‘Do you expect us to sit here and let him decimate our estates?’ Kyredeon demanded. ‘You were elected to negotiate, not capitulate.’
‘I have to have something to negotiate with. We need leverage on King Charald. Simply going in and killing him achieves nothing,’ Imoshen said. There had been several offers from young T’En males willing to assassinate the king on a suicide mission.
‘My inner circle and I have been trying to come up with ways to influence the king,’ Imoshen said. ‘We need T’En whose gifts do not require touch to work. In the past there were T’En who could take an intimate object belonging to another and use it to influence the owner’s mind.’ She’d been trying this, with limited success. ‘There’s a rumour that the playwright Rutz can imbue words with power. If this is true, now is the time for him – or someone like him – to come forward.’
No one spoke.
‘What happened to the survivors of Chariode’s brotherhood?’ Imoshen asked. ‘Were there enough of them to reform the brotherhood, or has it been absorbed by another...’
She ran down as the brotherhood leaders turned to All-father Kyredeon. Her heart sank. She did not want Iraayel serving him.
Kyredeon came to his feet. ‘My warriors saved over two dozen women and children from Chariode’s palace roof. Since the night of the attack, the survivors have taken shelter in my palace. We don’t know if any of Chariode’s brothers will survive out on his estates, so I’m making a formal claim to his brotherhood. Does anyone contest my right?’
No one did.
Kyredeon looked pleased. ‘Then I’ll ask around, see if the survivors know who Rutz is, or was. If he was here the night of the attack, I suspect he’s dead.’
‘Thank you, all-father.’ The words stuck in Imoshen’s throat. ‘The rest of you, go back to your inner circles, see if anyone has a gift that doesn’t require touch and can think of a way to apply it that gives us leverage with King Charald.’
ZABIER STOOD NEAR the king beside the brazier as they talked of camp business. The barons were complaining that there weren’t enough camp followers to go around. Fights had broken out over women. Normally, he’d find this fascinating, but there was a restless beast inside him, pacing back and forth. If he slipped away and dosed himself with a few drops of pains-ease it would soothe the beast for now. But what he really needed was to immerse himself in the golden floating world of dreams.
All he had to do was swallow a decent dose when he went to bed. He knew his tolerance, knew just how much to take to put him into the blissful state. The things he saw...
No wonder he’d believed they were visions.
When King Matxin had declared him the high priest and Father’s-voice, he’d needed visions. Assistant Utzen had claimed True-men saw visions when taking pure pains-ease, then supplied the drug. But Utzen had been King Matxin’s spy and...
A moment of lucidity told Zabier his gradual addiction to pains-ease had been a deliberate ploy, engineered by King Matxin. It had been typical of Matxin to keep those he needed under his thumb.
Anger rolled through Zabier. What kind of man takes a thirteen-year-old boy, puts him in a position of power, then supplies him with a drug just to ensure his co-operation? Wasn’t it enough that Zabier would have done anything to keep his mother and little sister safe?
Raised voices brought him back to this king’s tent. The last of the southern barons had returned with a swag of trophy braids.
Arms loaded, Eskarnor strode through the gathering.
When Zabier had accompanied Eskarnor and Hanix to destroy the first Wyrd estate, the two barons hadn’t bothered to hide their contempt for him. Now that Zabier sat beside the king and discussed tactics, they were more discreet. But he knew how they really felt, and resentment burned in him. Men of violence had no respect for men of learning.
As Eskarnor presented the trophy plaits to King Charald, Zabier glanced to Sorne. His irritating choice-brother did not react. Those braids had to be rich with gift residue, which Sorne should crave. Yet he appeared uninterested, standing in the background. His distance from the tent’s brazier revealed how low he was in the pecking order.
Zabier listened in to what Eskarnor was telling the king. He didn’t want the baron undermining his position.
‘...snow made travel difficult,’ Eskarnor said.
‘Doesn’t matter, you’re the last to return. Time for the next step.’ The king sprang to his feet, summoned his manservant to bring all the trophy plaits and went outside where he bellowed for the banner-men to bring the barons’ banners and the pipers to bring their pipes.
As they trudged down through the snow, past the tents toward the houses of Lakeside, the sun came out from between the clouds, making the snow glisten. The silver trophy braids on the Chalcedonian barons’ banners gleamed, but Zabier’s eye was caught by a rich copper plait, woven into a silver one.
Valendia had hair like that down to her knees; rippling waves of copper that came alive in sunlight. He missed going to see her every evening, missed her happy chatter, the way she would pull out one of her musical instruments and play her latest piece for him.
It was not her fault that she had grown so beautiful that men craved her. Sorne was right; she had been completely innocent. That vile Wyrd had taken advantage of her, probably fed her a pack of lies to turn her against him. He should visit her and give her a chance to apologise.
Charald led everyone down through the houses and shops to the place where the causeway met the town’s square.
Soon, under Charald’s direction, the banner-men had created a display of bright banners with his in the front and the barons’ arrayed in order of the sizes of their estates. Buckets had to be found and packed with snow to place the banner poles in, and the banners had to be arranged so that they could be clearly seen from the causeway. All this took time and the townsfolk came out to watch.
When Charald was satisfied, the banners blocked the entrance to the causeway. Naturally, all this activity had attracted interest and the top of the Wyrd city’s wall was thick with spectators.
‘We’ll show them.’ Charald rubbed his hands together and beckoned his manservant. ‘You have the needles and thread?’
Zabier saw what he was up to. Unlike the original Chalcedonian barons’ banners, none of the southern barons’ banners were decorated with silver plaits. Now that they had the Wyrds’ attention, the banner-men were going to add the trophy braids.
Charald signalled the pipers, who struck up a martial air, and made a ceremony of decking the four banners with long silver plaits. The banner-men had to climb onto chairs and sew or tie the trophies into place.
When the last banner-man climbed down, Charald stepped aside and had the pipers play once more, while the townsfolk cheered. In the fading light, Wyrds watched impotent from behind their city walls.
‘That’s done it,’ Charald chuckled. ‘They won’t be so arrogant, next time we talk.’
Zabier was both impressed and horrified. Five estates burned and hundreds of people dead, because Charald didn’t like the Wyrds’ tone of voice.
Leaving the banner-men to watch over the banners, everyone filed through the streets, up to the camp where the barons joined the king for dinner.
TOBAZIM FELT HOT fury then cold disgust as he watched the Mieren attach the silver trophy braids to their banners. Charald had broken his word. All along the wall, warriors and scholars alike expressed their outrage.
‘This is why, if there’s a good chance we’re going to die in battle, we cut off our hair,’ Learon told young Athlyn. ‘It was a lesson learnt in the war three hundred years ago.’
Athlyn had only just left his choice-mother’s sisterhood to join the brotherhood when the winery was attacked. He was slight and pretty, and out of his depth in the city.
‘Attacking estates, killing women and children... the Mieren king has no honour.’ Athlyn’s voice shook. ‘Every time I look at those banners, I feel sick.’
L
earon caught Tobazim’s arm and drew him aside. ‘When it gets dark enough, we should slip out, row across the lake and take the banners. Reclaim our people’s braids.’
‘I’ll come,’ Athlyn offered.
‘It’s the perfect way to win stature,’ Learon told Tobazim. ‘Kyredeon should have acknowledged our stature when we saved the Malaunje women and children. We’re the reason he won Chariode’s brotherhood, with all its estates and trading vessels. Yet he punished us.’
‘We’d have to ask permission. Last time, we acted without permission he had us both dig crypts as punishment.’
‘Did I hear you’re going to take back the braids?’ Haromyr asked. He was a young adept like them, eager for stature.
Within a few moments, they had a band of twelve, willing to go across the lake and strike a blow against the Mieren.
Learon led them along the palace wall-walk to where Hand-of-force Oriemn stood next to Kyredeon and the brotherhood’s voice-of-reason.
In his enthusiasm, Learon barely waited for the voice-of-reason to acknowledge him. ‘Hand-of-force, we want permission to take a dozen warriors across the lake to capture the Mieren banners and bring our people’s braids home.’
Oriemn’s eyes widened. He glanced to Kyredeon and the voice-of-reason, then back to Learon. ‘You’re too late. I’m already organising this. Go back to your chambers.’
Learon went to protest, but Tobazim elbowed him.
Oriemn had already turned away and the three brotherhood leaders were making plans to move quickly before another brotherhood came up with the same idea.
Tobazim and Learon made their obeisances then backed off. Learon managed to hold his tongue until they were alone, then turned to Tobazim. ‘Did you see the look he sent Kyredeon? Oriemn stole our idea. Now he’ll get all the stature.’
Tobazim caught his arm. ‘Keep your voice down. We don’t want to make an enemy of the brotherhood’s hand-of-force.’
But he suspected they already had.
Chapter Seven
IT SEEMED TO Zabier that Charald was particularly loud that night: talking nonstop, telling stories of past battles. With all the barons present, the king could not afford a mental lapse. Zabier watched Charald closely. Although the king did forget a couple of names, he did not ask to speak to anyone who was dead.
As the barons said good night, Zabier breathed a sigh of relief. He found these evenings exhausting and was looking forward to his bed. But when he and Sorne returned to the holy tent, it was so cold Zabier had to build up the brazier. ‘It’s freezing. I don’t know why Charald doesn’t commandeer the finest house in Lakeside.’
‘The king scorns creature comforts,’ Sorne said, stripping down to his knitted underthings, then climbing into his bedroll. ‘You have to remember he’s been leading armies since he was fifteen. He had to be tougher than any of his generals.’
‘I don’t see why we have to suffer, just so he can make a point,’ Zabier grumbled as he climbed into his bunk.
‘It’s only fear of King Charald that keeps the southern barons in line. They betrayed their own kings for gain. They’d betray Charald,’ Sorne said.
Zabier resented Sorne’s tone. He might have stayed behind when Charald sailed off to war, but he was no fool.
He was only just beginning to warm up when shouting drew them all out of their tents. Down below, beyond the rooftops of Lakeside town, flames illuminated the night.
‘Someone’s knocked over a candle,’ Sorne said. House fires were common.
But a moment later, a man came with the news the banners were burning and everyone ran down through the camp, towards town.
As Zabier rounded a building, he spotted leaping flames on a tall structure. For a moment he could not make sense of it. Then he realised it was a straw man, propped at the entrance to the causeway. Hanging from the straw man’s arms were the barons’ banners, burning brightly.
It was hard to tell, but Zabier was pretty sure not a single trophy braid remained.
‘COME QUICKLY, IMOSHEN.’
She followed Arodyti and Sarosune down the steps and out of the palace. ‘What is it?’
‘You saw the banners at the end of the causeway?’
‘Everyone did.’
‘You have to see this.’
At that moment, they stepped through the sisterhood gate. From up here she could see two sources of light. One was far away, outside the city at the end of the causeway. The other was inside the city, down near the causeway gate. Figures danced around the closer fire. Imoshen could hear shouts and laughter. Something about the tone made her shiver and her gift surge.
‘Have you been down there?’ she asked Arodyti.
‘No, we saw it from the palace roof. The fire outside the city started first, then the one inside our gate.’
Straight down through the free quarter they went, heading for the causeway gate. As they drew closer, it became clear the brotherhoods had built a huge bonfire in front of the sisterhood boat-house, the very place where Reoden’s daughter had been killed.
Figures danced around the leaping flames, drinking, laughing and chanting. Imoshen looked for blood and signs of rivalry between the brotherhoods, but tonight there was none. After twelve years in the city, she found it unnerving, the same way she’d found Kyredeon’s bloodless claiming of Chariode’s brotherhood unnerving.
Imoshen and her two companions were the only T’En women and, as they approached, the brotherhood warriors fell back. They stared, eyes feverish with excitement.
From a good three body lengths Imoshen began to sense the male gift, then she hit a wall of it, powerful, aggressive, violent and triumphant.
Arodyti swore and stopped dead. She glanced over her shoulder to Imoshen and Sarosune. ‘Feel that? I’ve never come across anything like it.’
More and more of the brotherhood men turned towards them. This was what the sisterhood warriors must have come up against four hundred years ago, when they had rescued the boys from the brotherhoods. This primal, violent drive made her gift scream a warning. It surged and she read the tone of the crowd. These brotherhood men – Malaunje and T’En – were not entirely sane right now. One hint of weakness, and they would turn on the three sisters. ‘We can’t go back.’
Arodyti went first, then Imoshen, followed by Sarosune. The men parted for them as they made their way to the steps leading up to the gate wall-walk.
Imoshen felt light-headed, as if she was drunk. A quick glance to Arodyti and Sarosune revealed they were in the same heightened state, high on the men’s gift power.
They stepped onto the wall-walk. It was wide enough for six men to walk abreast, and extended in a semi-circle around the low end of the island. So many tall, broad-shouldered men crowded the wall it was hard to see the lake’s shore. The shouting and cheering almost deafened her, while the force of all those roused male gifts battered against her defences.
She made her way along until she recognised All-father Saskeyne’s voice-of-reason; although, right now, he looked beyond reason.
Imoshen tapped him on the back.
He turned, saw her and shouted something. The all-father and hand-of-force pushed through the crowd to join him. Imoshen felt Arodyti bristle and Sarosune stepped closer.
‘We’ve done it. We’ve shown those Mieren!’ the all-father shouted.
Seeing she didn’t understand, Saskeyne gripped her arm and pointed towards the shore. ‘There!’
Imoshen made out a vaguely man-shaped object burning fiercely at the point where the causeway met the town.
‘We showed them. Flaunt the trophies of our dead, will they? We took back the braids and we burned King Charald in effigy, burned him along with all his barons’ banners!’
Imoshen stared at the burning man shape. ‘How?’
‘You told us to see what gift strength our brothers had. Turns out, we had four noets, very strong mind-manipulators. They captured the minds of the Mieren on watch. Any whose minds couldn’t be enthral
led, they shattered. We moved so fast, the Mieren didn’t get a chance to sound the alarm.’
King Charald was going to be furious. This would confirm all the stories the Mieren told about her kind.
She was furious. How could she negotiate, if they deliberately taunted King Charald? But, at the same time, she realised the brotherhoods needed to retaliate. Seeing the trophy plaits of their dead had... ‘What have you done with the plaits?’
‘What?’
‘Where are the trophy braids?’
‘Safe.’ He gave his voice-of-reason instructions.
Saskeyne’s voice-of-reason led them up the causeway road to a two-wheeled hand-cart laden with plaits. There had to be sixty or seventy. Each of those T’En could have lived to be one hundred years old or more. When Imoshen looked at the cart piled high, she saw six to seven thousand years of wasted life.
Snow started to fall, landing lightly on the braided hair. The plaits couldn’t stay here.
‘Bring the cart,’ Imoshen told Saskeyne’s voice-of-reason. ‘And follow me.’
Imoshen went up the road, into the free quarter, then along one of the side streets to the dome of empowerment. Between them, they carried the long plaits inside and hung them over the rail that ran around the dome’s central stage. The gift residue on each braid told Imoshen if its wearer had been killed recently, or if the hair had belonged to a long-dead T’En. It also told her whether each braid’s owner had been male or female.
When they were done, Imoshen turned to the voice-of-reason. ‘Tell the all-fathers to meet us here tomorrow at midday. Each brotherhood and sisterhood will claim their people’s relics so they can lay them to rest in the crypts.’
And she would confront All-father Saskeyne.
HIS LEGS WEREN’T as long, but Zabier was right on the king’s heels as he charged across the town square. They found the banner-men laid out neatly in a row, with their throats cut. Not one had put up a fight. A sign balanced against the entrance to the causeway read: King Charald, King of Straw.
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