto called from the courtyard. Izteben’s brother was with him again. Since Zabier’s return, Oskane’s assistant had been training him. Sorne suspected the True-men were trying to separate Zabier from them. Or maybe they saw his potential, and were giving him a chance of a higher station in life, one that did not include living with half-bloods.

  ‘King Charald is coming,’ Izteben called.

  Zabier and Franto headed for the steps, where the boy easily outdistanced the old man.

  Zabier leant over the wall-walk. ‘There’s twenty riders and a closed cart.’

  Franto puffed as he reached the wall-walk and leant over to have a look. ‘Hmm, even with the cart in tow, the king rides. If he can spend all day in the saddle, he’s doing well for a man of forty-four. Come along, boys. We’ll get you cleaned up.’ He nudged Zabier. ‘Let Hiruna know the king is arriving.’

  Sorne looked up to see Scholar Oskane watching them from his study. Surely now the scholar would reveal his true identity? With his royal father at the gate, how could he not?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  OSKANE HEARD THE excited shouts. The king’s arrival must be imminent. A mixture of satisfaction and trepidation filled him; the moment had arrived. Sorne’s ability to seek out the Seven made all the years of scourging and disciplined study worthwhile.

  Oskane went to the window of his office. ‘Franto, prepare to welcome the king,’ he called. ‘Send Sorne up here.’

  The season’s delay had been well-spent. He’d ordered material: serviceable cotton for the servants, good brocade for himself and plain black for the two holy warriors.

  Going into his private chamber, Oskane stripped. Then he opened the chest, dressing in his new white breeches and a calf-length undershirt. He draped the brocade robe over his shoulders, and settled the stiff cap on his head. Immediately, he stood taller. Strange how clothes made a man feel the part.

  ‘Scholar Oskane?’ Sorne spoke from the study.

  ‘In here.’ Oskane unpacked the two sets of breeches and thigh-length shirts. ‘Put yours on. Braid your hair and wear this cap.’ It was an acolyte’s cap and would hide his hair colour, but he could do nothing about the Wyrd eyes and extra fingers. ‘There’s a set for Izteben as well.’

  Sorne did as he was told, tying the cap under his chin. Oskane tried to look at him as if for the first time, but he knew the youth too well. ‘Before you go, I have something important to tell you.’

  Sorne raised his face to Oskane, mulberry eyes glistening with excitement.

  ‘You are not the son of a carpenter. You are King Charald’s half-blood son,’ Oskane said, then waited for Sorne to react.

  The youth nodded. ‘The Warrior told me.’

  ‘What?’ Oskane’s knees went weak and he sat on the bed. ‘You knew? Why didn’t you say something?’

  Sorne shrugged. ‘The Warrior showed me a silver neck band.’ He held up his hands. ‘About so big, with a blue stone in the centre. He said it would be given to me when the time was right.’

  ‘And so it shall.’ Oskane went to the chest, found Sorna’s torc and unwrapped it.

  ‘That’s it,’ Sorne said, as if pleased to be proven right.

  ‘Wear it,’ Oskane told him. ‘It was your real mother’s. You’ve heard me mention Baron Nitzel?’

  Sorne nodded, concentrating on trying to do the catch behind his neck.

  ‘Turn around.’ Oskane fastened the torc, then turned the youth around to face him. Sorne was half a head taller; easily as tall as his father. ‘This will be hard to hear, lad. Your mother was murdered by Baron Nitzel. He–’

  The gate opened, horses entered, hooves clomping on the paving. Men called for the stable boys.

  Oskane had meant to say more, but he’d run out of time. ‘Tomorrow evening, we will go down the mine. The vision you have there will decide our futures. If we are to take revenge on the man who killed your mother, we must go back to court, and to do that, we must impress King Charald. Do you understand me? Nothing can go wrong.’

  Sorne nodded and picked up Izteben’s clothes.

  ‘Very well.’ Oskane escorted him out of the bedroom.

  And there was the carpenter’s son. From his stunned expression, he’d overheard everything. His gaze went to the torc around Sorne’s neck, visible evidence of the gulf between them.

  ‘Get dressed,’ Oskane said, but neither half-blood moved.

  Oskane took the clothes from Sorne’s unresisting hands. Izteben accepted them automatically. ‘Go get dressed.’

  The deep voices of King Charald and his men echoed up from the courtyard.

  Izteben turned on his heel and left.

  Sorne would have followed, but Oskane caught his arm.

  ‘Let him go. You are about to start a new stage of your life. Time to leave the past behind. Come, the king is waiting.’

  And he led Sorne down the stairs, going as fast as his bad knees allowed.

  As they stepped out into the sunshine, Oskane looked across to see around twenty men unloading their saddle bags. About a dozen were men-at-arms, the rest influential barons, no doubt warned by Nitzel to beware of trickery.

  But this time, Nitzel would be the one who backed down.

  The biggest of the True-men turned around. Seventeen years... Charald had aged well.

  ‘Oska!’ The king strode towards him, grinning. His smiles had always been charming; it was his temper you had to watch. ‘When did you get so old and ugly?’

  ‘My king.’ Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them away. ‘You look as fit as ever.’

  Charald laughed and pulled him into a hug.

  As the king drew back, he looked past Oskane to Sorne.

  ‘That’s him?’ Charald whispered. ‘The Warrior’s voice?’

  Oskane glanced over his shoulder and saw the half-blood hastily lower his eyes, as he’d been taught. ‘Sorne, this is–’

  ‘...the half-blood you’ve been training all these years?’ a familiar, hated voice asked.

  Oskane turned to see Baron Nitzel approaching.

  But this time, Oskane had the upperhand. He smiled, relishing the chance to confront his old rival.

  ‘Prince Cedon, come along.’ Nitzel beckoned a skinny youth with pale hair and equally pale eyes. The king’s heir was shorter than Zabier and slighter of build. He swaggered over, draped in finery even more ornate than the king’s.

  Oskane felt Sorne stiffen beside him; he should have warned him the prince might come.

  ‘So this is the half-blood who has visions from the Seven,’ Nitzel said, mocking laughter in his eyes. Clearly, he thought Oskane had hoodwinked the king.

  ‘The Warrior has spoken,’ Oskane said with dignity. ‘As you will see–’

  ‘Oh, we will see, all right.’ Nitzel’s gaze rested on Sorne for a moment. ‘We will all see how things really are.’

  ‘Enough, Nitzel,’ the king growled. ‘So this is Restoration Retreat.’ Charald spotted Hiruna with Izteben beside her and Valendia in her arms, watching from the open stable door. ‘What’s this? I didn’t expect an entire nest of half-bloods.’

  ‘Strange company you keep,’ Nitzel said.

  Oskane flushed. ‘Someone had to look after the boy’s needs.’

  �
��Who is this half-blood, Father? And why is he dressed like a dark priest?’ Cedon seemed tired as he joined the king. Next to Charald, it was clear Cedon took after Nitzel – small and slight, with none of the energy that drew every eye to the king. In his over-elaborate clothing, he seemed ridiculous. He looked Sorne up and down, then dismissed him. ‘You promised me a vision of the future, Father.’

  ‘And you shall have one. Tomorrow.’ Charald put his arm around the prince, who fitted neatly under his shoulder. ‘But right now we will see an illustration of the first vision. Come, Oskane, show us the drawing.’

  The scholar led Nitzel, Cedon and the king up the steps.

  AS SORNE FOLLOWED them, he was aware of his choice-family watching from the far side of the courtyard, separated from him by the king’s powerful barons and their men-at-arms. He might be Malaunje, but he wasn’t an outcast. Oskane needed him to win over the king and defeat Nitzel.

  ‘So this is the vision?’ Charald was saying, when Sorne entered Oskane’s study. The scholar had pinned the drawing to the wall.

  Charald, Nitzel, Oskane and Sorne’s half-brother – the skinny, pompous little runt – crowded around to inspect the drawing.

  ‘That’s definitely me,’ Charald said. ‘There’s my scar.’

  ‘He wears a helmet with cheek-guards.’ Nitzel pointed out. ‘Almost the only thing we can clearly see is his scarred chin.’

  ‘The Warrior sent this vision, so that the half-blood could be his voice,’ Oskane stated. ‘He sent it in a flash of power that stunned the half-blood, and when he woke up, this is what he’d seen.’

  ‘You saw this flash of power, too?’ Nitzel asked.

  ‘Yes, as you will see for yourselves, tomorrow night when the Warrior returns.’

  ‘If the Warrior returns,’ Nitzel countered.

  Charald laughed. ‘It’s been seventeen years, yet you two still bicker like old women.’ He tapped his finger on the drawing. ‘It’s definitely a port. Do you recognise it, Nitzel?’

  ‘It could be any number of ports along the Secluded Sea.’

  ‘You say my men were cheering?’ Charald asked. But he asked Oskane, not Sorne. No one had so much as glanced in Sorne’s direction since he entered the room.

  ‘They cheered in triumph, my king,’ Oskane confirmed. ‘They cheered you, while the port and the harbour burned.’

  Charald rubbed the scar on his chin. ‘I wish I knew which kingdom–’

  ‘It’s not much of a drawing,’ Cedon sneered. ‘In the palace, the paintings look so real, you could walk into them.’

  Sorne bristled.

  ‘This is a simple ink illustration, my prince. It was not drawn by a trained artist,’ Oskane said.

  ‘What, the half-blood drew it?’ Nitzel asked.

  I’m right here. But Sorne did not speak.

  ‘The Warrior’s-voice,’ Oskane said, applying enough emphasis to make it a title.

  ‘How do you know the half-blood didn’t draw something he’d already seen?’ Nitzel continued.

  Oskane stiffened. ‘He has never left this retreat.’

  ‘You could have described it to him.’

  ‘Enough.’ The king sounded bored. ‘We’ll know tomorrow evening, one way or the other.’ He turned to Oskane. ‘I could do with some wine, and bread and cheese, to hold me until dinner.’

  ‘This way.’

  Oskane led them past Sorne without acknowledging him.

  Not one of them looked at him. Not even Cedon, who only came up to his chin. Sorne’s top lip curled in contempt. If Nitzel was anything to go by, Cedon would not grow any bigger. Not that it mattered; his opinion of himself was big enough.

  Sorne waited until they had entered the dining room, then went down the stairs and across the empty courtyard to the stable.

  The travellers’ horses filled all the available stalls. He and Izteben would be sleeping in the hayloft. He could smell Hiruna’s delicious potato and leek soup but, when he entered the kitchen, he saw that it was Izteben serving up yesterday’s soup and bread to Valendia.

  ‘Where’s...’ Even as he asked, Sorne knew. Hiruna and Zabier would be serving the visitors’ food. Franto had taught her to make some fancy dishes for this occasion.

  Silently, Izteben put a bowl on the table in front of Sorne.

  Izteben sat opposite, mulberry eyes stormy in the candle light. ‘I can’t believe you’ve known all along.’

  ‘I didn’t. I found out the day we went down the mine but, with everything that happened...’ he shrugged.

  ‘So you’ve been laughing at me all this time? Slumming it with the wood-worker’s son!’

  ‘Izteben...’

  ‘Izteben...’ Valendia echoed. She looked from him to Sorne and her bottom lip trembled.

  Sorne pulled her onto his lap and pretended to eat her dinner. She protested and took the spoon, feeding herself.

  He looked up to Izteben, who gave him a reluctant smile.

  ‘I always wondered why Oskane was so hard on you,’ he said. ‘It never seemed fair.’

  ‘I don’t think much of life is fair. I think the deck has been stacked against us half-bloods, and we have to make our own luck.’ Sorne felt his face grow hot. ‘I was there as they looked at the drawing of my vision. Not one of them spoke to me. It was like I didn’t exist.’

  ‘If you’re the king’s eldest son, Nitzel must wish you didn’t exist.’

  ‘A half-blood? I’m no threat.’ Sorne dipped his bread in the soup. Plain fare but hearty, unlike what would be served in the dining room tonight. ‘They’re trying to come between us and Zabier. Oskane and Franto, I mean.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘They’re grooming him to serve the church.’

  Izteben shrugged. ‘What does it matter? We won’t be staying here. Oskane will be powerful again and Zabier will be coming with us. He could have stayed in the village with father’s brother, but he chose to come back, so now he has to make his way in the world. According to Oskane, the church is powerful and independent of the king.’

  Izteben stood and made up a plate of food for the she-Wyrd. ‘Do you want to go, or...’

  ‘I’ll go.’ Sorne slid off the seat, setting Valendia in his place.

  He crossed the courtyard under the maple tree. Through the windows he could see the king and his barons eating and drinking, while Hiruna and Zabier ran about, bringing more wine and taking away plates.

  Watching the high table, Sorne felt sick with jealousy. He should have been there. He was the king’s son, and Oskane’s relative by blood.

  Instead, he went down the dark steps to the cellars.

  The she-Wyrd was waiting for him at the bars of her cell. ‘So the king is dancing to the priest’s tune now?’

  He slid the tray under her door.

  ‘Do you have my button?’

  ‘I didn’t get a chance to make the swap. Besides, I think the gift residue is fading.’

  ‘Depends how the artefact is kept.’ She pulled the tray closer and dipped the bread in the soup. ‘A lead-lined chest will keep it fresh for years. Silver’s good at absorbing power.’

  He watched her eat, meticulous, tidy. How could she bear being imprisoned?

  She looked up. ‘So, you’re going to perform for this True-man king, summon a god and have a vision?’

  ‘I’m going to be powerful.’ He leaned one shoulder against the wall, arms folded across his chest. ‘I’m never going to be a prisoner.’

  ‘You’ve been a prisoner since the day you were born.’

  ‘We’ve been through this before. Am I a prisoner if I know they’re lying to me? Who imprisons who, if I use the lies for my own ends?’

  A chair scraped overhead and a man shouted something, followed by rowdy laughter; the she-Wyrd flinched.

  ‘Are you done?’

  She slid the tray towards him. As he reached under the bars, she caught his hand. ‘Find the key. Let me out tonight.’

  He broke free, annoyed at himsel
f for letting her touch him. ‘I can’t. They’d know who did it.’

  ‘Free me tonight and I’ll take you, your brother and your sister to the T’En. These True-men are using you.’

  He turned to go.

  ‘It isn’t safe,’ she called after him. ‘Don’t risk your life for nothing.’

  But it wasn’t nothing. It was a chance to win the king’s trust and respect; it was a chance to impress his father.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘FINALLY, SOME FOOD,’ Imoshen said, as several Malaunje entered bearing trays. The day seemed to have gone on forever. She was tired, weary beyond belief and worried. The longer the all-mothers debated, the less likely it seemed that they would offer sanctuary.

  The Malaunje placed the food on the low table. When Imoshen thanked them, they gave her an odd look and backed out.

  ‘I don’t think I was supposed to thank them,’ Imoshen said, as she prodded some pretty tarts. She nibbled one before deciding it was safe to give to Iraayel.

  ‘In the brotherhood, the T’En rarely thanked the Malaunje. It was as if we were invisible,’ Frayvia said. ‘I think they’re just curious about you. Everyone will have heard by now. Even the brotherhoods.’

  ‘I thought there was a state of armed truce between the males and females.’

  ‘There is, but the Malaunje mingle. Things are overheard at festivals and ceremonies. And in the free quarter, there are sisterhood shops just around the corner from brotherhood businesses. Messages are passed.’

  Imoshen could hardly eat, but she made sure Iraayel had a good meal. They were used to going to bed with the sun, and Iraayel was tired, so they curled up in front of the fire and sang him to sleep.

  ‘Do you think the all-mother council is finished yet?’ Imoshen whispered. ‘That gift-tutor doesn’t like me. She’s afraid of me, and I don’t know why.’