Besieged (The Outcast Chronicles)

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  That Imoshen would never have given up, and she was still that Imoshen. A shiver passed over her body, rousing her gift. Even though he sat across from her, she felt student-he react, his power rising in answer to hers.

  It was as if she had been asleep for eight and a half years, and was finally waking up. A strange euphoria filled her.

  It was still there when the lesson ended, and they made their way to the foyer.

  ‘You seemed distracted today, student-she. I’m sorry if I offended you.’

  ‘No. What you said was true. It is cowardly to run away from the city.’

  ‘Your... your honesty is disarming.’

  Imoshen thought about it. ‘If we are not honest with ourselves, then we do ourselves and others a disservice.’

  He gestured to her Mieren cloak. ‘Says student-she, who denies her identity and her race.’

  They forced me to become this person. To save my choice-son and my devotee, they forced me to execute my father. Now the brotherhoods hate me. But she didn’t say this. Instead, she took her Mieren cloak from the hook and settled it on her shoulders.

  Then she turned to him. ‘When we are out there, the city and everything that it entails gets in the way. When we are here, it is you and me. Is that enough for now?’

  Even as the words left her mouth, she realised she was asking much more than the promise he would not try to find out who she was.

  She saw him swallow and felt his gift surge. Instead of the fear she had come to associate with men’s gifts, she felt drawn to his power and to him. Perhaps Vittoryxe was right. Perhaps she was addicted to the male gift.

  ‘You are as secretive as the Sagoras, student-she. But...’ He reached out to fasten the clasp of the Mieren cloak under her chin.

  She brushed his hands away. ‘I can do up my own–’

  ‘Of course you can.’ He pulled her close and kissed her.

  Imoshen’s gift surged. She let it, felt the moment it meshed with his, felt him ignite.

  Shaken, he let her go and stepped back. He took another step and his shoulders hit the wall. He seemed as surprised as she was.

  He left her without a word.

  SORNE LEFT THE message in the wine cellar, along with the borrowed robe, then made his way back to the palace. He had timed the message’s delivery so that he could not meet the adept tomorrow.

  Tomorrow they would ride out to the holy site, where he would perform for King Charald’s barons and the church leaders. To think, after eight years of this, he had to prove himself all over again. He might die tomorrow night, but if he didn’t...

  With this offering, he would be more powerful than any other priest in all of Chalcedonia, even the Father’s-voice, since Zabier’s visions weren’t real.

  His brother was barely speaking to him. He had taken it as a personal insult that Hiruna had told Sorne about her illness and not him. Valendia had retreated into her music. The only truly happy person was King Charald; it turned out one of the barons had a daughter of marriageable age, and she was just his type.

  Sorne felt sorry for the girl, who would not be sixteen until midsummer. She and her father had been invited to the ceremony. Charald had made it clear he expected Sorne to get the Warrior’s blessing for what he intended to do.

  An altercation made Sorne look up.

  At the next intersection, the driver of a carriage was arguing with a carter about right of way. As Sorne stepped around the carriage, someone came out of a shop’s doorway, grabbed him and bundled him into the vehicle.

  He recognised the adept’s gift even before the door closed and the carriage started moving, rattling over the cobbles.

  ‘So the Father’s-voice knows nothing of these sacrifices?’ Graelen said, gesturing with the message Sorne had left. ‘And you ride off to put yourself in harm’s way tomorrow.’

  ‘Using a T’En artefact.’

  ‘Is it a braid, like this?’ The adept gestured to his own hair, his eyes glittered with anger. ‘Do you see any T’En walking around with short hair? Or is it a pendant made of little finger bones?’

  ‘I didn’t kill the T’En these artefacts came from. Some of them are hundreds of years old.’

  ‘But the ones with the most gift residue are recent, aren’t they? No, you don’t kill or rob a T’En to get the artefact, but someone does.’

  ‘I’ve done what I said I would. Only the Father’s-voice speaks with the gods, and Zabier was deeply offended when I asked about the sacrifices. It’s just a rumour, like the terrible things they told me about Wyrds, when I was growing up. Unless there’s a splinter group of priests ambitious for power.’

  The carriage came to a stop. Sorne tried for the door.

  Graelen caught his hand, crushing it on the handle. ‘I’m not done with you yet.’

  Short of drawing his sword in the confines of the carriage, there was not a lot Sorne could do. He did not want to head-butt the adept.

  ‘So you’ll risk death to impress King Charald’s barons. I hear one of them ran off with his wife-to-be.’

  Sorne winced. If the adept had heard it, then likely the king would know the truth soon. ‘Charald has his eye on another baron’s daughter.’

  ‘What will this make, queen number three? And if he tires of her, will you murder her, like you killed the second queen? Was that revenge for your own mother?’

  ‘Your spies don’t know everything.’

  ‘I know you went to the Mother’s abbey and came back with proof of a woman’s death.’

  ‘She isn’t dead.’ Sorne stopped trying to turn the handle and sat back. Graelen let him go. ‘Baron Nitzane was reunited with his mother. A nameless nun lies buried in the queen’s grave. So the king is free to marry where he chooses. And tomorrow night, Charald expects the Warrior to send me a vision supporting his choice of wife.’

  ‘Can’t you just say you’ve had a vision? Do you have to through this whole–’

  ‘Offering? Yes. They want to see the artefact glow and disappear in a flash of light.’

  ‘There are beasts on the empyrean plane so powerful a braid with residual gift essence is not going to satisfy them.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Yet you do it anyway.’

  Sorne did not speak.

  ‘Do you have a powerful T’En artefact?’

  ‘I have three to choose from. They’re all of equal strength. I’ll make the one I select more enticing by rubbing my blood on it. That helps to...’ He sat up. ‘What are you doing?’

  The adept produced a silver chain, holding a heavy silver disk. Without answering, he grasped the disk in his hands, closed his eyes and concentrated. Sorne could feel the build-up of power.

  Sounds became strange and distorted, and scents grew more powerful... His skin prickled.

  ‘There.’ The adept exhaled and opened his eyes. ‘That should do it.’ Graelen hung the chain around Sorne’s neck, tucking the silver disk inside his robe. ‘Use that. It’s freshly gift-infused. Plenty of power.’

  Sorne could feel the power leaching into his skin, making him feel invincible. Was this how the T’En felt all the time? No wonder they were so arrogant. ‘Why help me?’

  ‘You know why.’

  ‘I’m not a tame Malaunje.’

  The adept smiled. ‘Exactly.’

  At that moment, the carriage ground to a stop. Sorne didn’t know whether he was disappointed or relieved.

  The door swung open, revealing Harosel. Sorne could see a courtyard behind him.

  ‘It’s safe to get out here,’ Harosel said. ‘You’re only one block from the palace.’

  Sorne touched his chest, where the silver disk sat, pulsing with power. He tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry.

  Graelen nodded and Sorne stepped out of the carriage. Harosel took his arm and led him to the end of the lane. ‘That way.’

  ‘Who... who is he?’

  ‘Graelen? He’s the brotherhood’s greatest assassin.’

  Sorne’
s head filled with white noise.

  He found he was walking across the plaza, passing True-men and -women with no memory of leaving the lane.

  An assassin. Twice, the adept could have killed him.

  But he didn’t want to kill him; he wanted to rob him of his freedom.

  When Sorne entered the palace, he heard shouting from the king’s greeting chamber and saw Zabier walking swiftly towards him.

  ‘He knows it was Nitzane who took Marantza,’ Zabier reported. ‘They’ve been sighted at one of his estates.’

  Sorne glanced down the corridor. A servant hastily backed out of the room, followed by a tray that flew through the air and hit the wall with a clang. Sorne grimaced and turned to Zabier. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to take part in the ceremony tomorrow? All the church leaders and the barons, old and new, will be there. I don’t mind sharing the stage with the Father’s-voice.’

  ‘No. You do it. The church officials have to see the Warrior’s-voice in action. Have you decided which artefact to use?’

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say he did not need one but the addict in him surfaced and he found himself saying, ‘The matching silver arm-torcs.’

  ‘Good choice. I’ll have them packed.’

  ‘Did you find out where Barons Bazajaun and Ferminzto went?’

  ‘They’re in Navarone, stirring up trouble. Why?’

  He was about to tell him they had taken trophies from the she-Wyrd’s body, all those years ago, but a female servant ran past them, weeping.

  ‘I should go,’ Sorne said. It was the longest conversation he’d had with Zabier since he’d missed Valendia’s birthday. ‘How’s Mother?’

  ‘She’s fine. The healer says he can cure her. It’ll be expensive, but I can manage. He’s started her on a potion of crushed mother-of-pearl and gold dust in white wine.’

  ‘Are you sure he knows what he’s doing?’

  Zabier bristled. ‘He’s the best healer in all of Chalcedonia.’

  ‘I thought the Wyrds had a healer in–’

  ‘No Cesspit City Wyrd is touching her. She’s my mother and I’ll take care of her.’

  Several servants spotted Sorne and came running.

  ‘You’re needed.’ Zabier slipped away as the servants all but dragged Sorne down the corridor and shoved him into the king’s chamber.

  ‘The ungrateful...’ King Charald stopped mid-tirade, spotting Sorne in the doorway. ‘Did you hear about Nitzane?’

  ‘A masterly stroke, sire,’ Sorne said. ‘By encouraging the baron to run off with Marantza, you’ve kept her from the enemy barons and freed yourself from the duty of marrying that bean-pole of a woman. Now, all you have to do is plant a baby in the belly of Baron Janzten’s daughter and...’

  ‘Janzten thinks she’s too young for me.’

  Sorne thought so too, but he wasn’t foolish enough to say it. ‘Have you eaten, sire? Call the barons in, toast Nitzane and Marantza, make it clear they’ve done exactly what you wanted them to do.’

  ‘Good idea. Organise it. Then come back here. Norholtz is having trouble with the Maygharians. I should send you there to advise him. You have a fine head for strategy.’

  It was the closest the king had come to praising Sorne, but he didn’t want to leave Chalcedonia, not when he’d only just come home.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  SORNE CLIMBED THE path that circled the pinnacle, followed by Captain Aintzo and three of his holy-swords. The spire of black rock was the height of a six-storey tower; each turn of the path took them another storey higher.

  Eight years ago, while crossing Chalcedonia, Sorne had peeped out of the closed-cart and seen this pinnacle, or one similar: great spires of rock that rose out of the rich, rolling countryside. Straight and tall, it was almost as if they were constructed, rather than natural. When the sun struck the sheer rock, they shone like black glass. Trees and bushes clung to the crevices. Some of the pinnacles were unclimbable. On this one, stairs had been cut, following the natural crevices or carved into the sheer rock. He was lucky he didn’t suffer from a fear of falling.

  According to Zabier, it was possible to reach the gods on the pinnacle’s flat top any time of the year. That did not reassure Sorne; he touched his mother’s torc, where it lay just below the hollow of his throat. The blue stone’s glow would tell him when empyrean beasts were present. Under his robe, over the centre of his breastbone, lay the silver disk. He had placed a vest between it and his skin, because he wanted the power to last. Even so, he could still feel it pulsing softly. Every time he thought of it, he felt a mixture of longing and self-contempt.

  One thing was clear; deliberate gift-infusion was much more powerful than residual gift essence.

  He was puffing slightly when he reached the top of the pinnacle. It was almost flat, with a dip on the far side.

  From up here, he could see the sun setting far away beyond the sea. But it wasn’t until he went right to the edge that he could see the field below the pinnacle, where Charald had pitched their tents. They would spend the night there, drinking and celebrating his betrothal.

  As Sorne watched, another baron rode in with a party of followers. His men began unloading the carts while he and his good wife made their way to see the king. Even from up here, Sorne recognised Marantza’s tall frame, and he was glad to see that Charald had taken his advice and invited them to the ceremony, which had been delayed to allow them to travel.

  ‘Where do we set up, Warrior’s-voice?’

  Sorne returned to his holy-swords. ‘Put the table here, about halfway. The barons and officials will stand back there.’

  He had chosen these four True-men because they had been with him when he had his last vision and knew what to expect. Tonight he would impress the barons and church leaders, and consolidate his place in Chalcedonia as King Charald’s advisor. He wished Izteben could be here.

  Reminded of how his brother had died, Sorne ran through the process of the ritual one last time. He drew the knife Oskane had given him. ‘I’ll prick my skin and rub blood on the sacrifice. Where is it?’

  ‘Here.’ Captain Aintzo opened the small, lead-lined chest to reveal two silver arm-torcs. They had been tied together on the end of a long silk scarf.

  Sorne could feel their residual gift essence. It was weak compared with the silver disk, but once he added his blood it would be enough.

  ‘Good, put the chest here.’ Sorne indicated the table. ‘When I feel the Warrior’s presence, I’ll make the offering. Don’t get between me and the god. His touch will send you mad, or he may take you in place of the offering. Am I clear?’

  They all looked suitably solemn. He wondered if he should add anything more to impress them with the danger of the ritual, but they already seemed tense enough. He glanced at the setting sun, trying to judge how long they had until full dark.

  ‘You go down and start escorting them up. I’ll stay here and meditate.’

  He needed time to come up with a suitable vision that would reconcile Baron Janzten with the idea of giving his daughter to King Charald. As far as Charald was concerned, he didn’t see why winning the king’s favour wasn’t enough for Janzten. There were half a dozen barons who would have happily pimped their daughters as the king’s mistress, let alone his wife, to win Charald’s favour.

  Sorne shook his head. Charald just happened to have taken a fancy to the daughter of the one principled baron in Chalcedonia.

  As he sat and contemplated his vision, he thought of Izteben and whether Chalcedonia would have been different had he lived.

  What had Sorne achieved?

  He’d been behind the conquering of five kingdoms and the reclamation of a sixth. He personally held a position of power, but Valendia had spent her childhood hidden from the sight of True-men, and his kind were no closer to being accepted. He could not change men’s hearts and minds unless they wanted to change.

  Izteben was right, to effect true change you first needed to attain power, bu
t if you became too powerful it could promote more fear.

  Sorne was no closer to a solution, when he heard voices. His holy-swords were escorting the barons and church leaders up the stairs. Sorne retreated to the top of the pinnacle and readied himself. As the dignitaries kept arriving, he grew uneasy. There were so many of them. What if the empyrean beast charged him and people scattered? They could fall to their deaths. He spotted Zabier and tried to get his attention, but the Father’s-voice was distracted by one of the arrivals and didn’t see him.

  More and more people arrived, shuffling forward until these in the front row reached his table. A southern baron went to pick up his ceremonial knife and Sorne hastily retrieved it. He beckoned Captain Aintzo, who appeared as nervous as he felt. ‘Watch the table. I’ll be back in a moment.’

  Sorne wanted to cancel the offering and stage it in a safer place, or at least with fewer people. If he could get the Father’s-voice to back him, the king might agree. Finding King Charald wasn’t hard; his big voice boomed out. It was getting through the crowd who were gathered around him that was a struggle. Sorne discovered Baron Janzten and his daughter, Jaraile, with the king, as well as Nitzane and Marantza, but no sign of Zabier. There he was, several rows back, trying to get to the front.

  Charald caught sight of Sorne. ‘Here’s the Warrior’s-voice. Are we ready to start?’ He nudged Jaraile’s father. ‘After this, Janzten, you will never doubt I have the Warrior’s favour.’ And he pulled Jaraile close to plant a kiss on her lips.

  ‘Sire–’

  ‘That’s pretty,’ Jaraile said. She reached up to Sorne’s throat where his mother’s torc was glowing, which meant...

  Sorne spun around, thrusting through the crowd. What was going on? He had not even started the ceremony.

  Captain Aintzo stood next to the table with two of Sorne’s holy-swords. The third had taken a bowl down to the far end and appeared to be dipping a brush in it and sprinkling the contents on the ground.

  This wasn’t part of the ceremony.

  As Sorne watched in disbelief, the liquid hit the ground and sizzled, and a growing darkness blotted out the evening stars behind the holy-sword.