Without an innate gift and training, the Mieren could not hold their true form on the higher plane. Each shade had reverted to the man’s inner essence, and they appeared as all manner of beasts.
The shades rushed them. Tobazim swung his axe with a precision. Each time he cut a shade, the creature dissolved, unable to hold its essence together. The hungry higher plane did the rest, absorbing the shades’ energy.
A foul squat creature with broad shoulders and slavering teeth came in low and tried to tear out Tobazim’s groin. He sidestepped, smashing its brains out. While he was distracted, something raked his side, clawing him and raising red-hot trails of fire.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Learon hacking at something twice his size: a conglomeration of shades that had banded together with one goal in mind, to avenge their deaths.
A clawed paw swung towards Tobazim’s head. He ducked, then drove the end of the axe up and under his attacker’s jaw. The shade fell back. The impact of its fall shattered it, and another of the creatures along with it.
Fear kept Tobazim moving. With every wound they leaked power. If he and Learon received too many injuries, they would not be able to hold themselves together. They would be absorbed, leaving their bodies nothing but husks on the earthly plane.
Claws and teeth sought to break his skin. Each time he shattered a head or broke a spine, the shade collapsed and was absorbed.
Something the size of a small pony leapt in from the side, knocking him off his feet. The axe flew from his hands, and he felt the greedy earth soak up the power he’d used to form the weapon, leaving him diminished. Vicious jaws opened and lunged for him. Weakened by the loss, Tobazim fought to keep the creature’s massive maw from closing on his head.
Learon caught the creature around the neck and hauled it away. Tobazim sprang to his feet, formed a hunting knife, and gutted it.
The creature dissolved, and Tobazim realised it had been the last of the shades. Learon’s body leaked bright power in several places. His choice-brother gestured to Tobazim’s chest and he looked down to see a wound. They should heal these injuries on the empyrean plane, or else they would carry them across to their physical bodies, but he was exhausted... staggering, dry-mouthed, mind-numbingly exhausted.
The lanterns faded as if someone had dimmed them. Learon was weakening. Shadows crept in from the corners of the courtyard. Tobazim saw empyrean predators slink out of the shadows, attracted by the power they’d shed. If only they had a barred cage to protect them, they’d have time to repair their bodies.
Even as he thought this, long roots unfurled from the tree’s branches, sinking into the ground to form vertical bars; reminding Tobazim of the winery’s giant fig with its buttress roots. It occurred to him that they needed crossbars like the grille of the boat-house gate, and horizontal tendrils grew from the bars.
Forming a blade had taken concentration and effort, a skill learnt only after days of practice. Forming this grille came instinctively to him, drawing on his ability to build. Now they were protected within a cage. As the predators paced around them, he felt their furious intent and poured more of himself into maintaining the cage.
Learon ran his hands over his own body. A construct, a projection of his self-image, it obeyed his commands and healed.
Something threw itself against the bars, making Tobazim stagger. Learon caught him.
Tobazim felt the heat of Learon’s hand on his chest, as his choice-brother sealed his wound. They had to go back, but so much of Tobazim’s concentration was needed to maintain the cage, he could not make the transition.
He tried to push Learon away, gesturing for him to go.
His choice-brother held on to him. Tobazim felt the cage give way, felt the beasts rush them as Learon dragged them both back to the earthly plane.
Back in the real world, he lay panting like a fish out of water. When he could focus, he realised he was on his side in the courtyard of the ruined palace.
Learon crouched over him. Tears of relief filled his eyes. ‘I thought I’d lost you.’
‘I’m all right.’ Tobazim pushed himself up, his arms shaking. It was hard to talk, and his muscles ached as if he’d been at weapons training all day. ‘I wouldn’t have made it back without–’
‘I couldn’t have held them off without you.’ Learon came to his feet and offered his hand. Tobazim accepted it, and his choice-brother hauled him upright. They staggered like a couple of drunks, laughing.
Tobazim sobered. ‘We should get back.’
They left the ruined palace by the front gate and went down the street to their brotherhood palace next door. As Tobazim stepped into a courtyard, he smelled oregano chicken cooking and his stomach rumbled. ‘Hungry?’
Learon grinned. ‘Starving.’
Tobazim headed through the entrance courtyard. The palace was a rabbit warren of buildings, added by a succession of all-fathers, all eager to make their mark. Every day, Tobazim had to fight his gift’s instinct to tear down and rebuild.
He heard Learon give a grunt of surprise, followed by a loud thud, and spun around, drawing his long-knife. He half expected to find that one of the Mieren had sprung from the shadows and tackled his choice-brother, but it was their brotherhood’s own hand-of-force, shoving Learon up against a wall.
Oriemn had his hand on Learon’s throat. ‘Last night you deliberately disobeyed me. I told you to wait for my signal.’
Learon could not speak to defend himself.
‘We didn’t take up arms until the brotherhood gate was opened,’ Tobazim defended his choice-brother. ‘Then we went to help close the causeway gate.’
‘Where did you get to before that?’
‘We went to help the women and children escape from the rooftop garden next door.’
The hand-of-force let Learon feel the force of his gift before he stepped back. Learon sagged against the wall, rubbing his throat.
‘Then it’s thanks to you two we have to feed and house over two dozen of Chariode’s Malaunje women and children.’
‘Hand-of-force Oriemn?’ A lad came running, his bright copper hair glinting in the sunshine. ‘The all-father wants you.’
‘This isn’t finished,’ the hand-of-force told them, then strode off.
‘Oriemn can’t punish us for saving lives,’ Learon muttered.
‘No, but he can make life hard for us.’
‘Why? Saving those Malaunje should add to our brotherhood’s stature. Kyredeon should be grateful.’
‘He should, but...’ Life in the Celestial City was not what they’d been led to expect. They’d done their initiate training under scholars who’d upheld the values of the High Golden Age – brotherhood, honour and duty. Here...
Tobazim’s stomach rumbled. They’d expended a great deal of energy on the higher plane. ‘We need to eat.’
They were returning to their chamber when pretty Paravia stopped them. Today, her long copper hair was bound in a single no-nonsense plait.
Learon lifted the braid and leaned down to kiss the back of her neck, but she danced out of reach. ‘I’ve been asked to sing at the farewelling ceremony in front of the whole brotherhood to honour our dead. I’m so nervous.’
‘You’ll be wonderful,’ Learon told her.
‘You can’t sing a note. What would you know?’ But she smiled. ‘I must go. I’m helping settle the Malaunje from Chariode’s brotherhood. The things they saw...’ Tears glittered in her wine-dark eyes. She kissed Learon’s cheek, then Tobazim’s. ‘You did a wonderful thing, saving them.’
Then she slipped away.
Tobazim flushed as he rubbed his cheek. He felt a failure. He wished he could have done more.
Learon slung an arm around his shoulder. ‘Come on.’
‘Wait.’ Seventeen-year-old Athlyn had found them. Also from the winery, he was the only other T’En survivor. ‘I’ve been looking all over for you. If we hurry, you’ll see them.’
‘See who?’
But he was already leading them upstairs, through the brotherhood’s many wounded, who had spilled out of the infirmary. Athlyn led them out onto a second-floor balcony overlooking the street.
‘What are we looking at?’ Learon asked.
‘There.’ Athlyn pointed, as All-father Kyredeon and his voice-of-reason and hand-of-force left the palace through the gate below. They wore their brotherhood torcs and formal robes.
Athlyn nudged Tobazim. ‘And there goes All-father Hueryx and his two seconds.’
‘What’s going on?’ Tobazim whispered. ‘Where are all the brotherhood leaders going?’
Ceyne, the sawbones, joined them on the balcony. He looked pale and tired. ‘The sisterhoods have called an all-council to elect a causare. Someone must negotiate with King Charald.’ He stretched and rubbed his neck. ‘The brotherhoods are furious. The sisterhoods have nominated All-mother Imoshen for causare.’
Tobazim frowned. ‘The one who executed Rohaayel and the gift-warriors?’
Ceyne nodded. ‘The all-fathers have never forgiven her.’
Learon whistled. They watched two more all-fathers go by with their seconds.
‘Wait a moment,’ Tobazim said. ‘There are nine brotherhoods but only six sisterhoods. The all-fathers can outvote...’
Ceyne was shaking his head. ‘Two all-fathers have nominated themselves for causare, Hueryx and Paragian. Unless one of them steps down, they’ll split the brotherhood vote and Imoshen will win.’
‘Then one of them will have to back down.’
Ceyne laughed bitterly. ‘Have you ever known a brotherhood leader to back down?’
Chapter Three
SORNE WOKE WITH a dry mouth and a full bladder. His head felt fuzzy, as if he’d been drinking all night, but he never took more than one glass of wine; a half-blood could not afford to let down his guard among True-men. He sat up gingerly, trying to recall last night without success. When he tried to force the memory, it felt like prodding a bruise.
Meanwhile, King Charald’s angry voice carried clearly through the tent walls.
Sorne rolled to his feet, looking for a chamber pot. He was a little unsteady, but he found the pot and undid the drawstring of the too-short breeches.
Why was he wearing borrowed clothes? How had he ended up here? And where was he?
Diffused light dappled the tent walls. He could smell camp fires, hear King Charald in a rage, men shouting as they organised other men and pipers playing... it all added up to an army camp.
But where was the camp?
Sorne laced up, poured water into a bowl and washed his hands. He went to wash his face, but caught Charald saying something about the Wyrd city.
And it came back to him. Finding the standing stones; the lightning storm and the True-men about to conduct the full-blood sacrifice, who turned out to be...
Graelen.
Sorne’s knees gave way as he sank to the ground with a groan. He hadn’t been able to save Graelen. In the end, the adept had sacrificed himself to save Sorne. And Graelen had died believing Sorne would warn the city. He’d meant to; he’d planned to go straight to Imoshen.
Stunned, Sorne came to his feet and took a mouthful of watered wine.
Had King Charald’s army reached the city yet? Did he still have time to warn them? Sorne looked around for some boots. He’d have to steal a horse and find...
Find Valendia. How could he have forgotten his sister?
He’d been trying to find Valendia when all this madness started. He had a flash of True-men mobs wandering the port and the bodies of Wyrds swinging from shop signs.
He’d searched the crypts under the church, but he couldn’t find Valendia. She’d been hidden by–
His brother walked in, dressed in a long brocade robe over a white under-robe and flat cap. That explained where he was; this tent was richly appointed as befitted the high priest, voice of the Father, greatest of the seven gods of Chalcedonia.
‘I see you’re awake.’ Zabier’s eyes glittered strangely. ‘Good. We’re running out of time. The Wyrds want to talk terms.’
‘Zabier... What have you done with Valendia? Did you send her to the retreat?’
Zabier laughed. ‘Why would I do anything so obvious? She’s safe as long as you cooperate.’
Sorne’s heart sank. ‘Brother–’
‘I’m not your brother and she’s not your sister. You’re just a brat our mother wet-nursed,’ Zabier corrected, then gave him a thoughtful look. ‘You’re still addled. I should never have given you that second dose.’
So he’d been drugged. That explained his thick head. ‘What did you give me?’
‘Pains-ease.’
‘But that’s only good for minor hurts.’
‘Shows how much you know. In the pure form it brings visions.’
‘Do those visions come true?’
Zabier gave him a sour look. He retreated three steps and called through the tent flap. ‘Holy warriors, come here.’
Two burly priests entered the tent.
‘Clean him up. Dress him in the robes of the Warrior’s-voice–’
‘We only have the spare robes for the Father’s-voice,’ one of them said. ‘No one told us we’d need–’
‘I don’t care, as long as he looks the part of a religious visionary. Hurry up. The king is waiting.’
Before last night, Sorne would never have believed Zabier could turn on him. They hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but they were brothers, or at least choice-brothers. Now there was a restless energy about Zabier that he did not like.
Shocked and heart-sore, Sorne did not resist as the burly male priests stripped him, rubbed his body with sacred oils and dressed him in a robe that only came to his calves. He tried to make sense of everything, but his brain was still sluggish.
After a while, something came back to him. ‘Last night you said–’
‘That was two nights ago. Last night Charald attacked the Wyrd city. Haven’t you listened to a thing I’ve said? The king has to meet the Wyrds to talk terms.’
‘The city walls held?’
‘We breached the walls. The barons’ men rampaged through the streets and palaces, but the Wyrds rallied. They shut the gates. They’ve been throwing bodies onto the causeway all day. We’ve been carting them off to the pits.’ Zabier gestured for the two burly priests to leave. ‘The war barons are furious, the king is livid and’ – he glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone – ‘I look like an idiot. I told them I’d had a vision of them marching across the causeway, triumphant. It seemed a safe guess, considering Charald’s past successes and your vision of half-bloods being loaded into carts by True-men. You...’ Zabier shook his head. ‘The king still believes in your visions.’
‘Because there’s only a couple that haven’t come true, yet.’
‘So you say.’ Zabier came closer still, lowering his voice. ‘Charald swallowed your story about the Warrior god sending you back from the dead. That’s why the king wants you with him when he confronts the Wyrds.’
Sorne looked up, horrified. He’d failed to warn the city. When Imoshen learned he was one of the king’s party, she’d think he’d betrayed her.
‘What?’ A nasty smile split Zabier’s face. ‘Afraid of full-bloods?’
Sorne didn’t answer.
‘The king and his war barons were afraid, but I’ve convinced them malachite protects them from the silverheads’ gifts.’
Sorne looked up. ‘Why would you tell them that?’
‘As long as they believe it helps, it does. Resisting the Wyrds’ gifts requires faith. I know more about silverhead power than any other True-man. More even than Oskane did. I’ve had fifty priests researching them. So don’t try to trick me. I know you didn’t sacrifice that full-blood. I know that when he took his body to the higher plane, he killed himself. What I don’t know is why.’ He eyed Sorne thoughtfully.
Sorne had no intention of telling him.
Zabier went on. ‘I
know you are vulnerable to the full-bloods’ power because of your tainted blood. I know I am safer than you, as long as I don’t let them touch me, or come in contact with their blood. All these years the Wyrds have kept True-men at bay with the threat of their gifts, and it was mostly bluff. They’re really only powerful on the higher plane. And while they gift-work, their bodies are vulnerable here. Few silverheads have gifts that can be applied on the earthly plane. Now that we’ve called their bluff and their city is besieged, they want to talk terms.’
Sorne nodded, trying to keep up. Neither Zabier nor the king knew that his allegiance lay with the Wyrds. He was in the perfect position to spy for Imoshen. ‘The Wyrds have no king. Who is negotiating terms?’
‘Their leaders have some sort of temporary king they call a causare. All you have to do is keep back, stay quiet and follow my lead.’
They both glanced to the tent entrance, as King Charald called them. Sorne went to rise, but Zabier stopped him.
‘Don’t think I won’t hurt Valendia. She betrayed me. All these years I’ve kept her safe from True-men and Wyrds, pure and untainted, and then I find her in the arms of that... that filthy Wyrd.’ Zabier shuddered.
Sorne had no trouble believing Zabier would hurt their sister. What amazed him was that Zabier had kept her safe until now, while sacrificingWyrds.
Zabier went to a chest and selected a pile of malachite pendants. ‘Come on.’
Outside, servants lit lanterns. Charald strode about in full armour like a man of twenty. Clearly in a good mood, he jested with his war barons as the men arrived with the royal banner. Everyone wanted to be one of the party for this historic moment. The barons had never liked Sorne, and it was only his ability to communicate with the Warrior that made him useful to the king. He’d been ‘dead’ for several years now and he didn’t know what alliances the barons had formed, so he hung back to observe.
Someone caught Sorne’s arm in a firm grip. ‘There you are!’
‘Nitzane?’ Sorne drew him around the corner of the tent.
Exile Page 3
